Fandom-H50-Trust People and They Will Be True to You (1/2)
Title: “Trust People and They Will Be True to You ”
Fandom:Hawaii Five-O
Word Count: 12,000
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Violence. Some language.
Genre: Gen. Action. H/C
Spoilers: None
Characters: Steve, Danny, Kono, Chin
Summary: Danny's brain catches up with current events, his face going white. “Oh my God. Look at you. With your Rambo paint and hardware from the latest issue of Guns and Ammo. You're in Super-SEAL mode! Please, please don't tell me those clowns were right and that you're the strike-force?”
Notes: Written for esteefee for help_japan.
Thank you to ga_unicorn and everybettyfor the wonderful beta. You guys rock and keep me sane.
Cross-posted elsewhere.
-
The world erupts around him, flashing in the shaky-cam effects of movies, silence and explosions trading jabs to his eardrums. Sprawled on the ground, Steve's fingers inch over the spinning floor beneath him in search of his gun. Automatic fire echoes somewhere east of his position, the rata tat tat fading in and out.
Pushing up onto his hands and knees, his vision blurs. People shout over the sudden gunning of engines. Is this Afghanistan or Yemen?
“Hurry up!” a voice yells.
That's an American accent; he's in the States. But where and why?
Breathing in gasoline fumes and squinting against a rising cloud of smoke, he locates his Sig by touch, hand curling around the butt when another explosion goes off behind him. The force topples him over, showering debris across his back.
And all Steve can think about before the darkness closes in is---what the hell happened?
-----
“Commander McGarrett?”
“Commander McGarrett, can you hear me?”
Opening his eyes to a flash of stabbing light, Steve snags the wrist wielding it, bending the bones at a sharp angle.
“Let go! You're gonna break it!”
The panicked tone jolts him into reality, a young man's expression twisting in pain and hazel eyes widening in shock. Steve releases his grip, sitting up from where he lays on a gurney in front of an ambulance. Looking around, all he sees and hears are dozens of people running around with squawking radios.
This isn't a mission.
“What happened?” Steve mumbles, rubbing his eyes to push back the pounding in his head. Pull it together.
“We're hoping you could tell us,” Governor Jameson says, walking up.
Steve sits up straighter, bits and pieces from earlier bombarding him in confusing waves. “The raid,” he breathes in dawning horror, eyes darting around the yellow lettering on various vests and jackets.
Agents glance up from notepads and earpieces to look over.
“We were outgunned,” Steve begins, knowing he's missing more. “There were a couple dozen men armed with automatic weapons.” Shaking his head, he winces, swallowing back bile. “This wasn't an amateur operation like we thought. These guys used military tactics.”
“You were working a larceny ring?” Jameson prods, sending a daggered look at some suit near-by to back off.
“Yeah,” Steve replies, gaining his bearings, puzzling together hazy memories. “We were investigating a theft of supplies out of the Pearl Navy Station. One of Danny's informants gave us a tip on which warehouse they were storing the stuff in.”
Danny? Where the hell was everyone else?
“And these were submarine parts?” Jameson presses.
“Yeah, steering gear, hydraulics, snorkel masts, internal countermeasure launchers.” Rubbing at the growing lump at the back of his skull, he grasps onto the fluttering snapshots in his head. “We entered through the south entrance and discovered the crates inside were filled with Tomahawk missiles.” He remembers Chin's set jaw, Danny's exclaimed oh shit, this isn't good. “By the time we realized we'd walked into something a lot bigger...things went crazy.”
Flash-bangs went off and the warehouse was plunged into darkness.
His gut twists into knots and it's more than nausea from hitting his head. A man in his fifties, skin as dark as mahogany bustles over. Steve knows his name, but it's gone AWOL with most of the morning.
“I knew this should have been an exclusive NCIS investigation, Governor,” the agent hisses, toeing a dangerous line with his accusation. Adjusting a cap over his thinning salt and pepper hair, he sets his sights on Steve. “Your people were in over your heads.”
“It was a joint operation, Special Agent Markham,” Jameson corrects, eyes flashing dangerously. “My task force had the lead on who was smuggling supplies off the island.”
“And thanks to that bad intel, my agents walked right into a deathtrap.”
Muzzle flashes gave away the sniper positions on the second level; six more targets attempting to out-flank them.
Steve blinks at Governor Jameson squaring her shoulders, impeccable in her suit regardless of the heat. “Are you saying that all those documents you gave us regarding the missing inventory included missiles?”
“I have three injured agents and one DOA,” Markham answers, dodging the question. “Not to mention an empty warehouse and a shipment of missing weapons.”
“Wait!” Steve growls, the last piece of the jigsaw slamming into place. “Where's my team?” Swinging his legs around, he hops off the gurney, waving off the EMT whose wrist he’d almost broke.
“Steve,” Jameson says, planting herself in front of him, her face both sympathetic and determined. “Hold on.”
“Hold on?” Steve barks, heart thumping wildly. “Are they--”
“No,” Jameson cuts him off. “The warehouse was swept and cleared.”
Eyes glued over her shoulder, Steve counts a single body bag being loaded into the coroner’s van. Heart sick at the casualty, it fills with relief that there's only one. “I want to see all the evidence that's been gathered. Video, witness accounts---”
“Those were my people. My agents. I'm in charge of this investigation.” This time Agent Markham blocks his path. And as if reading the fury in Steve's eyes, the man takes a step back, voice tinged with frustration. “This whole thing is fubared and we can play the blame game later. But right now we have three missing members of your task force and I'm not going to get into a pissing match with you. Let's find your people, retrieve those missing missiles, and haul in the assholes responsible for this.”
“Um,” the EMT interrupts nervously. “I haven’t cleared you, sir. You suffered a loss of consciousness and I haven't finished my examination. You might have a--”
Steve folds his arms across his chest, staring the young medic down.
“If you experience any dizziness, ringing in the ears, you should probably seek out emergency care,” the EMT says, packing up his stuff.
Moving toward his car, Jameson matches Steve's hurried steps. “I'll let you skip the hospital, but I'll be damned if I'll allow you behind a wheel. You're riding with me and don't you dare argue about it.”
“Yes, ma'am,” Steve answers, following right behind her.
---
No matter how hard he tries, Steve can't recollect what happened when things went to hell. Why he'd been separated from the rest of his team and how he's the only one left after the dust settled. This isn't how things are supposed to be. He doesn’t leave people behind and he sure as hell doesn't allow his friends to be put in danger.
But none of that matters now. He can't fix what went wrong, but Steve can ensure things are made right.
HQ is an empty shell without its three missing members, the void made larger by its temporary occupants. Steve fights the urge to escort Jameson and Markham out, their presence a constant source of distraction. Bringing up the case notes onto the screen, he glares past them, their questions white noise around the data in front of him.
Four days ago HPD had pulled over a van with a busted taillight. After the driver's license pinged from an outstanding bench warrant, a search of the vehicle resulted in crates of circuit boards and control panels for Ohio class subs.
Staring at the inventory log of the stolen merchandise, Danny rested a hip on the table. “During my first month here, I pinched this guy for moving iPads on the black market. He gave up his guy further up the totem pole and got slapped with no time served. If anyone knows who's dabbling with stolen Navy parts, it's him.”
A tip and ten hours of surveillance led to a suspected petty officer who ran the team right smack dab into the middle of an NCIS case, and ultimately, a co-investigation.
“Steve?” Jameson touches his shoulder, breaking his focus.
“What?” he asks, distracted.
“I asked if--”
But Steve's cell phone goes off and for a split second he allows himself to believe it'll be Kono or Chin on the other end telling him to get off his ass and pick them up, they've got things under control. Staring at the cell, he tunes everything out the second the words unknown caller flash. His stomach becomes a deep pit of dread and he answers it with a terse, “McGarrett.”
“I heard you lost something,” the voice on the other end mocks.
“Who's this?” Steve demands, snapping his fingers for someone to start a trace.
“That doesn't matter.”
“Yeah?” Steve answers. Markham's on his phone, nodding at Steve to keep talking. “What do you want?”
“To ensure that I finish my business without interference. Sounds like a respectable offer.”
“Listen to me, you--”
“No, you listen. You're gonna lay off for twenty-four hours. No SWAT, no NCIS or ATF. Keep away from my affairs and your team will be set free. I know 5-0 doesn't play by the rules, so you're gonna make sure everyone else stays the hell away. That's the deal.”
“How do I know--”
“I'm sending you a little video. If I see one boat. They die. If I hear a chopper. They die. If you try to take me down, I'm taking them with me.”
The call ends and Steve resists the urge to fling it across the room, his brain deciphering all the thinly veiled clues as he pulls up his e-mail onto the overhead screen.
His heart might have stopped, his imagination filling in for the lack of audio as twenty seconds of Chin, Danny and Kono burn into Steve's brain. And it's more than their determined faces that he dissects; it’s the sand beneath their knees and the bits of blue sky poking out in the background.
Hitting replay, he searches for signals or clues. When nothing comes, he rewinds it again.
A hand stills him from repeating that same twenty seconds and his world expands from a single laser line to Jameson's frown. “I've been calling your name,” she tells him.
“I know where they are,” he says, pulling up a map that Chin had downloaded yesterday.
“You do? How?” Markham demands.
But Steve doesn't answer, magnifying the map, scanning the shoreline for the best approach.
“McGarrett!”
“Nā Mokulua is off the coast of Oahu,” Steve informs the governor, ignoring the fuming agent. “It's made up of two islets---”
“We don't need a geography lesson, Commander,” Markham growls.
“They're part of the State Seabird Sanctuary,” Steve continues without missing a beat. “It's off-limits to civilians this time of the year and enforced by the local government agencies. The islands are isolated, making the perfect place for a smuggling operation.” Acknowledging Markham by looking him in the eyes, Steve brings up a file on the LSD. “Yesterday, Danny and I went over your team's surveillance records from last week. They were following a person of interest who made over a dozen visits to the Pearl Navy Station. A Chris Barrett, who happens to be a Parks and Recreation agent on Nā Mokulua.”
Jameson quickly connects the dots. “And your team has been taken as human shields?”
Steve maintains a cool exterior despite those familiar words, thinking this isn't the first time he's dealt with such a situation. “I think we accidentally stumbled over a major smuggling ring with probable terrorist connections. And the Big Kahuna in charge took my team thinking we already knew his base of operations was on Nā Mokulua. He's closing shop and when he's finished packing up, he'll kill them.”
“I can authorize a strike force to--
“No. No strike force,” Steve cuts the governor off. “Choppers and boats can be easily spotted even without binoculars. Mokulua has steep slopes and cliffs, in the right spot, one guy can monitor the approach by the Coast Guard or SWAT if it comes in by air.”
Flustered, Jameson looks up at Steve incredulous. “Then what are you suggesting?”
“I'll go in on my own.”
“Wait, I can't...”
“It's our only viable play,” he tells her.
Because Steve's not going to put his friends further at risk; this is what he's been trained to do.
Jameson gets him, has read most of his record, even the classified parts, but there are pieces missing. Parts blacked out or never inserted into his jacket. Nasty little secrets. Not even a governor of Hawaii has that type of clearance.
“But you just said that a chopper or boat would be easily spotted?” she asks.
“Cutters, yes. But if I get dropped off from a small skiff a couple miles from shore, I can go in without detection.” Jameson's face is a myriad of emotions and Steve takes the opportunity to exploit them. “We're up against a ticking clock. We have to act now to save my team and keep those missiles out of terrorist hands.”
“You're not taking his suggestion seriously, are you, Governor?” Markham stares at Jameson in disbelief, ice blue eyes locking with Steve, a slow realization dawning on him. “What branch did you serve?”
“Navy.”
“Really?” Markham says, that hostile exterior melting into mutual respect. “Special Ops?”
“SEAL,” Steve answers, sizing the man up again.
“Figures,” Markham snorts. “Only a Snake Eater would think your plan's a reasonable one.”
“And you?”
“Special Warfare Officer. Same team. Spent half my life picking you boys up. Transferred to NCIS nine years ago.” Nodding at the map, Markham asks, “Already plotted a place to land?”
For the briefest of moments, Steve feels at ease, like he could speak more freely. “Because of the rocky shoreline, only the west beach is accessible by sea.”
“Yeah,” Markham says thoughtfully, eying the map. “So, you'll go ashore on the east?”
“Was thinking from the north. Channel's shallower and only two hundred feet wide.” It's always about surprise. “They won't be expecting anything from that direction.”
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Jameson interrupts, noting the swift defrost between both men, turning her attention toward Markham. “You're in agreement with McGarrett's suggestion of going it alone?”
“He won't be alone,” Markham says solemnly. “The rest of his team is waiting for him.”
---
Nā Mokulua is made up of two tiny islets; Moku Iki is nothing but a chunk of uninhabitable shale and rock. The bird sanctuary sits on Moku Nui, the larger, double-humped island the home of thick jungle and rocky inclines. A Navy cutter drops them off ten miles from Moku Iki, using the sister islet as cover. Markham steers a tiny Tarpon, a small seventeen-foot boat with a big boat attitude. It glides smoothly over the water, the tiny engine purring quietly.
Steve double checks his gear, inspecting the bag containing parts to his compact Colt M4A1 assault rifle. He inventories his extra clips, grenades, radio, and med-kit. His GPS is uploaded with the latest maps and he sticks his vest and knife inside his pack.
“We're five miles out,” Markham tells him, keeping the Tarpon steady over the chop.
Nodding, Steve zips up his wet suit, slipping on his flippers. “Thanks for taking me out.”
“I'd go with you if I could.”
“I'm sorry for the loss of your agent,” Steve tells him out loud, vowing something else to himself.
“They're my responsibility. I was overseeing another operation for my director and approved the joint investigation.”
Steve's not going to placate him with words; the raid on the warehouse had been a huge miscalculation.
“How long have you've been in the reserves?” At Steve's curious look, Markham snorts. “You're too young to be retired. I know Uncle Sam doesn't like spending a million dollars on a sailor he can't use.”
“Six months,” Steve says like he can't fathom it.
Six months since he lost his father and mother all over again. Five weeks since he sent his sister away after finally reconnecting with her.
“Must be tough.”
Looking up sharply, Steve can see a thousand memories sketched out across the other man's wrinkled face. “What do you mean?”
“Adjusting to civilian life.”
The tiny boat dips and sways with the currents and Steve seeks out the shoreline, calculating the distance. “Haven't really thought about it.”
“Really? So, you've gone from working with people who can read your every thought, react to your every move in tandem without a single word to a bunch of--”
“I work with the best team on Hawaii,” Steve growls.
He can't afford this right now. Thinking of his team when his mind should focus on the mission. Moku Nui looms three miles out, dawn rising over a new day. Night vision won't be necessary, but the sun won't be overhead and he'll use the fading twilight to conceal his arrival onto the rough beach.
“Do you trust them?”
“What? Of course I do.” Markham stares at Steve with the same disposition of his father, with hidden knowledge and an unwillingness to share it. “I trust them with my life,” Steve feels the need to clarify.
“Good. Because that's the hardest lesson to learn when we return from all those dark places-- that no one else understands. To trust people again.”
There isn't a day that goes by that Danny doesn't rant at Steve for breaking procedure or ignoring someone's civil rights. In the middle of war zones, dropped off in places he wasn't allowed to talk about, such niceties don't exist. Out there, people died on a daily basis without a second glance, bodies dumped in shallow or mass graves. He had a job to do and it was never pretty, wounds both visible and invisible quickly triaged before being sent after the next target.
Steve had lived for every freaking moment. But now. Watching the shoreline of Moku Nui creep closer, he thinks back to Kono's carefully controlled expression during the General Pak thing. When Steve had to react viciously to keep them all alive.
“We're nearing three miles,” Markham announces.
Steve pushes everything to the back of his mind, mentally going over the maps, visualizing the terrain. His head still pounds from having his skull bounced about, the three Tylenol from earlier barely making a dent in the pain.
Whatever doesn’t kill me makes me stronger. And leaves a hell of a headache.
“Wait for my signal. Don't engage until I send it.”
“Affirmative.”
Slipping his arms between the straps of his pack, Steve puts on his face mask, readying for his dip into the ocean.
“What the hell?” Markham growls.
Steve hears the chopper coming in, sees it in the distance. “Get on the horn; tell whoever that is to go back!”
“I'm on it,” Markham shouts, grabbing his radio, barking at the person at the other end to order the chopper away.
It's either a private charter or some tourist company trying to get a good morning view. It doesn't matter because if they can see the chopper then those on the island can. “Are they turning?” Steve yells, praying that a bunch of daytrippers doesn't get his team killed.
“We've got the pilot on the radio; this wasn't a scheduled flight,” Markham says, simultaneously chewing out the person on the other end of the cell.
The chopper makes a U-turn, adjusting course and veering back toward Oahu.
“I think it turned in time,” Markham says, slowing the boat and killing the engine. “All set.”
“Yeah, let's hope so,” Steve answers, chest tight with tension.
“Leave no man behind, frogman.”
Inhaling fully, Steve doesn't say a word and dives into the ocean.
----
Accepting a civilian job doesn't mean he's stopped working out or his conditioning exercises. Staying fit takes discipline; keeping his skills sharp requires much more. Swimming, running, practicing drills on base in his off time. Steve does it all in between cases. His job demands it and he does whatever it takes to retain that edge.
He makes it ashore in forty-nine minutes, crawling across sharp rocks and sand toward a large clump of grass. A group of brown-plumed Shearwaters nesting nearby take to the sky, their cries a warning of his presence. The beach quickly disappears into undergrowth and he keeps low, crabbing under a tree for cover. Breathing heavily, he takes the time to settle into a normal rhythm, allowing his lungs to calm down and oxygenate the rest of his body.
Shrugging off his pack, he unzips his wet suit and changes into dry cloths. As he smears his face with camo paint he listens to the chirping jungle. With his equipment secured, he quickly assembles his rifle, screwing on the suppressor muzzle last.
The island is a speck in the ocean, but five miles is a lot of territory to cover in a short amount of time. Recon is the key to outmaneuvering the enemy and Steve enters the brush, seeking out the most used trail and keeping just off the path to remain hidden. When you’re outnumbered, always go for stealth.
Checking his GPS, he keeps track of his progress, following a dirt track that should take him around the east side of the island. Egrets trade mating caws high above in the trees and he continues forward, avoiding twigs and watching for divots in the ground. Pausing, he notices a hint of ash over the sweet smell of hibiscus and yellow ilimas.
Crawling out of the brush, he picks up a cigarette, the smell of the crushed butt still freshly, acridly strong. An indentation in the dirt shows where two people stopped for a moment, their bootprints heading up the trail. Tracing his fingers over the soil, he notices several older sets of prints on top of each other, indicating a patrol area.
The egrets grow silent and Steve quietly backs up into the dense foliage, laying flat on his belly. Lying next to large twisting tree roots, he waits, ears straining over the slowly quieting jungle. Two men in black cargo pants and olive fatigues round the twisty trail. They walk cautiously, armed with AK47s, scanning the lush foliage for trouble.
Stopping a few meters away, one of them takes out a cigarette and lights it. Both their features are shadowed by boonie hats and the one not smoking leans against a tree to wipe at the sweat on his brow.
“Base-camp to Patrol Three. What's your status?” a radio squawks.
“We're halfway to the beach. Everything's clear. Over,” Cigarette Guy answers.
“Keep your eyes sharp for more choppers.”
“On it,” Cigarette Guy says, finishing his smoke. “You want us to hurry back to help out with our demonstration?”
“Negative. We're gonna make sure our little warning will be the first thing anyone sees if they land on the west shore.”
“Roger that. Check back in fifteen. Patrol Three out.”
Steve resists taking them out now. With radio checks every fifteen minutes he can't risk tipping off his presence. So he waits for them to continue on and checks his GPS for the quickest path to the west beach, because he doesn't like the sound of this little warning.
---
He can't do a full-out run to the beach, not if he doesn't want to give away his position. There're at least two other patrols in the area. And who knows if there's a fourth one.
The island might be off-limits to civilians during the next two months, but it's open during daylight hours for the rest of the year. The locals love this secluded slice of heaven and Steve follows a trail that leads west. He can see the sandy white beach from the brush and slows his steps as he veers closer.
A flock of angry shearwaters screech loudly, circling the sky above their nesting grounds. Using a palm tree for cover, Steve peers through his scope toward the source of the commotion. Three men drag a fourth out of the jungle at the other end of the beach.
Steve clenches his jaw, recognizing that slicked back hair and pissed-off Jersey attitude.
Danny takes a rifle butt to his spine and is forced to his knees. Hands tied behind his back, he head butts one of the thugs, earning him a smack in the face. Off balance, he's knocked to the ground. Two thugs roughly haul him back up, automatic weapons aimed at his head.
Moving his scope side to side, Steve bids his time, finger resting on the trigger. Peering through the lens, the mil dots surrounding the target center start to blur. Not now. Head throbbing, he squeezes his eyes closed and blinks to clear his vision. Blowing out a breath, he peers through it again.
Range to the target is five hundred meters. Wind's out of the north at eight or ten mph. Shooting from a slight decline makes things easier and he calculates his altitude and elevation, fingers adjusting the ballistic drop dials.
A third thug dressed in black directs things, holding a video camera. The goon on the left backs up two steps, his AK still on Danny. The goon on the right lowers his rifle, pulling out a .45, aiming the muzzle at Danny's temple.
It'll take two seconds to fire and re-aim each time. Six seconds to get them all. Steve sets his sights on the goon playing executioner, adjusting the cross hairs at the base of the man's skull.
Executioner Goon's fingers start to curl...and Steve squeezes the trigger.
Pop.
Swinging his trajectory eight degrees, his takes out AK Thug with another pull of the trigger.
Pop.
Video Goon drops his camera and Steve fires twice before the guy gets a shot off.
Listening to the jungle choir slowly return to normal, Steve hustles toward the beach, legs pumping furiously. He finally gets to Danny who has struggled to his knees after ducking for cover.
“Where did you come from?” Danny exclaims. Staring at all the body next to him he yells, “What if you missed? Oh wait. You don't miss, I forgot. But he still could’ve pulled the trigger. People have these things called nerves and muscles.”
“I went for the apricot.”
“The what?”
“The part of the brain that controls involuntary movement. And nice to see you too, partner,” Steve says, shouldering his weapon and snagging one of the bad guy's radios. Kneeling, his pulls out his knife and cuts through Danny's bindings. “You hurt anywhere?”
“Hurt? I certainly saw my life flash before my eyes,” Danny breathes, finger checking the pulse in his neck. “But then I saw you and I figured I was either in Hell or--”
“Grab a weapon.”
“How about telling me what's going on?” Danny growls as he picks up AK Goon's rifle and sidearm.
“We need to get out of the open,” Steve says, grabbing Danny by the elbow and tugging him along.
Danny's face is flushed, his hair damp with sweat, his breathing ragged, but he stumbles after Steve, yanking his arm away.
They enter the thick jungle, Steve leading them deep into the brush, the canopies of the trees blocking out the light. Pushing aside low flowering plants, he finds a fallen tree covered with ferns and sits under the natural cover. Steve looks Danny over, sees he's a bit rough around the edges. His left eye has a nice shiner and the right side of his face is covered by cuts. But he's alive and whole and that's all that matters. Pulling out a canteen, Steve takes several swallows and hands it over.
“Thank you,” his partner says, gulping it.
“Easy, small amounts,” Steve admonishes. “You'll make yourself sick.”
Wiping the edges of his mouth, Danny presses the canteen against his forehead. “I can't believe how close that was.”
Staring death in the eye is a shock to the system and Steve would love to give Danny a moment to decompress, but there's no time. “Why did they try to kill you?”
“I dunno, man. Something about a chopper. One of the guys was freaked that it was air recon for a strike force.” Danny begins to take another drink, canteen inches from his lips when he stops and just stares. Eyes widening like his brain is catching up with current events, his face goes white. “Oh my God. Look at you. With your Rambo paint and hardware from the latest issue of Guns and Ammo. You're in Super-Seal mode! Please, please don't tell me those assclowns were right about the chopper? And that you're the strike-force?”
“Are Kono and Chin okay?”
“Yeah. They're a little banged up, but they're fine. And stop dodging the question.”
“Are they inside or outdoors?”
“Hello? Where do you see buildings?” Danny asks, spreading his arms wide. “We were tied to some trees in the middle of Camp Mercenary.”
“How many men?”
“You're not going to answer me are you?”
“I need a number.”
“I counted fourteen...that I could see. All pretty heavily armed.”
Pulling out his GPS unit, Steve brings up a map. “Can you show me where exactly?”
“No, but I'll take you.”
Frustration exacerbates the ice pick digging in the back of his skull and Steve tries to rein in his frustration. “I can travel faster on my own. If you stayed on the same route the whole time then I can pinpoint where--”
“Whoa, whoa. What part of all pretty heavily armed do you not understand? I'm going with you.”
“Danny.”
“No, Steven. They're my friends, too. I may not be geared up like a ninja, but the last time I checked, I know how to hold my own in a fire-fight,” Danny growls, pulling the mag out of the AK, checking it and slamming it back in.
Gently pushing the AK’s muzzle until it points the ground, Steve lowers his voice. “A fire-fight is exactly what I'm trying to avoid.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Look. You wanted to know if I was the strike force? The answer's yes. Engaging in high risk hostage situations with multiple hostiles is what I do.”
“It's what you did. You're not a SEAL anymore.”
“I know that,” Steve says testily, surprised how hearing it bothers him. “You guys are my team now.”
“Then trust us,” Danny asks, giving him that rare hurt expression.
“I do. Every day,” Steve insists. Danny doesn't argue but his eyes are filled with doubt. And Steve wants him to know that he trusts him with his life. He trusts Danny and Chin and Kono and no one else. Checking his watch, he growls. “Look. We don't have time for this. These guys have fifteen minute check-ins and when they don't answer...”
“Then let's get moving.”
“Alright, but you need to get dirty.”
“Excuse me?” Danny laughs.
“You're wearin' a blue dress shirt that sticks out like a sore thumb.”
Danny visibly burns with the need to fight Steve on this, but he stares down at his shirt before sighing in defeat. “Fine,” he huffs. Digging his fingers into the ground, he grumbles even more while rubbing soil all over his sleeves and chest.
Antsy about the time, Steve yanks clumps of grass, smearing dirt and green stains over Danny's back.
“You're getting some type of sick pleasure out of this, aren't you?”
“I'll buy you a new one later.” Satisfied that Danny is no longer a flashing neon sign, Steve dusts off his hands. “We're good. Come on, follow my lead.”
--
SEALs blend into their environment, never seen, never heard. They're ghosts. Drag a New Jersey detective used to stomping around on pavement and the whole stealth things goes out the window.
Snap.
It's the fifth stick to break since they entered the undergrowth.
“How long did it take you to walk?” Steve whispers.
“About twenty minutes.”
At a slow walking pace that's about one meter every two seconds. Maybe every three if Danny struggled the whole time. They have a little over half a mile. More than once Steve's started to use gestures only members of his SEAL team would have recognized. But he stops himself, switching to universal signs, Danny nodding at each one.
Danny. He's kept right up with Steve without complaint, not a single eye-roll or smart aleck remark. His constant presence has been a comfort. But no matter the familiarity, doubt gnaws a hole in Steve's gut. This situation shouldn't be any different than chasing a perp, but this environment screams black op and Steve's not sure he can completely shed out of his old skin.
Tuning out one's emotions is vital in situations like this. Practicing dissociation every time he pulls the trigger or makes a tough call. Inside those dark places, if you're allowed to be swayed by the carnage, you return to the real world a shell.
And a shell can't smile at your partner’s constant ribbing, or appreciate that perfect sunrise over the ocean. Or call your new team family and mean it.
“Dom, this is base-camp, over,” the radio crackles.
Steve dials down the volume to one, presses the speaker to his ear while Danny practically vibrates in frustration. Holding out a hand, Steve listens in.
“Dom, this is base-camp. You were supposed to radio when the demonstration was done. Over.”
Static crackle and pops, the voice growling, “Oyster, Nate. Respond!”
Nothing.
“Patrols one through four. Protocol Delta.”
Danny's on the verge of stroking out and Steve pockets the radio in his vest. “They know something's up. If we're lucky, they won't find the bodies on the beach until we locate their base-camp.”
“And if we're not that lucky?”
Steve doesn't answer. He just picks up the pace.
-----
The blur of fur darting across their path is Steve's first sign of trouble. Danny crouches next to him, eyes pin-balling everywhere. Steve waits and listens, fingers ensuring his rifle's set to semi-automatic. Danny's a live wire, straining for sounds of danger, sweat beading and dripping down his face.
Nothing.
The chittering orchestra of insects doesn't miss a beat and Steve listens for the slightest nuance. Danny elbows him, eyebrows scrunched up in question, biting his lip to keep from growling why the hell did we stop?
Mongoose, Steve mouths. Danny stares, the vein in his temple twitching. Like Steve's just called Bon Jovi a boy band or suggested bowling is America’s favorite pastime. It must be taking every ounce of self-control to keep that inevitable Williams rant at bay.
Then the chittering whips into a frenzy before fading into a dead silence.
It's easy to detect the approaching boot steps, a figure in fatigues cautiously going down the trail. Danny freezes, holding his breath, watching the man pass them by. His eyes ask what now? And Steve shakes his head. Wait for it.
Twenty seconds later, a second thug winds his way down, rifle barrel nervously swinging side to side. Allowing the enemy to pass while the element of surprise is on Steve and Danny's side is irresponsible. Not when the bad guys can regroup later.
His suppressor is good for concealment from a distance, but the crack of the bullet will be as loud as a .22. Pulling his knife from his vest, he looks to Danny, expecting resistance but finding quiet acceptance instead.
Steve sticks to cover, emerging onto the path right behind his unsuspecting target. Wrapping an arm around the mercenary to secure his arms, Steve uses a single swipe to the throat. Quick and neat. Catching up to the second target, he uses the exact same method.
Dragging the second body away, Steve finds Danny hiding the first one.
Sheathing his knife, Steve takes a step forward and the world tilts out of control. Danny grabs Steve's bicep and Steve latches onto his partner’s shoulder, waiting for everything to stop spinning.
“We should move off the path,” Danny breathes into his ear.
Swallowing back a sudden bout of nausea, Steve grunts okay. Feet shuffling into the tangled thicket, he drops to a seat on the ground.
“I'm good,” he breathes, the dizziness easing.
“What the hell was that?” Danny demands.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing doesn't almost face plant on the ground!”
“I must've hit my head back in the warehouse.”
“Oh, you mean when you went lone wolf on us?”
“Lone wolf?”
“When you take off to do something incredibly stupid and risky on your own.”
Steve doesn't remember doing that, but based on Danny’s livid expression, he must have. “I take calculated risks.”
Mount St. Williams is about to blow and Steve silences the eruption by getting to his feet. “We've got to keep moving.”
“Are you kidding me? What if you have a head injury? Bleeding on the brain? Are you going to crack open your own skull and fix it with duct tape and sticks?”
“I'm fine.” Sensing an impending debate, Steve closes the distance between them, practically breathing Danny's air. “I wouldn't have come out here if I didn't think I was able to. I would have never put any of you at risk like that. Ever.”
Anger, fear, worry all swirl on the canvas of Danny's face. His partner is tough as nails with an atomic hot button, but he has a heart of gold. Giving a curt nod, his body suddenly goes stock still at the noise of crunching dirt.
Three men in green fatigues hurry up the path from the beach's direction. The tallest of the three with the physique of an ox squats down, pushing up on the black bandanna wrapped around his thick head. “See this?” he asks, waving a meaty hand over the dirt. “Our rabbits are close.”
Shit, Steve thinks. His and Danny's boot prints.
“Get on the radio,” the Ox whispers. “Our targets are heading toward base-camp. We'll flush them out. Tell Patrol One to ready a flanking maneuver.”
The other two men nod obediently. They're mercenaries wearing store uniforms that don't fit properly. Guns for hire. The first guy has all the air and manner of a real soldier. Experienced.
Pointing at both his grunts, the Ox sends them into the bush on the other side of the trail. Listening to the wind, he enters the brush twenty meters away from where Steve and Danny sit crouched, green fatigues and black bandanna melting into the jungle.
Danny rises to his feet and Steve flashes him a 'what the hell are you doing?' look.
Distraction, Danny mouths.
Carefully navigating deeper into the vegetation, Danny circles around a large ohai tree. Keeping his partner in his line of sight, Steve bides his time as the Ox inches closer to Steve's position. The beefy soldier is slow, methodical. Checking for broken vines, eyes skirting the ground then in front of him.
Danny's at his four o'clock, the Ox at Steve's ten.
Picking up a large branch, Danny nods and breaks it with a large crack.
The black-bandanna’d head shoots up in the direction of the noise, starting toward it. Unsheathing his knife, Steve slowly creeps up behind the soldier. Danny makes another loud snap of wood and Steve uses the distraction to quicken his steps.
Six meters, five, four, three, two--
The Ox spins around, bringing up his weapon. Steve rushes him, grabbing the M16, pointing the barrel upwards as it goes off. It's deafening, but Steve rips the rifle away, smashing the other man in the face with the butt. Crumpling to his knees, the Ox pulls out his side-arm in a last ditch effort. Aiming erratically, his whole body spasms with the impact of two gunshots before collapsing to the ground.
Wide-eyed, Steve stares over, finding Danny standing there holding his AK. “We've got to go!” he yells, grabbing his partner.
“Seriously? Not even a thank you?” Danny sighs, exasperated, but sprinting alongside him.
"Trust People and They Will Be True to You (2/2)"
Fandom:Hawaii Five-O
Word Count: 12,000
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Violence. Some language.
Genre: Gen. Action. H/C
Spoilers: None
Characters: Steve, Danny, Kono, Chin
Summary: Danny's brain catches up with current events, his face going white. “Oh my God. Look at you. With your Rambo paint and hardware from the latest issue of Guns and Ammo. You're in Super-SEAL mode! Please, please don't tell me those clowns were right and that you're the strike-force?”
Notes: Written for esteefee for help_japan.
Thank you to ga_unicorn and everybettyfor the wonderful beta. You guys rock and keep me sane.
Cross-posted elsewhere.
-
The world erupts around him, flashing in the shaky-cam effects of movies, silence and explosions trading jabs to his eardrums. Sprawled on the ground, Steve's fingers inch over the spinning floor beneath him in search of his gun. Automatic fire echoes somewhere east of his position, the rata tat tat fading in and out.
Pushing up onto his hands and knees, his vision blurs. People shout over the sudden gunning of engines. Is this Afghanistan or Yemen?
“Hurry up!” a voice yells.
That's an American accent; he's in the States. But where and why?
Breathing in gasoline fumes and squinting against a rising cloud of smoke, he locates his Sig by touch, hand curling around the butt when another explosion goes off behind him. The force topples him over, showering debris across his back.
And all Steve can think about before the darkness closes in is---what the hell happened?
-----
“Commander McGarrett?”
“Commander McGarrett, can you hear me?”
Opening his eyes to a flash of stabbing light, Steve snags the wrist wielding it, bending the bones at a sharp angle.
“Let go! You're gonna break it!”
The panicked tone jolts him into reality, a young man's expression twisting in pain and hazel eyes widening in shock. Steve releases his grip, sitting up from where he lays on a gurney in front of an ambulance. Looking around, all he sees and hears are dozens of people running around with squawking radios.
This isn't a mission.
“What happened?” Steve mumbles, rubbing his eyes to push back the pounding in his head. Pull it together.
“We're hoping you could tell us,” Governor Jameson says, walking up.
Steve sits up straighter, bits and pieces from earlier bombarding him in confusing waves. “The raid,” he breathes in dawning horror, eyes darting around the yellow lettering on various vests and jackets.
Agents glance up from notepads and earpieces to look over.
“We were outgunned,” Steve begins, knowing he's missing more. “There were a couple dozen men armed with automatic weapons.” Shaking his head, he winces, swallowing back bile. “This wasn't an amateur operation like we thought. These guys used military tactics.”
“You were working a larceny ring?” Jameson prods, sending a daggered look at some suit near-by to back off.
“Yeah,” Steve replies, gaining his bearings, puzzling together hazy memories. “We were investigating a theft of supplies out of the Pearl Navy Station. One of Danny's informants gave us a tip on which warehouse they were storing the stuff in.”
Danny? Where the hell was everyone else?
“And these were submarine parts?” Jameson presses.
“Yeah, steering gear, hydraulics, snorkel masts, internal countermeasure launchers.” Rubbing at the growing lump at the back of his skull, he grasps onto the fluttering snapshots in his head. “We entered through the south entrance and discovered the crates inside were filled with Tomahawk missiles.” He remembers Chin's set jaw, Danny's exclaimed oh shit, this isn't good. “By the time we realized we'd walked into something a lot bigger...things went crazy.”
Flash-bangs went off and the warehouse was plunged into darkness.
His gut twists into knots and it's more than nausea from hitting his head. A man in his fifties, skin as dark as mahogany bustles over. Steve knows his name, but it's gone AWOL with most of the morning.
“I knew this should have been an exclusive NCIS investigation, Governor,” the agent hisses, toeing a dangerous line with his accusation. Adjusting a cap over his thinning salt and pepper hair, he sets his sights on Steve. “Your people were in over your heads.”
“It was a joint operation, Special Agent Markham,” Jameson corrects, eyes flashing dangerously. “My task force had the lead on who was smuggling supplies off the island.”
“And thanks to that bad intel, my agents walked right into a deathtrap.”
Muzzle flashes gave away the sniper positions on the second level; six more targets attempting to out-flank them.
Steve blinks at Governor Jameson squaring her shoulders, impeccable in her suit regardless of the heat. “Are you saying that all those documents you gave us regarding the missing inventory included missiles?”
“I have three injured agents and one DOA,” Markham answers, dodging the question. “Not to mention an empty warehouse and a shipment of missing weapons.”
“Wait!” Steve growls, the last piece of the jigsaw slamming into place. “Where's my team?” Swinging his legs around, he hops off the gurney, waving off the EMT whose wrist he’d almost broke.
“Steve,” Jameson says, planting herself in front of him, her face both sympathetic and determined. “Hold on.”
“Hold on?” Steve barks, heart thumping wildly. “Are they--”
“No,” Jameson cuts him off. “The warehouse was swept and cleared.”
Eyes glued over her shoulder, Steve counts a single body bag being loaded into the coroner’s van. Heart sick at the casualty, it fills with relief that there's only one. “I want to see all the evidence that's been gathered. Video, witness accounts---”
“Those were my people. My agents. I'm in charge of this investigation.” This time Agent Markham blocks his path. And as if reading the fury in Steve's eyes, the man takes a step back, voice tinged with frustration. “This whole thing is fubared and we can play the blame game later. But right now we have three missing members of your task force and I'm not going to get into a pissing match with you. Let's find your people, retrieve those missing missiles, and haul in the assholes responsible for this.”
“Um,” the EMT interrupts nervously. “I haven’t cleared you, sir. You suffered a loss of consciousness and I haven't finished my examination. You might have a--”
Steve folds his arms across his chest, staring the young medic down.
“If you experience any dizziness, ringing in the ears, you should probably seek out emergency care,” the EMT says, packing up his stuff.
Moving toward his car, Jameson matches Steve's hurried steps. “I'll let you skip the hospital, but I'll be damned if I'll allow you behind a wheel. You're riding with me and don't you dare argue about it.”
“Yes, ma'am,” Steve answers, following right behind her.
---
No matter how hard he tries, Steve can't recollect what happened when things went to hell. Why he'd been separated from the rest of his team and how he's the only one left after the dust settled. This isn't how things are supposed to be. He doesn’t leave people behind and he sure as hell doesn't allow his friends to be put in danger.
But none of that matters now. He can't fix what went wrong, but Steve can ensure things are made right.
HQ is an empty shell without its three missing members, the void made larger by its temporary occupants. Steve fights the urge to escort Jameson and Markham out, their presence a constant source of distraction. Bringing up the case notes onto the screen, he glares past them, their questions white noise around the data in front of him.
Four days ago HPD had pulled over a van with a busted taillight. After the driver's license pinged from an outstanding bench warrant, a search of the vehicle resulted in crates of circuit boards and control panels for Ohio class subs.
Staring at the inventory log of the stolen merchandise, Danny rested a hip on the table. “During my first month here, I pinched this guy for moving iPads on the black market. He gave up his guy further up the totem pole and got slapped with no time served. If anyone knows who's dabbling with stolen Navy parts, it's him.”
A tip and ten hours of surveillance led to a suspected petty officer who ran the team right smack dab into the middle of an NCIS case, and ultimately, a co-investigation.
“Steve?” Jameson touches his shoulder, breaking his focus.
“What?” he asks, distracted.
“I asked if--”
But Steve's cell phone goes off and for a split second he allows himself to believe it'll be Kono or Chin on the other end telling him to get off his ass and pick them up, they've got things under control. Staring at the cell, he tunes everything out the second the words unknown caller flash. His stomach becomes a deep pit of dread and he answers it with a terse, “McGarrett.”
“I heard you lost something,” the voice on the other end mocks.
“Who's this?” Steve demands, snapping his fingers for someone to start a trace.
“That doesn't matter.”
“Yeah?” Steve answers. Markham's on his phone, nodding at Steve to keep talking. “What do you want?”
“To ensure that I finish my business without interference. Sounds like a respectable offer.”
“Listen to me, you--”
“No, you listen. You're gonna lay off for twenty-four hours. No SWAT, no NCIS or ATF. Keep away from my affairs and your team will be set free. I know 5-0 doesn't play by the rules, so you're gonna make sure everyone else stays the hell away. That's the deal.”
“How do I know--”
“I'm sending you a little video. If I see one boat. They die. If I hear a chopper. They die. If you try to take me down, I'm taking them with me.”
The call ends and Steve resists the urge to fling it across the room, his brain deciphering all the thinly veiled clues as he pulls up his e-mail onto the overhead screen.
His heart might have stopped, his imagination filling in for the lack of audio as twenty seconds of Chin, Danny and Kono burn into Steve's brain. And it's more than their determined faces that he dissects; it’s the sand beneath their knees and the bits of blue sky poking out in the background.
Hitting replay, he searches for signals or clues. When nothing comes, he rewinds it again.
A hand stills him from repeating that same twenty seconds and his world expands from a single laser line to Jameson's frown. “I've been calling your name,” she tells him.
“I know where they are,” he says, pulling up a map that Chin had downloaded yesterday.
“You do? How?” Markham demands.
But Steve doesn't answer, magnifying the map, scanning the shoreline for the best approach.
“McGarrett!”
“Nā Mokulua is off the coast of Oahu,” Steve informs the governor, ignoring the fuming agent. “It's made up of two islets---”
“We don't need a geography lesson, Commander,” Markham growls.
“They're part of the State Seabird Sanctuary,” Steve continues without missing a beat. “It's off-limits to civilians this time of the year and enforced by the local government agencies. The islands are isolated, making the perfect place for a smuggling operation.” Acknowledging Markham by looking him in the eyes, Steve brings up a file on the LSD. “Yesterday, Danny and I went over your team's surveillance records from last week. They were following a person of interest who made over a dozen visits to the Pearl Navy Station. A Chris Barrett, who happens to be a Parks and Recreation agent on Nā Mokulua.”
Jameson quickly connects the dots. “And your team has been taken as human shields?”
Steve maintains a cool exterior despite those familiar words, thinking this isn't the first time he's dealt with such a situation. “I think we accidentally stumbled over a major smuggling ring with probable terrorist connections. And the Big Kahuna in charge took my team thinking we already knew his base of operations was on Nā Mokulua. He's closing shop and when he's finished packing up, he'll kill them.”
“I can authorize a strike force to--
“No. No strike force,” Steve cuts the governor off. “Choppers and boats can be easily spotted even without binoculars. Mokulua has steep slopes and cliffs, in the right spot, one guy can monitor the approach by the Coast Guard or SWAT if it comes in by air.”
Flustered, Jameson looks up at Steve incredulous. “Then what are you suggesting?”
“I'll go in on my own.”
“Wait, I can't...”
“It's our only viable play,” he tells her.
Because Steve's not going to put his friends further at risk; this is what he's been trained to do.
Jameson gets him, has read most of his record, even the classified parts, but there are pieces missing. Parts blacked out or never inserted into his jacket. Nasty little secrets. Not even a governor of Hawaii has that type of clearance.
“But you just said that a chopper or boat would be easily spotted?” she asks.
“Cutters, yes. But if I get dropped off from a small skiff a couple miles from shore, I can go in without detection.” Jameson's face is a myriad of emotions and Steve takes the opportunity to exploit them. “We're up against a ticking clock. We have to act now to save my team and keep those missiles out of terrorist hands.”
“You're not taking his suggestion seriously, are you, Governor?” Markham stares at Jameson in disbelief, ice blue eyes locking with Steve, a slow realization dawning on him. “What branch did you serve?”
“Navy.”
“Really?” Markham says, that hostile exterior melting into mutual respect. “Special Ops?”
“SEAL,” Steve answers, sizing the man up again.
“Figures,” Markham snorts. “Only a Snake Eater would think your plan's a reasonable one.”
“And you?”
“Special Warfare Officer. Same team. Spent half my life picking you boys up. Transferred to NCIS nine years ago.” Nodding at the map, Markham asks, “Already plotted a place to land?”
For the briefest of moments, Steve feels at ease, like he could speak more freely. “Because of the rocky shoreline, only the west beach is accessible by sea.”
“Yeah,” Markham says thoughtfully, eying the map. “So, you'll go ashore on the east?”
“Was thinking from the north. Channel's shallower and only two hundred feet wide.” It's always about surprise. “They won't be expecting anything from that direction.”
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Jameson interrupts, noting the swift defrost between both men, turning her attention toward Markham. “You're in agreement with McGarrett's suggestion of going it alone?”
“He won't be alone,” Markham says solemnly. “The rest of his team is waiting for him.”
---
Nā Mokulua is made up of two tiny islets; Moku Iki is nothing but a chunk of uninhabitable shale and rock. The bird sanctuary sits on Moku Nui, the larger, double-humped island the home of thick jungle and rocky inclines. A Navy cutter drops them off ten miles from Moku Iki, using the sister islet as cover. Markham steers a tiny Tarpon, a small seventeen-foot boat with a big boat attitude. It glides smoothly over the water, the tiny engine purring quietly.
Steve double checks his gear, inspecting the bag containing parts to his compact Colt M4A1 assault rifle. He inventories his extra clips, grenades, radio, and med-kit. His GPS is uploaded with the latest maps and he sticks his vest and knife inside his pack.
“We're five miles out,” Markham tells him, keeping the Tarpon steady over the chop.
Nodding, Steve zips up his wet suit, slipping on his flippers. “Thanks for taking me out.”
“I'd go with you if I could.”
“I'm sorry for the loss of your agent,” Steve tells him out loud, vowing something else to himself.
“They're my responsibility. I was overseeing another operation for my director and approved the joint investigation.”
Steve's not going to placate him with words; the raid on the warehouse had been a huge miscalculation.
“How long have you've been in the reserves?” At Steve's curious look, Markham snorts. “You're too young to be retired. I know Uncle Sam doesn't like spending a million dollars on a sailor he can't use.”
“Six months,” Steve says like he can't fathom it.
Six months since he lost his father and mother all over again. Five weeks since he sent his sister away after finally reconnecting with her.
“Must be tough.”
Looking up sharply, Steve can see a thousand memories sketched out across the other man's wrinkled face. “What do you mean?”
“Adjusting to civilian life.”
The tiny boat dips and sways with the currents and Steve seeks out the shoreline, calculating the distance. “Haven't really thought about it.”
“Really? So, you've gone from working with people who can read your every thought, react to your every move in tandem without a single word to a bunch of--”
“I work with the best team on Hawaii,” Steve growls.
He can't afford this right now. Thinking of his team when his mind should focus on the mission. Moku Nui looms three miles out, dawn rising over a new day. Night vision won't be necessary, but the sun won't be overhead and he'll use the fading twilight to conceal his arrival onto the rough beach.
“Do you trust them?”
“What? Of course I do.” Markham stares at Steve with the same disposition of his father, with hidden knowledge and an unwillingness to share it. “I trust them with my life,” Steve feels the need to clarify.
“Good. Because that's the hardest lesson to learn when we return from all those dark places-- that no one else understands. To trust people again.”
There isn't a day that goes by that Danny doesn't rant at Steve for breaking procedure or ignoring someone's civil rights. In the middle of war zones, dropped off in places he wasn't allowed to talk about, such niceties don't exist. Out there, people died on a daily basis without a second glance, bodies dumped in shallow or mass graves. He had a job to do and it was never pretty, wounds both visible and invisible quickly triaged before being sent after the next target.
Steve had lived for every freaking moment. But now. Watching the shoreline of Moku Nui creep closer, he thinks back to Kono's carefully controlled expression during the General Pak thing. When Steve had to react viciously to keep them all alive.
“We're nearing three miles,” Markham announces.
Steve pushes everything to the back of his mind, mentally going over the maps, visualizing the terrain. His head still pounds from having his skull bounced about, the three Tylenol from earlier barely making a dent in the pain.
Whatever doesn’t kill me makes me stronger. And leaves a hell of a headache.
“Wait for my signal. Don't engage until I send it.”
“Affirmative.”
Slipping his arms between the straps of his pack, Steve puts on his face mask, readying for his dip into the ocean.
“What the hell?” Markham growls.
Steve hears the chopper coming in, sees it in the distance. “Get on the horn; tell whoever that is to go back!”
“I'm on it,” Markham shouts, grabbing his radio, barking at the person at the other end to order the chopper away.
It's either a private charter or some tourist company trying to get a good morning view. It doesn't matter because if they can see the chopper then those on the island can. “Are they turning?” Steve yells, praying that a bunch of daytrippers doesn't get his team killed.
“We've got the pilot on the radio; this wasn't a scheduled flight,” Markham says, simultaneously chewing out the person on the other end of the cell.
The chopper makes a U-turn, adjusting course and veering back toward Oahu.
“I think it turned in time,” Markham says, slowing the boat and killing the engine. “All set.”
“Yeah, let's hope so,” Steve answers, chest tight with tension.
“Leave no man behind, frogman.”
Inhaling fully, Steve doesn't say a word and dives into the ocean.
----
Accepting a civilian job doesn't mean he's stopped working out or his conditioning exercises. Staying fit takes discipline; keeping his skills sharp requires much more. Swimming, running, practicing drills on base in his off time. Steve does it all in between cases. His job demands it and he does whatever it takes to retain that edge.
He makes it ashore in forty-nine minutes, crawling across sharp rocks and sand toward a large clump of grass. A group of brown-plumed Shearwaters nesting nearby take to the sky, their cries a warning of his presence. The beach quickly disappears into undergrowth and he keeps low, crabbing under a tree for cover. Breathing heavily, he takes the time to settle into a normal rhythm, allowing his lungs to calm down and oxygenate the rest of his body.
Shrugging off his pack, he unzips his wet suit and changes into dry cloths. As he smears his face with camo paint he listens to the chirping jungle. With his equipment secured, he quickly assembles his rifle, screwing on the suppressor muzzle last.
The island is a speck in the ocean, but five miles is a lot of territory to cover in a short amount of time. Recon is the key to outmaneuvering the enemy and Steve enters the brush, seeking out the most used trail and keeping just off the path to remain hidden. When you’re outnumbered, always go for stealth.
Checking his GPS, he keeps track of his progress, following a dirt track that should take him around the east side of the island. Egrets trade mating caws high above in the trees and he continues forward, avoiding twigs and watching for divots in the ground. Pausing, he notices a hint of ash over the sweet smell of hibiscus and yellow ilimas.
Crawling out of the brush, he picks up a cigarette, the smell of the crushed butt still freshly, acridly strong. An indentation in the dirt shows where two people stopped for a moment, their bootprints heading up the trail. Tracing his fingers over the soil, he notices several older sets of prints on top of each other, indicating a patrol area.
The egrets grow silent and Steve quietly backs up into the dense foliage, laying flat on his belly. Lying next to large twisting tree roots, he waits, ears straining over the slowly quieting jungle. Two men in black cargo pants and olive fatigues round the twisty trail. They walk cautiously, armed with AK47s, scanning the lush foliage for trouble.
Stopping a few meters away, one of them takes out a cigarette and lights it. Both their features are shadowed by boonie hats and the one not smoking leans against a tree to wipe at the sweat on his brow.
“Base-camp to Patrol Three. What's your status?” a radio squawks.
“We're halfway to the beach. Everything's clear. Over,” Cigarette Guy answers.
“Keep your eyes sharp for more choppers.”
“On it,” Cigarette Guy says, finishing his smoke. “You want us to hurry back to help out with our demonstration?”
“Negative. We're gonna make sure our little warning will be the first thing anyone sees if they land on the west shore.”
“Roger that. Check back in fifteen. Patrol Three out.”
Steve resists taking them out now. With radio checks every fifteen minutes he can't risk tipping off his presence. So he waits for them to continue on and checks his GPS for the quickest path to the west beach, because he doesn't like the sound of this little warning.
---
He can't do a full-out run to the beach, not if he doesn't want to give away his position. There're at least two other patrols in the area. And who knows if there's a fourth one.
The island might be off-limits to civilians during the next two months, but it's open during daylight hours for the rest of the year. The locals love this secluded slice of heaven and Steve follows a trail that leads west. He can see the sandy white beach from the brush and slows his steps as he veers closer.
A flock of angry shearwaters screech loudly, circling the sky above their nesting grounds. Using a palm tree for cover, Steve peers through his scope toward the source of the commotion. Three men drag a fourth out of the jungle at the other end of the beach.
Steve clenches his jaw, recognizing that slicked back hair and pissed-off Jersey attitude.
Danny takes a rifle butt to his spine and is forced to his knees. Hands tied behind his back, he head butts one of the thugs, earning him a smack in the face. Off balance, he's knocked to the ground. Two thugs roughly haul him back up, automatic weapons aimed at his head.
Moving his scope side to side, Steve bids his time, finger resting on the trigger. Peering through the lens, the mil dots surrounding the target center start to blur. Not now. Head throbbing, he squeezes his eyes closed and blinks to clear his vision. Blowing out a breath, he peers through it again.
Range to the target is five hundred meters. Wind's out of the north at eight or ten mph. Shooting from a slight decline makes things easier and he calculates his altitude and elevation, fingers adjusting the ballistic drop dials.
A third thug dressed in black directs things, holding a video camera. The goon on the left backs up two steps, his AK still on Danny. The goon on the right lowers his rifle, pulling out a .45, aiming the muzzle at Danny's temple.
It'll take two seconds to fire and re-aim each time. Six seconds to get them all. Steve sets his sights on the goon playing executioner, adjusting the cross hairs at the base of the man's skull.
Executioner Goon's fingers start to curl...and Steve squeezes the trigger.
Pop.
Swinging his trajectory eight degrees, his takes out AK Thug with another pull of the trigger.
Pop.
Video Goon drops his camera and Steve fires twice before the guy gets a shot off.
Listening to the jungle choir slowly return to normal, Steve hustles toward the beach, legs pumping furiously. He finally gets to Danny who has struggled to his knees after ducking for cover.
“Where did you come from?” Danny exclaims. Staring at all the body next to him he yells, “What if you missed? Oh wait. You don't miss, I forgot. But he still could’ve pulled the trigger. People have these things called nerves and muscles.”
“I went for the apricot.”
“The what?”
“The part of the brain that controls involuntary movement. And nice to see you too, partner,” Steve says, shouldering his weapon and snagging one of the bad guy's radios. Kneeling, his pulls out his knife and cuts through Danny's bindings. “You hurt anywhere?”
“Hurt? I certainly saw my life flash before my eyes,” Danny breathes, finger checking the pulse in his neck. “But then I saw you and I figured I was either in Hell or--”
“Grab a weapon.”
“How about telling me what's going on?” Danny growls as he picks up AK Goon's rifle and sidearm.
“We need to get out of the open,” Steve says, grabbing Danny by the elbow and tugging him along.
Danny's face is flushed, his hair damp with sweat, his breathing ragged, but he stumbles after Steve, yanking his arm away.
They enter the thick jungle, Steve leading them deep into the brush, the canopies of the trees blocking out the light. Pushing aside low flowering plants, he finds a fallen tree covered with ferns and sits under the natural cover. Steve looks Danny over, sees he's a bit rough around the edges. His left eye has a nice shiner and the right side of his face is covered by cuts. But he's alive and whole and that's all that matters. Pulling out a canteen, Steve takes several swallows and hands it over.
“Thank you,” his partner says, gulping it.
“Easy, small amounts,” Steve admonishes. “You'll make yourself sick.”
Wiping the edges of his mouth, Danny presses the canteen against his forehead. “I can't believe how close that was.”
Staring death in the eye is a shock to the system and Steve would love to give Danny a moment to decompress, but there's no time. “Why did they try to kill you?”
“I dunno, man. Something about a chopper. One of the guys was freaked that it was air recon for a strike force.” Danny begins to take another drink, canteen inches from his lips when he stops and just stares. Eyes widening like his brain is catching up with current events, his face goes white. “Oh my God. Look at you. With your Rambo paint and hardware from the latest issue of Guns and Ammo. You're in Super-Seal mode! Please, please don't tell me those assclowns were right about the chopper? And that you're the strike-force?”
“Are Kono and Chin okay?”
“Yeah. They're a little banged up, but they're fine. And stop dodging the question.”
“Are they inside or outdoors?”
“Hello? Where do you see buildings?” Danny asks, spreading his arms wide. “We were tied to some trees in the middle of Camp Mercenary.”
“How many men?”
“You're not going to answer me are you?”
“I need a number.”
“I counted fourteen...that I could see. All pretty heavily armed.”
Pulling out his GPS unit, Steve brings up a map. “Can you show me where exactly?”
“No, but I'll take you.”
Frustration exacerbates the ice pick digging in the back of his skull and Steve tries to rein in his frustration. “I can travel faster on my own. If you stayed on the same route the whole time then I can pinpoint where--”
“Whoa, whoa. What part of all pretty heavily armed do you not understand? I'm going with you.”
“Danny.”
“No, Steven. They're my friends, too. I may not be geared up like a ninja, but the last time I checked, I know how to hold my own in a fire-fight,” Danny growls, pulling the mag out of the AK, checking it and slamming it back in.
Gently pushing the AK’s muzzle until it points the ground, Steve lowers his voice. “A fire-fight is exactly what I'm trying to avoid.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Look. You wanted to know if I was the strike force? The answer's yes. Engaging in high risk hostage situations with multiple hostiles is what I do.”
“It's what you did. You're not a SEAL anymore.”
“I know that,” Steve says testily, surprised how hearing it bothers him. “You guys are my team now.”
“Then trust us,” Danny asks, giving him that rare hurt expression.
“I do. Every day,” Steve insists. Danny doesn't argue but his eyes are filled with doubt. And Steve wants him to know that he trusts him with his life. He trusts Danny and Chin and Kono and no one else. Checking his watch, he growls. “Look. We don't have time for this. These guys have fifteen minute check-ins and when they don't answer...”
“Then let's get moving.”
“Alright, but you need to get dirty.”
“Excuse me?” Danny laughs.
“You're wearin' a blue dress shirt that sticks out like a sore thumb.”
Danny visibly burns with the need to fight Steve on this, but he stares down at his shirt before sighing in defeat. “Fine,” he huffs. Digging his fingers into the ground, he grumbles even more while rubbing soil all over his sleeves and chest.
Antsy about the time, Steve yanks clumps of grass, smearing dirt and green stains over Danny's back.
“You're getting some type of sick pleasure out of this, aren't you?”
“I'll buy you a new one later.” Satisfied that Danny is no longer a flashing neon sign, Steve dusts off his hands. “We're good. Come on, follow my lead.”
--
SEALs blend into their environment, never seen, never heard. They're ghosts. Drag a New Jersey detective used to stomping around on pavement and the whole stealth things goes out the window.
Snap.
It's the fifth stick to break since they entered the undergrowth.
“How long did it take you to walk?” Steve whispers.
“About twenty minutes.”
At a slow walking pace that's about one meter every two seconds. Maybe every three if Danny struggled the whole time. They have a little over half a mile. More than once Steve's started to use gestures only members of his SEAL team would have recognized. But he stops himself, switching to universal signs, Danny nodding at each one.
Danny. He's kept right up with Steve without complaint, not a single eye-roll or smart aleck remark. His constant presence has been a comfort. But no matter the familiarity, doubt gnaws a hole in Steve's gut. This situation shouldn't be any different than chasing a perp, but this environment screams black op and Steve's not sure he can completely shed out of his old skin.
Tuning out one's emotions is vital in situations like this. Practicing dissociation every time he pulls the trigger or makes a tough call. Inside those dark places, if you're allowed to be swayed by the carnage, you return to the real world a shell.
And a shell can't smile at your partner’s constant ribbing, or appreciate that perfect sunrise over the ocean. Or call your new team family and mean it.
“Dom, this is base-camp, over,” the radio crackles.
Steve dials down the volume to one, presses the speaker to his ear while Danny practically vibrates in frustration. Holding out a hand, Steve listens in.
“Dom, this is base-camp. You were supposed to radio when the demonstration was done. Over.”
Static crackle and pops, the voice growling, “Oyster, Nate. Respond!”
Nothing.
“Patrols one through four. Protocol Delta.”
Danny's on the verge of stroking out and Steve pockets the radio in his vest. “They know something's up. If we're lucky, they won't find the bodies on the beach until we locate their base-camp.”
“And if we're not that lucky?”
Steve doesn't answer. He just picks up the pace.
-----
The blur of fur darting across their path is Steve's first sign of trouble. Danny crouches next to him, eyes pin-balling everywhere. Steve waits and listens, fingers ensuring his rifle's set to semi-automatic. Danny's a live wire, straining for sounds of danger, sweat beading and dripping down his face.
Nothing.
The chittering orchestra of insects doesn't miss a beat and Steve listens for the slightest nuance. Danny elbows him, eyebrows scrunched up in question, biting his lip to keep from growling why the hell did we stop?
Mongoose, Steve mouths. Danny stares, the vein in his temple twitching. Like Steve's just called Bon Jovi a boy band or suggested bowling is America’s favorite pastime. It must be taking every ounce of self-control to keep that inevitable Williams rant at bay.
Then the chittering whips into a frenzy before fading into a dead silence.
It's easy to detect the approaching boot steps, a figure in fatigues cautiously going down the trail. Danny freezes, holding his breath, watching the man pass them by. His eyes ask what now? And Steve shakes his head. Wait for it.
Twenty seconds later, a second thug winds his way down, rifle barrel nervously swinging side to side. Allowing the enemy to pass while the element of surprise is on Steve and Danny's side is irresponsible. Not when the bad guys can regroup later.
His suppressor is good for concealment from a distance, but the crack of the bullet will be as loud as a .22. Pulling his knife from his vest, he looks to Danny, expecting resistance but finding quiet acceptance instead.
Steve sticks to cover, emerging onto the path right behind his unsuspecting target. Wrapping an arm around the mercenary to secure his arms, Steve uses a single swipe to the throat. Quick and neat. Catching up to the second target, he uses the exact same method.
Dragging the second body away, Steve finds Danny hiding the first one.
Sheathing his knife, Steve takes a step forward and the world tilts out of control. Danny grabs Steve's bicep and Steve latches onto his partner’s shoulder, waiting for everything to stop spinning.
“We should move off the path,” Danny breathes into his ear.
Swallowing back a sudden bout of nausea, Steve grunts okay. Feet shuffling into the tangled thicket, he drops to a seat on the ground.
“I'm good,” he breathes, the dizziness easing.
“What the hell was that?” Danny demands.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing doesn't almost face plant on the ground!”
“I must've hit my head back in the warehouse.”
“Oh, you mean when you went lone wolf on us?”
“Lone wolf?”
“When you take off to do something incredibly stupid and risky on your own.”
Steve doesn't remember doing that, but based on Danny’s livid expression, he must have. “I take calculated risks.”
Mount St. Williams is about to blow and Steve silences the eruption by getting to his feet. “We've got to keep moving.”
“Are you kidding me? What if you have a head injury? Bleeding on the brain? Are you going to crack open your own skull and fix it with duct tape and sticks?”
“I'm fine.” Sensing an impending debate, Steve closes the distance between them, practically breathing Danny's air. “I wouldn't have come out here if I didn't think I was able to. I would have never put any of you at risk like that. Ever.”
Anger, fear, worry all swirl on the canvas of Danny's face. His partner is tough as nails with an atomic hot button, but he has a heart of gold. Giving a curt nod, his body suddenly goes stock still at the noise of crunching dirt.
Three men in green fatigues hurry up the path from the beach's direction. The tallest of the three with the physique of an ox squats down, pushing up on the black bandanna wrapped around his thick head. “See this?” he asks, waving a meaty hand over the dirt. “Our rabbits are close.”
Shit, Steve thinks. His and Danny's boot prints.
“Get on the radio,” the Ox whispers. “Our targets are heading toward base-camp. We'll flush them out. Tell Patrol One to ready a flanking maneuver.”
The other two men nod obediently. They're mercenaries wearing store uniforms that don't fit properly. Guns for hire. The first guy has all the air and manner of a real soldier. Experienced.
Pointing at both his grunts, the Ox sends them into the bush on the other side of the trail. Listening to the wind, he enters the brush twenty meters away from where Steve and Danny sit crouched, green fatigues and black bandanna melting into the jungle.
Danny rises to his feet and Steve flashes him a 'what the hell are you doing?' look.
Distraction, Danny mouths.
Carefully navigating deeper into the vegetation, Danny circles around a large ohai tree. Keeping his partner in his line of sight, Steve bides his time as the Ox inches closer to Steve's position. The beefy soldier is slow, methodical. Checking for broken vines, eyes skirting the ground then in front of him.
Danny's at his four o'clock, the Ox at Steve's ten.
Picking up a large branch, Danny nods and breaks it with a large crack.
The black-bandanna’d head shoots up in the direction of the noise, starting toward it. Unsheathing his knife, Steve slowly creeps up behind the soldier. Danny makes another loud snap of wood and Steve uses the distraction to quicken his steps.
Six meters, five, four, three, two--
The Ox spins around, bringing up his weapon. Steve rushes him, grabbing the M16, pointing the barrel upwards as it goes off. It's deafening, but Steve rips the rifle away, smashing the other man in the face with the butt. Crumpling to his knees, the Ox pulls out his side-arm in a last ditch effort. Aiming erratically, his whole body spasms with the impact of two gunshots before collapsing to the ground.
Wide-eyed, Steve stares over, finding Danny standing there holding his AK. “We've got to go!” he yells, grabbing his partner.
“Seriously? Not even a thank you?” Danny sighs, exasperated, but sprinting alongside him.
"Trust People and They Will Be True to You (2/2)"