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Entry tags:
FIC: Run (Emergency, Gen, PG 2/10)
Title: Run
Pairing: non, gen, friendship fic
Summary: A call that turned out not to be a call after all, but someone still needed help…
Spoilers: Set just after first season.
Notes: We saw on many episodes that Johnny Gage really didn't like guns. I thought it might be fun to figure out why.
Previous Parts: 1/10
"You're too late, fireman."
Roy furrowed his brow. He stood back, grateful the chipped painted door stood between him and Mr. Dunning, the building…manager. Dunning scratched his balding head. Yellowish teeth flashed into something like a smile through the crack behind the chained door.
"You're looking for 317?" Dunning laughed, sounding like he was sawing wood. "Old 317 was a dump. Burnt down to nothing months ago. You coming to put that fire out, you're too late, fireman."
Roy was rewarded with more sawing wood and a sour whiff of whatever it was that gave Dunning such good humor this late hour.
"We…ah…we were called in. Someone here may possibly be having heart problems," Roy tried again. Dunning was finding everything he said funny.
"Not surprised. This place got everything else." Dunning laughed until he sounded like he was out of breath and the old man clung to the edge of his door, hacking. Roy took a discrete step back and wondered if perhaps Dunning needed a paramedic.
A few more tries only made Dunning laugh harder before Roy thanked him and went back down the stairs with his O2 tank. He stopped at the foot of the stairs, made a mental note to ask Cap to put 316 Ninth on the top of the safety inspection list and headed straight for the door.
Johnny will not be happy to hear this, Roy thought as he yawned behind a fist. With his luck, he'll hear about the fried chicken again all the way back to the station. And while normally, John sticking his head in the fridge was none of his business, helping John hold his head up while he retched into the toilet all night wasn't something he wanted to experience again either. And when his fever shot up, Roy was that close to running his partner down to Rampart himself—
Ping.
Still inside the building, Roy froze, his hand holding the door open. It was a sound he heard enough times in the service to know, even when it was faint, that it wasn't good.
Roy pressed his back to the wall, slid into a crouch and pulled the O2 away from the door. When it didn't happen again, he opened the door a crack and checked outside.
The squad could be seen further down the block but he couldn't see anyone on the street.
"Johnny?" Roy called out. He tensed, his head lower but there was no answering ping. Roy breathed out slowly and with his right foot, nudged the door wider.
There was a faint hush of traffic in the distance, the hollow sound a wind makes blowing between buildings.
But nothing else. Not even a puzzled, "Roy?"
Something cold prickled up his arms and Roy gave the street only another check before he threw the door wide open and stood at the top of the steps that led him to 316.
"Johnny?" Roy felt like he was shouting down into a hole. His voice echoed and someone in 316 opened a window and yelled something derogatory back down at him. Roy absently waved an apology over his shoulder as he eyed the squad in the distance. Roy gripped the cage that housed the O2 tighter and jogged towards the red vehicle.
The closer he was, the faster his legs pumped and even though in reality, it took mere seconds, it felt like hours later when he reached the squad.
It was empty.
"Johnny?" Roy checked his side of the squad. He could feel a painful thumping against his ribs when he looked at the other side.
Pristine, as if set on the ground as a road marker, was a helmet. Squad 51's lettering glowed white in the dim.
Roy stopped short of picking it up. He stared at the helmet, his Adam's apple working when he realized there was a burst IV bag lying on the pavement. The IV box was left on the ground by the drying spot.
The doors to the compartments were opened and the empty spot where the drug box should be was unmistakable.
Roy spun around to study his surroundings once more. Did John find their heart attack victim? No, John knew better than to run off without his biophone or the defibrillator. Or his partner. He stared hard at the buildings behind him, the lots of burnt-out shells of brick and mortar. He strained to hear any sounds of distress but other than the backfire of a muffler faraway, there was nothing.
The helmet's brim scraped when Roy picked the headgear up. He held it with both hands and stared at the empty spot in the compartment, at the smudge of dirt John missed when he cleaned—
Wait.
Roy squinted and took another look inside the compartment. The helmet dropped from nerveless fingers.
A bullet hole.
Roy skidded on the spent IV bag as he wrenched open the passenger door and scrambled into the cab. His hands shook as he fumbled for the radio handset.
"LA, this is squad 51…"
Hank woke up briefly to take the call from dispatch at 05:48. It was automatic, sleepwalking as the tones warbled out and got him out of bed, to the radio, the job slip already scribbled before the address completely registered. He did wake up further when he witnessed DeSoto with a hand curled firmly around the back of Gage's collar, like a cat carrying a kitten by the scuff of its neck, dragging the younger man out of the kitchen. Whatever Gage was saying—his mouth was full—was aborted at the call. Gage swallowed, gave DeSoto a burp that earned him a dirty look from his partner, and dove into the shotgun seat, all-business. Whatever those two were arguing about was shelved and would wait until after the run. That's just how they were. Hank stared at the back of the departing squad, slapped the garage door shut and shuffled back to bed, chuckling under his breath. He went back to sleep immediately. Because that's how a fireman's life was.
Primed to wake up at an alarm's notice, Hank jerked awake again at a sound he wasn't sure about. In the dark, his face buried in his pillow, Hank frowned to himself when he realized it wasn't the dispatcher, but his phone.
"It's probably for Gage," Kelly mumbled from beds away. He growled into his pillow. "When he gets back, I'm gonna kill him."
"Shut up," Lopez yawned. Almost immediately, a snore followed.
Hank sighed and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. If it was one of Gage's girlfriends, he was going to make the kid do hose and ladder drills in full gear (well, maybe not in this heat) all afternoon later. Then latrine duty for the month.
His hand blindly groped around for the phone and he pulled it to his ear.
"Station 51," Hank yawned, his eyes still closed. He was too tired to sound disapproving to the caller.
"C-cap?"
Hank's eyes flew open.
"Geez," Kelly muttered under his breath behind Hank.
Hank silently agreed as the engine rolled past one decrepit building after another. He didn't look at their numbers. There was no need. Stoker was driving towards the red and blue lights of the police cars collected at one end of the empty street ahead.
People's heads were poking out of windows of buildings Hank would have condemned long ago. Some sat on their sills, fanning themselves with whatever they had convenient, looking down at the business below. Others leaned out of the front doors, wrapped tightly in their bathrobes, gawping at the scene like it was the late, late show.
"Where's the fire?" someone shouted above in one of the buildings they drove past. Hank scowled through his window at the scattered cackling he heard in response.
"Isn't it past their bedtime?" Kelly grumbled under his breath behind Hank, but Hank ignored him because he found what he was looking for.
"Mike," Hank nodded to the flares that dotted entry to the street. Stoker silently nudged the steering, their Big Red lumbering towards their squad huddled by the curb in the middle of the street, surrounded by people Hank didn't recognize.
DeSoto was seated on the hood of one patrol car immediately behind the cones, his head nodding almost too slowly to Officer Vince Howard. Hank could see there was a helmet on his lap, but there was already one on his head. Hank's throat tightened at the sight of DeSoto's hand loosely resting on top of the gear. The paramedic only looked up once: when an officer tried to tell Stoker they couldn't stop here because the area was a crime scene.
God Almighty.
We should have rolled out with them, Hank thought as he climbed down the Crown, fully aware of his men joining behind him.
"It's okay," Vince called out to the officer at the barricade. "That's his station."
Hank nodded curtly at the offered apology as he steered straight for his teammate.
"You okay?" Hank asked as soon he was within hearing distance. DeSoto looked up, a little dazed as if he'd forgotten he'd called his captain right after calling the dispatcher.
"Cap." DeSoto sagged. He held up a helmet, both fists clutching it like a flailing two-inch. "Johnny's gone."
The ground rocked under his feet and he heard Lopez behind him mutter a prayer in Spanish.
"John's dead?" Hank managed out.
DeSoto's face contorted from horror to chagrin.
"No, no, no, he's…" DeSoto glanced over to the squad parked down the street. He swallowed. "He's alive. He's…" DeSoto clutched the helmet tighter. "He's alive, Cap."
Hank hated how it sounded like DeSoto was trying to convince himself and not everyone else.
Kelly exhaled loudly behind Hank. "But you just said—"
"Missing," Vince interrupted. He clapped a hand on DeSoto's shoulder. "What he's trying to say is that Gage is missing." The officer nodded towards the squad, surrounded by men who Hank assumed were detectives. They were staring into the compartments for some reason. And the sight of someone else besides his men touching his machines sharpened Hank's voice.
"Missing? What the hell happened?"
DeSoto flinched. He dropped his head and his palms brushed the top of the helmet as if wiping it clean of soot.
Hank took a calming breath. He tried to think of it like a fire. Yelling only served to ratchet up everyone's nerves, thinking gets cloudy, lives could get lost.
"Roy?" Hank took the helmet away from DeSoto. The younger man blinked. His hands flexed in the empty air before he met Hank's eyes.
"We were going on that cardiac call." DeSoto nodded towards an old, broad building that stood dark in the distance. "But there wasn't a 317. We looked."
Vince sighed. He tipped his helmet back with his pen. "Whoever called knew that. I remember that place. Station 18 responded to that last year. Couldn't save it."
"So someone called it in on purpose?" Hank growled.
DeSoto's head shot up. "Someone wanted us out here?"
"Maybe not you specifically," Vince pointed out, "just any paramedic. You guys were just the ones lucky enough to get the call."
"Some luck," Kelly muttered under his breath.
DeSoto was staring at the squad as people had their arms deep in the compartments. He grimaced as boxes were pulled out and left on the ground, metal was cut. It sounded to Hank like they were pulling the squad apart.
"Evidence," Vince explained when he noticed Hank's attention.
"Evidence?"
"That bullet could—"
"Bullet?" Hank exploded. His head whipped towards Roy. "Are you all right?" he demanded when he realized DeSoto had never answered the first time.
"When I got to the squad, no one was here." DeSoto stared at the helmet Hank still held. His throat worked. "And…there…there was already a bullet hole within the compartment."
"There wasn't any blood found," Vince said and he made it sound like that was supposed to be a good thing. Hank tried to feel like it was. "That could have just been a warning shot. Make John move, leave." He tilted back his helmet and glanced behind him at the squad again.
"Two of your boxes are missing," Vince noted.
"The drug box and the IV box," DeSoto reiterated dully. His eyes widened and he looked up. "So this…it was about the drug box?"
"You think it's just a robbery?" Hank asked. He now found himself holding the helmet tightly to his chest. "They were trying to rob the squad?"
"Or," a deep voice interrupted. "Maybe there was no robber." A large barrel-chested man in a dark, rumpled suit approached. He scratched the end of his pen on his head of thinning blonde hair.
Narrowed green eyes studied DeSoto in a way that made Hank's insides boil. "From what I hear, what's in that drug box of yours…could make a pretty penny on the street. Your buddy could have run off to make a fast buck."
Hank didn't need to turn around to know how DeSoto would react.
"He wouldn't do that!" DeSoto bumped against Hank's back. Behind him, his men were saying the same, also surging forward. It felt like he was shoring up against a flashflood.
Hank raised a hand, both to halt the protests behind him and the accusations in front of him. "I can assure you, Detective…"
A meaty hand extended. "Richards."
Hank didn't take it. "Detective Richards, I can vouch for my men, especially John Gage. He's not in this job for a fast buck."
The narrow eyes gentled and a smile curved thinly, changing the detective's face to something more pleasant.
"Yeah," Richards murmured. "You don't go through that many weeks of training to rip off a box of drugs." He crooked a smile. "My baby brother is in Squad 137."
"Then why—" DeSoto exploded.
"Because someone was going to ask that question sooner or later, Roy," Hank interrupted as it dawned on him. He gave DeSoto the helmet back so the paramedic could have something physical to do with his hands before he did something they'll both regret. "Isn't that right, Detective Richards?"
Richards only confirmed it with a curt nod. He looked down at his notepad. "We found this nearby." He lifted up a plastic bag with a note inside. "Can you identify it?"
DeSoto took it and stared at it hard like it was a map. He gulped and passed it to Hank.
"It's from the citation book," DeSoto croaked. "My partner usually carries it."
Sure enough, the crumpled white form was from a citation book. Hank rubbed a thumb lightly across the baggie that held the paper. He frowned at the smudged scrawl. The letters ran together and it took a few squints before the lettering made sense. Sort of.
"'Frog 1G9'?" Hank read. He checked with DeSoto but the other shook his head.
"I can't even tell if it's Johnny's handwriting," DeSoto said. His eyes tracked the note as Richards reclaimed it.
"Found three of these on the street," Richards explained as he pocketed it. "I was hoping it was some firemen's code."
"No." Hank shook his head. "Sorry."
"Yeah, well…" Richards sighed. "We didn't find any blood, minimum signs of a struggle so hopefully it means your man had the sense not to put up much of a fight with his attacker, otherwise…"
"Otherwise?" DeSoto repeated, his voice rising.
Richards glanced at DeSoto then moved his gaze over to Hank before it swung to the squad.
"Why don't you come with me and see if there's anything else missing, Roy?" Vince suddenly suggested.
"Otherwise what?" DeSoto pressed, ignoring the tug on his elbow by Lopez.
"Come on, Roy," Lopez insisted. He threw an arm across DeSoto's shoulders. "Let's check the squad." He managed to steer DeSoto away. Vince followed behind but not before giving Hank a look over his shoulder.
Richards sighed and wrote something in his notepad.
"Otherwise what, Cap?" Kelly spoke up from behind Hank.
Hank pushed back the lump in his throat. "Chet, why don't we search the area and see what we can find?" He hoped he wouldn't find anything. What a thing to pray for but he really hoped to God he wouldn't find anything. Not Johnny. Not like that.
The detective gave Hank a nod, an unreadable dark expression on his face before he excused himself to rejoin the swarm around the squad.
This wasn't a fire, but Lord, the same twisting feeling he gets whenever he sends his men into the devil's mouth was the same.
"Cap?" Kelly was like Boots with a shoe. He just wouldn't let it go. "Otherwise what?"
"Come on," Stoker unexpectedly said. "Let's head up Eighth." He didn't look at Hank as he led Kelly back to Big Red to get some flashlights, but Hank could tell from the stiff shoulders across the turnout coat that Mike Stoker was thinking the same thing.
Please God, don't let us find anything.
Part 3-->
Author's Acknowledgment:This never would have been finished without my beta![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ldyanne, who's has to endure grammar tenses, rewrites, major delays and "what if" questions from me. Thank you, babe!
Feedback is like cookies. I like cookies. -lol-
Pairing: non, gen, friendship fic
Summary: A call that turned out not to be a call after all, but someone still needed help…
Spoilers: Set just after first season.
Notes: We saw on many episodes that Johnny Gage really didn't like guns. I thought it might be fun to figure out why.
Previous Parts: 1/10
"You're too late, fireman."
Roy furrowed his brow. He stood back, grateful the chipped painted door stood between him and Mr. Dunning, the building…manager. Dunning scratched his balding head. Yellowish teeth flashed into something like a smile through the crack behind the chained door.
"You're looking for 317?" Dunning laughed, sounding like he was sawing wood. "Old 317 was a dump. Burnt down to nothing months ago. You coming to put that fire out, you're too late, fireman."
Roy was rewarded with more sawing wood and a sour whiff of whatever it was that gave Dunning such good humor this late hour.
"We…ah…we were called in. Someone here may possibly be having heart problems," Roy tried again. Dunning was finding everything he said funny.
"Not surprised. This place got everything else." Dunning laughed until he sounded like he was out of breath and the old man clung to the edge of his door, hacking. Roy took a discrete step back and wondered if perhaps Dunning needed a paramedic.
A few more tries only made Dunning laugh harder before Roy thanked him and went back down the stairs with his O2 tank. He stopped at the foot of the stairs, made a mental note to ask Cap to put 316 Ninth on the top of the safety inspection list and headed straight for the door.
Johnny will not be happy to hear this, Roy thought as he yawned behind a fist. With his luck, he'll hear about the fried chicken again all the way back to the station. And while normally, John sticking his head in the fridge was none of his business, helping John hold his head up while he retched into the toilet all night wasn't something he wanted to experience again either. And when his fever shot up, Roy was that close to running his partner down to Rampart himself—
Ping.
Still inside the building, Roy froze, his hand holding the door open. It was a sound he heard enough times in the service to know, even when it was faint, that it wasn't good.
Roy pressed his back to the wall, slid into a crouch and pulled the O2 away from the door. When it didn't happen again, he opened the door a crack and checked outside.
The squad could be seen further down the block but he couldn't see anyone on the street.
"Johnny?" Roy called out. He tensed, his head lower but there was no answering ping. Roy breathed out slowly and with his right foot, nudged the door wider.
There was a faint hush of traffic in the distance, the hollow sound a wind makes blowing between buildings.
But nothing else. Not even a puzzled, "Roy?"
Something cold prickled up his arms and Roy gave the street only another check before he threw the door wide open and stood at the top of the steps that led him to 316.
"Johnny?" Roy felt like he was shouting down into a hole. His voice echoed and someone in 316 opened a window and yelled something derogatory back down at him. Roy absently waved an apology over his shoulder as he eyed the squad in the distance. Roy gripped the cage that housed the O2 tighter and jogged towards the red vehicle.
The closer he was, the faster his legs pumped and even though in reality, it took mere seconds, it felt like hours later when he reached the squad.
It was empty.
"Johnny?" Roy checked his side of the squad. He could feel a painful thumping against his ribs when he looked at the other side.
Pristine, as if set on the ground as a road marker, was a helmet. Squad 51's lettering glowed white in the dim.
Roy stopped short of picking it up. He stared at the helmet, his Adam's apple working when he realized there was a burst IV bag lying on the pavement. The IV box was left on the ground by the drying spot.
The doors to the compartments were opened and the empty spot where the drug box should be was unmistakable.
Roy spun around to study his surroundings once more. Did John find their heart attack victim? No, John knew better than to run off without his biophone or the defibrillator. Or his partner. He stared hard at the buildings behind him, the lots of burnt-out shells of brick and mortar. He strained to hear any sounds of distress but other than the backfire of a muffler faraway, there was nothing.
The helmet's brim scraped when Roy picked the headgear up. He held it with both hands and stared at the empty spot in the compartment, at the smudge of dirt John missed when he cleaned—
Wait.
Roy squinted and took another look inside the compartment. The helmet dropped from nerveless fingers.
A bullet hole.
Roy skidded on the spent IV bag as he wrenched open the passenger door and scrambled into the cab. His hands shook as he fumbled for the radio handset.
"LA, this is squad 51…"
Hank woke up briefly to take the call from dispatch at 05:48. It was automatic, sleepwalking as the tones warbled out and got him out of bed, to the radio, the job slip already scribbled before the address completely registered. He did wake up further when he witnessed DeSoto with a hand curled firmly around the back of Gage's collar, like a cat carrying a kitten by the scuff of its neck, dragging the younger man out of the kitchen. Whatever Gage was saying—his mouth was full—was aborted at the call. Gage swallowed, gave DeSoto a burp that earned him a dirty look from his partner, and dove into the shotgun seat, all-business. Whatever those two were arguing about was shelved and would wait until after the run. That's just how they were. Hank stared at the back of the departing squad, slapped the garage door shut and shuffled back to bed, chuckling under his breath. He went back to sleep immediately. Because that's how a fireman's life was.
Primed to wake up at an alarm's notice, Hank jerked awake again at a sound he wasn't sure about. In the dark, his face buried in his pillow, Hank frowned to himself when he realized it wasn't the dispatcher, but his phone.
"It's probably for Gage," Kelly mumbled from beds away. He growled into his pillow. "When he gets back, I'm gonna kill him."
"Shut up," Lopez yawned. Almost immediately, a snore followed.
Hank sighed and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. If it was one of Gage's girlfriends, he was going to make the kid do hose and ladder drills in full gear (well, maybe not in this heat) all afternoon later. Then latrine duty for the month.
His hand blindly groped around for the phone and he pulled it to his ear.
"Station 51," Hank yawned, his eyes still closed. He was too tired to sound disapproving to the caller.
"C-cap?"
Hank's eyes flew open.
"Geez," Kelly muttered under his breath behind Hank.
Hank silently agreed as the engine rolled past one decrepit building after another. He didn't look at their numbers. There was no need. Stoker was driving towards the red and blue lights of the police cars collected at one end of the empty street ahead.
People's heads were poking out of windows of buildings Hank would have condemned long ago. Some sat on their sills, fanning themselves with whatever they had convenient, looking down at the business below. Others leaned out of the front doors, wrapped tightly in their bathrobes, gawping at the scene like it was the late, late show.
"Where's the fire?" someone shouted above in one of the buildings they drove past. Hank scowled through his window at the scattered cackling he heard in response.
"Isn't it past their bedtime?" Kelly grumbled under his breath behind Hank, but Hank ignored him because he found what he was looking for.
"Mike," Hank nodded to the flares that dotted entry to the street. Stoker silently nudged the steering, their Big Red lumbering towards their squad huddled by the curb in the middle of the street, surrounded by people Hank didn't recognize.
DeSoto was seated on the hood of one patrol car immediately behind the cones, his head nodding almost too slowly to Officer Vince Howard. Hank could see there was a helmet on his lap, but there was already one on his head. Hank's throat tightened at the sight of DeSoto's hand loosely resting on top of the gear. The paramedic only looked up once: when an officer tried to tell Stoker they couldn't stop here because the area was a crime scene.
God Almighty.
We should have rolled out with them, Hank thought as he climbed down the Crown, fully aware of his men joining behind him.
"It's okay," Vince called out to the officer at the barricade. "That's his station."
Hank nodded curtly at the offered apology as he steered straight for his teammate.
"You okay?" Hank asked as soon he was within hearing distance. DeSoto looked up, a little dazed as if he'd forgotten he'd called his captain right after calling the dispatcher.
"Cap." DeSoto sagged. He held up a helmet, both fists clutching it like a flailing two-inch. "Johnny's gone."
The ground rocked under his feet and he heard Lopez behind him mutter a prayer in Spanish.
"John's dead?" Hank managed out.
DeSoto's face contorted from horror to chagrin.
"No, no, no, he's…" DeSoto glanced over to the squad parked down the street. He swallowed. "He's alive. He's…" DeSoto clutched the helmet tighter. "He's alive, Cap."
Hank hated how it sounded like DeSoto was trying to convince himself and not everyone else.
Kelly exhaled loudly behind Hank. "But you just said—"
"Missing," Vince interrupted. He clapped a hand on DeSoto's shoulder. "What he's trying to say is that Gage is missing." The officer nodded towards the squad, surrounded by men who Hank assumed were detectives. They were staring into the compartments for some reason. And the sight of someone else besides his men touching his machines sharpened Hank's voice.
"Missing? What the hell happened?"
DeSoto flinched. He dropped his head and his palms brushed the top of the helmet as if wiping it clean of soot.
Hank took a calming breath. He tried to think of it like a fire. Yelling only served to ratchet up everyone's nerves, thinking gets cloudy, lives could get lost.
"Roy?" Hank took the helmet away from DeSoto. The younger man blinked. His hands flexed in the empty air before he met Hank's eyes.
"We were going on that cardiac call." DeSoto nodded towards an old, broad building that stood dark in the distance. "But there wasn't a 317. We looked."
Vince sighed. He tipped his helmet back with his pen. "Whoever called knew that. I remember that place. Station 18 responded to that last year. Couldn't save it."
"So someone called it in on purpose?" Hank growled.
DeSoto's head shot up. "Someone wanted us out here?"
"Maybe not you specifically," Vince pointed out, "just any paramedic. You guys were just the ones lucky enough to get the call."
"Some luck," Kelly muttered under his breath.
DeSoto was staring at the squad as people had their arms deep in the compartments. He grimaced as boxes were pulled out and left on the ground, metal was cut. It sounded to Hank like they were pulling the squad apart.
"Evidence," Vince explained when he noticed Hank's attention.
"Evidence?"
"That bullet could—"
"Bullet?" Hank exploded. His head whipped towards Roy. "Are you all right?" he demanded when he realized DeSoto had never answered the first time.
"When I got to the squad, no one was here." DeSoto stared at the helmet Hank still held. His throat worked. "And…there…there was already a bullet hole within the compartment."
"There wasn't any blood found," Vince said and he made it sound like that was supposed to be a good thing. Hank tried to feel like it was. "That could have just been a warning shot. Make John move, leave." He tilted back his helmet and glanced behind him at the squad again.
"Two of your boxes are missing," Vince noted.
"The drug box and the IV box," DeSoto reiterated dully. His eyes widened and he looked up. "So this…it was about the drug box?"
"You think it's just a robbery?" Hank asked. He now found himself holding the helmet tightly to his chest. "They were trying to rob the squad?"
"Or," a deep voice interrupted. "Maybe there was no robber." A large barrel-chested man in a dark, rumpled suit approached. He scratched the end of his pen on his head of thinning blonde hair.
Narrowed green eyes studied DeSoto in a way that made Hank's insides boil. "From what I hear, what's in that drug box of yours…could make a pretty penny on the street. Your buddy could have run off to make a fast buck."
Hank didn't need to turn around to know how DeSoto would react.
"He wouldn't do that!" DeSoto bumped against Hank's back. Behind him, his men were saying the same, also surging forward. It felt like he was shoring up against a flashflood.
Hank raised a hand, both to halt the protests behind him and the accusations in front of him. "I can assure you, Detective…"
A meaty hand extended. "Richards."
Hank didn't take it. "Detective Richards, I can vouch for my men, especially John Gage. He's not in this job for a fast buck."
The narrow eyes gentled and a smile curved thinly, changing the detective's face to something more pleasant.
"Yeah," Richards murmured. "You don't go through that many weeks of training to rip off a box of drugs." He crooked a smile. "My baby brother is in Squad 137."
"Then why—" DeSoto exploded.
"Because someone was going to ask that question sooner or later, Roy," Hank interrupted as it dawned on him. He gave DeSoto the helmet back so the paramedic could have something physical to do with his hands before he did something they'll both regret. "Isn't that right, Detective Richards?"
Richards only confirmed it with a curt nod. He looked down at his notepad. "We found this nearby." He lifted up a plastic bag with a note inside. "Can you identify it?"
DeSoto took it and stared at it hard like it was a map. He gulped and passed it to Hank.
"It's from the citation book," DeSoto croaked. "My partner usually carries it."
Sure enough, the crumpled white form was from a citation book. Hank rubbed a thumb lightly across the baggie that held the paper. He frowned at the smudged scrawl. The letters ran together and it took a few squints before the lettering made sense. Sort of.
"'Frog 1G9'?" Hank read. He checked with DeSoto but the other shook his head.
"I can't even tell if it's Johnny's handwriting," DeSoto said. His eyes tracked the note as Richards reclaimed it.
"Found three of these on the street," Richards explained as he pocketed it. "I was hoping it was some firemen's code."
"No." Hank shook his head. "Sorry."
"Yeah, well…" Richards sighed. "We didn't find any blood, minimum signs of a struggle so hopefully it means your man had the sense not to put up much of a fight with his attacker, otherwise…"
"Otherwise?" DeSoto repeated, his voice rising.
Richards glanced at DeSoto then moved his gaze over to Hank before it swung to the squad.
"Why don't you come with me and see if there's anything else missing, Roy?" Vince suddenly suggested.
"Otherwise what?" DeSoto pressed, ignoring the tug on his elbow by Lopez.
"Come on, Roy," Lopez insisted. He threw an arm across DeSoto's shoulders. "Let's check the squad." He managed to steer DeSoto away. Vince followed behind but not before giving Hank a look over his shoulder.
Richards sighed and wrote something in his notepad.
"Otherwise what, Cap?" Kelly spoke up from behind Hank.
Hank pushed back the lump in his throat. "Chet, why don't we search the area and see what we can find?" He hoped he wouldn't find anything. What a thing to pray for but he really hoped to God he wouldn't find anything. Not Johnny. Not like that.
The detective gave Hank a nod, an unreadable dark expression on his face before he excused himself to rejoin the swarm around the squad.
This wasn't a fire, but Lord, the same twisting feeling he gets whenever he sends his men into the devil's mouth was the same.
"Cap?" Kelly was like Boots with a shoe. He just wouldn't let it go. "Otherwise what?"
"Come on," Stoker unexpectedly said. "Let's head up Eighth." He didn't look at Hank as he led Kelly back to Big Red to get some flashlights, but Hank could tell from the stiff shoulders across the turnout coat that Mike Stoker was thinking the same thing.
Please God, don't let us find anything.
Part 3-->
Author's Acknowledgment:This never would have been finished without my beta
ldyanne, who's has to endure grammar tenses, rewrites, major delays and "what if" questions from me. Thank you, babe!Feedback is like cookies. I like cookies. -lol-
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"'Frog 1G9'?" Hank read.
"The car, Roy, remember the CARRRRR!" SBG screamed at her computer screen. "Johnny's telling you something!"
I want more. Now. More power to
PS, you've got a couple tense issues still in the first part (fyi, nothing more), which I can point out in PM if you want. ;)
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LOL. My beta had the same reaction! Always feel free to let me know if something catches your eye. I put my betas through so many versions, things slip by me or were left out when I code them.
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Ooh, chapter three. Tasks first, then read. *chews lip*