"Charlie's idea," Megan repeated, taking the oxygen mask away from her soot-grimed face in order to make herself understood. She coughed, and Don solicitously pushed the mask back over her nose and mouth. She was sitting on the sidewalk, a blanket over her shoulders, a paramedic nearby still fiddling with his equipment that had been dragged in from Cheyenne and looking for an opportunity to use it.
"Breathe," Don ordered. He really didn't like the profiler's color underneath all the soot. "You sure you're okay?"
Megan coughed again, sipped at the water in a paper cup and replaced the cup onto the ground. There was nothing available to put the cup onto. She grinned gamely. "I'm going to forego my usual five mile run tomorrow, if that's what you mean. But yeah, I'm okay. Go get Charlie."
"They're pulling him out now." Which meant that Don was going to be in the crowd helping despite his own injuries. He'd helped to pull Wesson out of the vault, the bandage that Marsha had slapped on soaked again with bright red blood. The chopper that the Washington people had flown in on had already loaded him and one of the injured terrorists for a quick trip back to Cheyenne and immediate medical care. Not that Don particularly cared about the terrorist, but he realized that the man might be a good source of additional intelligence, and that was something that couldn't be passed up. The head Washington guy had made that very clear.
The car bomb had turned the bank into an inferno which, in turn, had melted the locking mechanism to the vault. Don had spent a few bad moments when he realized that that had happened, envisioning his brother and the others slowly suffocating to death, waiting for the help that would arrive too late. Clancy himself had hoisted a jack hammer to the roof of the vault and battered a small hole into the interior, which was how they had determined that all were alive. Don had had to sit down with relief. Then he bounced back up, hoping to help with the rest of the rescue, before the Washington folks arrived and pushed him out of the way, insisting on taking over from the locals and the visiting L.A. team.
Don joined the rest of the group. The massive door to the vault was wedged open, not one but three pairs of jaws of life stuck in to try to pry the door open. Once they'd assured themselves of a good source of air circulation, they started working on the actual extraction process. They'd managed to squeeze the vault door open a bare eighteen inches, and were still working to make it past twenty-four—Marsha, the owner of the diner and chief cook, was a good chef.
Amy maneuvered her way out past the eighteen inches of vault door, accepting the help from rescuers to be yanked free. Her belt caught on the melted steel lever, one of Chief Clancy's rescuers detaching it and hissing when the hot metal accidentally touched bare fingers. She was whisked away for a quick once-over by the Cheyenne medic and then grabbed by the Washington contingent for questioning and a stern admonition not to talk about recent events.
Ms. Otterbank was next, her spare frame easily passing through. She held her hand awkwardly. Don gave her a look.
She grimaced. "Not as young as I used to be, Agent Eppes. Just a sprain."
Don nodded. The soot on her face would wash off, as would most of her injuries. The wrist might take a little longer, but would heal. He waited.
He could have guessed: the bank's laptop came first.
"Be careful with it; it contains valuable data." The voice floated out, querulous and over-tired but still recognizable, and laced with pain. "Washington wants what's on there." Pause. "Don? Don? Are you out there?"
"Right here, Charlie." Don had never been so glad to hear his brother's voice. Well, maybe there was that once, when he'd thought that that bully—what was his name? Check?—had beaten him to Charlie and he was going to have to explain why he wasn't where he was supposed to be and why he was with this really good-looking cheerleader whose name he couldn't remember instead of looking out for his baby brother…Don wrenched his thoughts back to the present.
"Hang onto that laptop, Don." Which meant that Charlie was really hurting, if he didn't trust himself to keep track of the laptop. The electronic toy was covered in soot, with a small scrape marring the top surface. It seemed miraculous to Don that the laptop had made it through the entire journey with only that scrape as damage. Of all of them, it seemed to have arrived in the best shape, certainly better than his brother, only now emerging from within the heavy vault that had saved his life. Charlie fixed his brother with a steely gaze that belied his injured status. "The NSA is going to need what's on it."
Only Don could hear the sub-text in Charlie's words, that Charlie had more of whatever theorem that he was working on in the guts of that toy. And that if Don wanted Charlie to help out on an FBI case ever again, then Don had better make sure that Charlie's laptop stayed as intact as Charlie's homework had while they were growing up. Don grinned. That was his brother. Didn't matter whether the bullies were the home grown American type or built on foreign soil, the Eppes brothers would face them together.
Don grabbed the laptop with his good hand from the rescuer that handed it out to him, ignoring the sharp ache that was creeping back into his arm now that the adrenalin was departing. "Got it, buddy."
"Good." Charlie's face appeared at the crack in the vault, more hands grabbing onto him and easing him—make that wrenching, with the slight dimensions of the aperture—through the opening and toward a waiting stretcher. "Ow. I don't need that," he complained, trying to resist. "I can walk—ow." His ankle gave out, and he grabbed frantically for the nearest support: the burly shoulder of Chief Clancy. "Uh, maybe that's not such a good idea. Maybe I could just lean on someone. Don—"
"Stretcher, Dr. Eppes." Clancy grinned. As an upstanding member of the local emergency medical team as well as police chief and fire chief, he'd seen this before. All he had to do was wait. Another man, with a vest emblazoned with 'FBI' across the back, stood beside him with the same grin.
"Uh…yeah…" Charlie's face went suddenly white, and the only reason he didn't collapse onto the stretcher was that there were a number of hands to help ease him down.
"Charlie?" Suddenly alarmed, Don started forward, the laptop forgotten in his arms.
More people pushed him back. "It's all right, Special Agent Eppes. He's just a little shocky right now." Chief Clancy raised his voice. "Can I get a little O2 over here?"
"He's—"
"I know, Special Agent Eppes." The FBI man grinned, white teeth flashing. "We've got our orders. And you do, too. Let us take over. It's finally time for you to take medical leave."
"But—"
"Can I get a medic over here?" the man called out. "Special Agent Eppes needs—"
David appeared at his elbow. "Don, are you all right—?"
Don sighed. He suddenly felt very tired. Very used up. He had been running on adrenalin for far too long, and it was time to sit down himself before he ended up on a stretcher next to his brother. He handed the laptop over to David Sinclair. "Here. Guard this with your life. The NSA is going to want it, and Charlie will go ballistic on you if it gets lost."
Small chuckle. "And we both know which of those scenarios is the most scary." David took a more firm grip on the slender electronic toy. "Don't worry, Don. I've got your back."
"I don't need a wheelchair," Colby grumbled. "It was my arm, not my leg."
They were a sorry lot to look for, Don reflected wryly. Colby and Don made book ends, each with an arm in a sling and crisp white bandages that wouldn't go through the sleeves of any shirt. There was Agent Wesson, balancing crutches on the footrest of his own wheelchair, the expression on his face making it clear that the man was pleased to still be alive. Even Megan sported a bruise on her cheek that she swore was from decking a terrorist and not from a falling cinder block. All the rest of the L.A. people that Megan had brought with her looked to be similarly worse for wear.
And Charlie. Don had had a short and unhappy discussion with his brother's doctor, cataloguing all the injuries received from the past three—had it only been three? It seemed longer—days. The black eye was the only visible injury, that and the heavy support bandage wrapped around his ankle, but the tired expression and the way his brother limply accepted help told the real story: three broken ribs and a touch of pneumonia that cause his brother to double over ever time he coughed. And the coughing would be—needed to be—frequent. Don reached over to touch his brother's wrist. "Charlie?"
Charlie forced a game smile. "Let's go home, Don. I really don't want to play with your friends any more. Keep me inside a nice, safe office. Okay?"
Don sighed, satisfied. His brother would be all right. The Eppes brothers had beaten the bullies once again.
One hell of a cross country trip. Plane: shot down. Train: assassins at every gate. Bullies of the terrorist variety, and Don was grateful to come out of this as well as they had. There was a jet waiting on the tarmac, a number of burly guards taking over the bodyguard detail that Colby had started. There was an NSA type waiting on board for his brother for a high security clearance, but Don had insisted that the plane head first for Los Angeles. Charlie's bosses had wanted the man flown directly to Washington, no stops at the local hospital in between, but Don had put his foot down. Charlie spent the night in a Cheyenne medical facility with plenty of tired but determined FBI guards in front of the door. Don himself had plopped himself in a chair by the bed until one of the nurse took pity on him and toted in something more comfortable.
The end result was that his entire team was now crawling onto a loaned Air Force jet. David already had his hand under Colby's arm, keeping the man on his feet until he could plop onto the wheelchair that had been brought to get him across the tarmac. Don crept out of the car that had brought them to the airport and started to offer assistance to his brother.
Oops. Not so good. Black spots wobbled in front of Don's own vision. Strong arms grabbed him.
Crap! How did he end up sitting down in this wheelchair?
A small chuckle floated down from somewhere above his head. "Wait your turn, boss," David said. "We've got VIP seats. The pilot will take off when we tell him to, and we get to go to the head of the take off queue."
"They've got so many flights here that they need a queue?" Don grumbled, more to have something to say than annoyed. Damn, but this chair felt good! How could a wheelchair feel comfortable?
As soon as he was sitting in a seat on the jet, he realized that it hadn't, and that this chair had the wheelchair beat hands down for comfort. A few minutes later, and Charlie was also carefully handed into the seat beside him, hands strapping him in for the flight home, the NSA agent frothing at the mouth to get at Professor Eppes.
Charlie caught his brother's eye. "No missiles this trip?"
Don smiled, closed his eyes, and settled himself back. It was going to be a long and satisfying next two hours toward home. "No missiles, buddy. No missiles."