FIC: Run (Emergency, Gen, PG 3/10)
Aug. 25th, 2010 07:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mrwubblesTitle: 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, 2/10
…
It sure was dark in here.
At least it was a big car. Buick maybe? Bigger trunk space.
Not that it was anything to cheer about.
John grimaced as the car bounced again. Lord, he hates bad drivers! It felt like it was only a little bump but in here, in the trunk, with his legs and arms folded in front of him like a mummy, it felt more like it ran over a sinkhole.
A bunch of little bumps. Felt like train tracks this time.
Ow ow ow ow ow.
John fumbled around for his citation book again. Elbows and knees bumped and scraped as he wiggled to get what he needed. He scribbled out the words again, wishing for the umpteenth time that he had seen the entire license plate before the kid shoved him in here. He rolled up a sheet in his fist and hoped it was legible. Hoped it made sense. Hoped someone would find it. Preferably Roy.
Bigger bump. This one so hard John hit the top of the trunk hood with the side of his head. Light came back but from behind his eyes. John clamped both hands over his pounding ear.
"Hey!" John hollered and as hard as he could, kicked the backseat repeatedly from the inside with both his feet. "At least respect the speed limit!"
Real dumb, John thought after a moment. Kid has a gun, nervous as heck and now probably peeved at John for all his yelling. John's mouth twisted. And before he could tell himself what a dumb idea it was again, he kicked once more before he shoved the rolled up citation out the rusty hole he made bigger with a piece of metal he found stuck in the bottom of the trunk. He had found it when it scratched him on his back.
Great, he's probably gonna need a tetanus shot after this.
His citation book was halfway used up and the pen he carried with it was no longer working right. The sheets were starting to get wet as John sweated. He couldn't tell how long he’d been in here, but it was heating up. His shirt and his undershirt were half-soaked and bunching up on his back.
There was nothing in the trunk save the metal shard that was embedded in the grimy rug on the trunk bottom. John couldn't tell for sure, but it felt like it was part of a screw. Definitely not strong enough or big enough to be any good to him.
John thought furiously for something, anything and for a brief second, felt irritated to discover that every idea he could come up with would require the assistance of one of the guys at 51. When did that happen? When did John Gage suddenly need someone else to help him? He’d grown too dependent on them.
But boy, he wouldn't mind seeing any of them right now. Even Chet.
The car felt like it was going over gravel, the back wheels skidding and jittering. Occasionally, the muffler coughed and the back bounced in return. John gritted his teeth and covered as much of his head as he could. He felt like he was in a cement tumbler. His arm burned and was most likely bleeding again and his knees felt scoured, skinned despite his trousers. What a time not to be wearing his turnout gear.
When the ride smoothed out, John fumbled out the citation pad, tried to write 'Frog 1G9' again but it felt like he'd written 'Foop 1O8' instead. Damn it. He crumpled it up into a twisted knot of paper anyway and poked it out the hole but just as the paper was pushed out…
The car stopped.
Uh oh.
The hole he made let in a weak beam of daylight. Dawn was creeping up from somewhere. The light blinked when a shadow crossed it. He could hear voices, yelling and the thump of car doors slamming before a shadow blocked the hole completely.
Hurriedly, John crammed his citation book up against the side of the trunk just as the hood lifted. He squinted up at the bulky shadow that stood in front of the sun.
Another face, a meaner one with a scar up his left cheek that gave him a permanent side sneer, glowered down at him. The kid, the one who put him in the trunk, was hunched behind the giant.
John didn't bother to try for a smile. All he could manage was a stare. A few minutes passed as blue eyes considered John and then—oh great—another gun was pulled out and aimed at his head.
"Get out."
Nothing.
Roy found himself holding onto his partner's helmet again and fighting the urge to scowl or throw up. He couldn't tell which urge was stronger.
I shouldn't have left him alone, he thought as he rotated the headgear around in his hands. He sat on the hood of Vince's patrol car, his mind reeling, far too fast for him to nail anything down as the next course of action. There was a bitter taste in his mouth. His hand ached from the memory of how heavy the O2 tank was. He flicked a glance to the people on the street. As a fireman, Roy was used to rubberneckers milling about and gaping. Today though, he felt the urge to shout at them, scatter them away from the scene. What was the matter with him? His jaw worked as he could hear snatches of his captain's conversation with HQ on the HT. Roy diverted his attention to the squad instead.
Bullet slug retrieved, the vehicle was left alone now although there was still a policeman standing guard. The trauma box, the defibrillator, even the biophone were all over the ground.
"What a mess," Chet muttered from behind. He tipped the brim of his hat back with a knuckle. "They say when we can go back in there?"
"Not yet," Roy murmured. He stared at the passenger side door. It felt odd not to be sitting in there, inside the confines of the squad, bumping elbows with Johnny as they kidded and talked. What were they talking about before? It already felt like a long time ago. He was supposed to ask him about dinner tonight when their shift ends because Joanne wanted him to meet Li—Joanne. He should call her. She would want to know. Should he also call John's—
"He's all right."
Roy lifted his heavy head towards Chet. The fireman scratched his mustache with a thumb.
"He's probably walking back over here as we speak." Chet clapped his shoulder. "Guy got the drugs he wanted, ditched Gage at the side of the road. You know how Johnny yaps. That would have turned the guy off."
Roy tried for a smile. He failed. He turned back to the helmet on his lap and swallowed.
"Left him alone by the squad," Roy rasped. "I grabbed the O2 and left my partner there. Alone." Something bubbled up his throat. "And for what? There was no victim here…no heart attack…no 317…" Roy sat up. Chet's mustache had a decided downward tilt. He rounded back his shoulders. He gave Chet a smile he didn't feel.
"You're right…Johnny's okay."
Chet slapped him on the shoulder again but it barely registered on Roy.
The irregular stacks of half-crushed cars stood high above him. They reminded him of the surfaces on Castle Cliffs he and Roy had tackled last month. John didn't stop to compare the crumpled layers of colored metal to the oddly shaped rock formations on Castle Cliffs though. He couldn't. Not with two guns poking him on his back.
"All right, all right," John grumbled when one muzzle prodded him on the back of his neck to raise his hands higher. His drug and IV boxes rattled in the kid's fists behind him, reminding him that he needed to pay attention and stop drifting. He squinted at the sun beating down on him as he was nudged through one turn after the other. His shoulders ached, his shirts stuck to his back and his hair was plastered to his skull. And—as a final insult but he wasn't sure if it was funny or not—John was now also hungry.
Great.
The random pillars of metal opened up and they approached what looked like a tiny structure of corrugated metal piled precariously like a house of cards. The rusty sign, nailed lopsided on top, read 'Carson's Salvage' with the E too washed out that the sign read 'Carson's Salvago'. The place looked like something John would have written a citation for—maybe six—and he couldn't help but note the random violations as he walked past. Acetone wasn't stacked upright, too close to a heating source, they didn't—
"In there." One gun jabbed on his arm, deliberately at the graze.
John clenched his jaw. "Nice place," he bit out. "Yours?"
A fist cuffed the back of his head.
"Just wondering!" John grumbled and he cupped the back of his own head. At least it wasn't hard enough to give him a concussion.
"Well, don't," the older man growled. Whereas the kid was tentative when he tugged John out of the trunk of the car, this guy seemed to relish kicking at John's heels, tripping him, using the gun like a yoke.
"Doug—" the kid began.
"Shut up!"
John frowned. The kid stammered, the equipment rattled again. In the bright glare of day, the boy no longer looked scary, gun or not. Where he was scrawny, Doug towered over him in bulk and height. The only thing they both seemed to have in common were their eyes and the same light brown hair coloring. Now the kid just looked like a kid; a really freaked out kid.
Doug shoved harder at his back with the wordless demand to walk faster.
"Listen. You got the drug box. You could just—" John's knees buckled when something exploded just behind his right ear. He dropped and his forehead touched the ground as he doubled over.
"One more word, pal and you'll be needing those drugs, too," Doug snarled.
"Maybe we shouldn't…I mean, he said he was the only one who knows how to use what's in these things," the kid stuttered. "He may be the only one who can help Jak—"
Beyond the blood roaring in his ears, John could hear the kid cry out as 'Doug' told him to shut up with a meaty smack to his face. What a rotten thing to do, John thought dimly as he flexed his jaw, relieved it didn't feel like it was broken.
A hard metal rod dug deep into the meaty part of his right calf. John tilted his head up and glared at the white twist of the man's face.
"Get up now," Doug said coldly, "or I'll give you a reason why you can't."
John bit back what he wanted to say and levered up to his feet, managing to stagger back only a step when the ground tilted. Hands up again, John steered for the shack—it didn't look stable enough to be called a structure—and skidded to a halt at the sight of the cot at the back of the room, between the file cabinets and short ice box with no door, a creaking fan blowing hot air across the supine figure.
Doug curled a hand around John’s good arm, the gun pressing into his ribs.
"Now you gonna fix our brother with those drugs, paramedic."
Oh boy.
DeSoto stared at the tape recorder like it was a rattler.
"We got this from dispatch," Richards explained as he settled into a chair. He raised an eyebrow at the faces pressed onto the glass window of Hank's door but said nothing. Hank drummed his fingers on his desk as he studied the boxy device.
DeSoto barely glanced at it. "We should be out there looking for him."
Hank swallowed back a sigh. He's heard it all before. Not just from the paramedic, but from the rest of his men since HQ told them to wait in the station. They stayed as long as they could, stayed until the sun rose and a gray sky turned to a cloudless blue. They found nothing—dead or alive. Hank tried to convince his men this was good news, but as the engine rolled back into 51 even Hank couldn't help think of dire predictions.
Fire and emergencies cared nothing about a man down. While Desoto stayed until detectives cleared the squad, a burning traffic accident had sent Engine 51 and Squad 99 to Citrus. There was something wrong with watching DeSoto in his side mirror, standing alone by his squad as they pulled away. When they reunited at the station house, DeSoto looked ready to murder when he was ordered to wait for a relief partner to cover the remaining hours of the shift. Hank felt sorry for whoever HQ was going to send. He would be coming into a cool reception.
The detective tapped the tip of his pen to his lower lip. "We've searched everything within a one mile radius. Nothing. No drug box, no paramedic, no bod—" Richards thankfully didn't finish what he was going to say. "Look, what we have going are these slips of paper and this 911 call."
"'Frog 1G9'?" Hank repeated by heart because after countless times of reading the same scrawl on each crumpled page over and over, he's memorized it. "Any ideas at all, Roy?"
DeSoto shook his head. He stood by the door, arms folded across his chest, looking oddly like Gage, ready to bolt out to the squad at the first bell. Hank wondered if the older paramedic realized he was doing it.
"Then why don't we listen to the 911 call and see if it'll help?" Richards suggested and Hank had to admit, the detective was patient even when everyone around him wasn’t.
The tape recorder cackled and beeped as the LA dispatcher took the next call.
"911…what is your emergency?"
The silence thundered with gasps and coughs before a gravelly voice came on. "I think I'm having…having a heart attack."
"Is there anyone with you, sir?"
Hank grimaced as the caller coughed. He certainly sounded convincing. The supposed victim wheezed as if out of breath.
The call stuttered on tape. "…I'm all alone. I need…I need help. My chest hurts. Send one of them firemen paramedics here. Send them quick."
"Calm down, sir. Where are you located?"
"317 Ninth Lane. H-hurry."
Hank blinked when the detective jammed his thumb on the 'Stop' button. He looked up at DeSoto, who shook his head.
"Tape's too garbled to tell. But it doesn't sound like anyone Johnny and I know," DeSoto said. He pressed a finger to his temple. He stared at the tape recorder as his finger massaged small circles over his right eye. "It sounded like he was certain about the address."
"And he asked specifically for a paramedic. Not an ambulance," Richards added. His face darkened, his brow furrowed. "Not easy to access an ambulance without being in it first."
"So it was deliberate." DeSoto took a deep breath. "Someone called, knowing we’d come to help and they…" DeSoto slapped a hand on his thigh. "As if we didn't have enough to worry about with fires. Now we're targets of every…" DeSoto sucked in his breath.
"What does this mean for my partner?"
Richards rapped his pen on the tape recorder. "We got the original recording to our labs. Maybe—"
"Maybe?" Hank scowled.
The detective sighed as he rose to feet and retrieved the tape recorder. "There's not much to go on and it's been five hours since…" Richards met DeSoto's wide gaze then averted his gaze to Hank.
"We're doing everything we can," Richards promised.
"Find him," Hank said, his eyes steady on Richards. His gut churned like it just had Chet's firemen stew again. "All we ask is that you find our man."
The detective looked like he wanted to say something more but he just nodded with a wan smile and left. The men by the door scattered as soon as it opened.
Hank leaned into his chair and wondered when did fire become the least of their problems.
"I never should have left him, Cap."
Hank lifted his gaze. "Roy…" but DeSoto was already gone. He stared at the empty doorway, Lopez standing in the middle of the garage. His arm was mid-air, left hanging after he had called after DeSoto and was ignored.
Kelly tentatively poked his head into his office. "So what we gonna do now, Cap?"
Hank thrummed fingers lightly over his aching brow and suddenly felt really old.
Then the tones warbled out. Structure fire on Wolcott. Dammit.
Crouched by the unconscious man's head, John rolled back the man's sleeves to get a pulse and froze at the old needle marks and collapsed veins on the paper dry skin.
"What's he using?" John asked sharply as he held the thin, bruised arm with both hands. Geez…
"It doesn't matter," Doug snapped and gave John another push. "Help him!"
"It matters because anything I give him could kill him!" John ground out as he slipped two fingers on the carotid. He couldn't get a decent reading from the upper extremities.
The body shuddered and bloodshot blue eyes cracked open. "H-heroin," he wheezed. "B…but I…" A tremor rippled through the body and John could have sworn the beat under his fingers skipped. "I quit…tried…"
Cold tickled down his back as John slipped his stethoscope on. He stopped and bit back a curse.
"W-what?" The teen, crouched on the other side of the cot, leaned over anxiously.
"My pressure cuff," John muttered. He gazed up at a pair of wide eyes. Same color as his patient, but paler with fear not pain.
"I need his blood pressure but the cuff is in the other box…back with my squad," John explained. He yelped when Doug roughly tugged his collar from behind.
"He don't need his blood pressure taken. You're not a doctor. He just needs drugs." The snarl by his left ear reeked of sour bourbon and just bad breath.
John grimaced and he yanked free, dropping back down on his knees by his patient. "Listen, I can't give him anything without knowing if it's safe or not! Anything I got might interact badly and—hey, don't mess with that!" John slapped away Doug's hands from the drug box. "You can't just fool around with that stuff!" John kept his fingers on the erratic beat even as he tried to meet Doug's face, then the kid's. "He needs a hospital."
If anything, Doug looked like he was considering taking the IV box and beating John to the ground with it.
"D-doug," the teen whimpered. "What if he's right?"
Doug rapped his head with the heel of the hand holding the gun.
"Doug…"
"Shut up," Doug muttered. He smacked his lips together over and over as he paced a short line besides the cot. Abruptly, he spun on his heels.
"Where you going?" The teen sprang to his feet.
"Need to think," Doug grumbled as he reached the door.
"But—"
Doug suddenly twisted around and strode back to John before he could react. John grunted when Doug dug the tip of his gun into his ribs.
"You stay right here," Doug snarled into his ear. The gun poked deeper and John gritted his teeth at the bruising pressure. "I see you step out of here, I'll shoot both your kneecaps off. You got me?" When John didn't answer, Doug curled fingers right over his graze. "You got me?"
"Yeah," John snapped as he wrenched away from the larger man. "I got you!"
Doug grunted. He appeared more amused than annoyed at John's struggle. He flicked a glare at the boy across from John. "Watch him. Yell if he tries something. Use that damn gun I gave you." He didn't give them another glance as he stormed out.
John gritted his teeth as he probed the cut on his arm. Thankfully, it wasn't too deep but ouch! He avoided touching the area directly. The edges looked red, but luckily there was only minor bleeding. Clots were already trying to form to seal the wound. He'd probably still need a tetanus shot though. Man, this was nothing like the movies!
"I'm sorry."
John lifted his head. The youth bit his lower lip. He didn't look as threatening as he did before.
"I remember seeing some bandages in your stuff. Do you need to use them?"
With a smile he normally used with victims coming to inside the ambulance, John tried to imagine it was another accident victim he was trying to calm on the way to Rampart.
"It's fine," John told him quietly. "It isn't too deep. Won't even scar."
"Oh, t-that's good." The boy looked about ready to cry again.
"What's your name?"
"Huh?" The kid started. "Me?"
John nodded, keeping the smile on his face. The guy was what? John had originally thought twenties, but now he was thinking seventeen? Eighteen? "Well yeah. I know this is Jake." John indicated to the cot. Jake had lapsed into unconsciousness again. Not good. "And Mr. Personality who just left," John said in a dry tone, "was Doug."
There was a tentative quirk of the mouth at the mention of Doug. "Stevie. Stevie Car—" Stevie's eyes widened and his mouth snapped shut.
"All right, Stevie," John murmured. Good ole Doug probably warned him against names. "I'm John Gage. Okay?" He took a deep breath. Here goes nothing...
"Listen," John tried, his voice lowering to a steady lull. He tried to sound sure, tried to sound like his partner. "Heroin's heavy stuff. I'm not a doctor but I’ve seen enough to know we can't just mess around here. Your brother here needs more than drugs. He needs a hospital."
Stevie ducked his head. He absently stroked Jake's shoulder.
"Jake said no hospitals," Stevie whispered. "They gonna put him away again once they find out who he is."
John's brows knitted. "Who he is?"
Wordlessly, Stevie tugged down Jake's collar to show a tiny eagle tattoo just under the clavicle. John's eyebrows rose and he gave a low whistle.
"Army, huh?"
"Marine," Stevie corrected him, a hint of pride in his voice. He eyed the door and fidgeted. "Doug said it was a waste of time. Jake didn’t listen to him. Signed up anyway."
John set the stethoscope's bell under Jake's shirt. "Vietnam?" he murmured as he listened.
"It messed him up," the younger man sighed.
John grimaced. "Sorry."
"Jake's a hero though," Stevie added fiercely.
John glanced up briefly from his concentration to the stethoscope. "I'm sure he is," John murmured. Stevie gave him a watery smile.
The ragged breathing had given John a funny feeling in his stomach before. Now listening more closely, John could hear the tiny bubbling crackling in his ears. His jaw set but he relaxed his expression as soon as he was aware of it. Rales. Damn.
"What is it?"
John inwardly winced. Stevie caught his look anyway. "Stevie," John said carefully. He made sure he used the kid's name. "How long has your brother been sick?"
Stevie ducked his head. Limp hair swept forward, concealing his eyes, but John caught him gnawing his lower lip.
"He was trying to quit," Stevie fumbled, "Jake didn't do drugs before, you know? But then he got back and…" Stevie sniffed. "But he was doing better with us. Doug said so. Theys got something different when we couldn't buy what Jake needed anymore. Jake said it helped."
"Stevie," John repeated, his stomach growing heavy with dread. "What did your brother get him?"
John already knew the answer the moment Stevie swung his eyes over to his drug box. Still, the word made his insides clenched.
"Morphine."
Part 4-->
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, 2/10
…
It sure was dark in here.
At least it was a big car. Buick maybe? Bigger trunk space.
Not that it was anything to cheer about.
John grimaced as the car bounced again. Lord, he hates bad drivers! It felt like it was only a little bump but in here, in the trunk, with his legs and arms folded in front of him like a mummy, it felt more like it ran over a sinkhole.
A bunch of little bumps. Felt like train tracks this time.
Ow ow ow ow ow.
John fumbled around for his citation book again. Elbows and knees bumped and scraped as he wiggled to get what he needed. He scribbled out the words again, wishing for the umpteenth time that he had seen the entire license plate before the kid shoved him in here. He rolled up a sheet in his fist and hoped it was legible. Hoped it made sense. Hoped someone would find it. Preferably Roy.
Bigger bump. This one so hard John hit the top of the trunk hood with the side of his head. Light came back but from behind his eyes. John clamped both hands over his pounding ear.
"Hey!" John hollered and as hard as he could, kicked the backseat repeatedly from the inside with both his feet. "At least respect the speed limit!"
Real dumb, John thought after a moment. Kid has a gun, nervous as heck and now probably peeved at John for all his yelling. John's mouth twisted. And before he could tell himself what a dumb idea it was again, he kicked once more before he shoved the rolled up citation out the rusty hole he made bigger with a piece of metal he found stuck in the bottom of the trunk. He had found it when it scratched him on his back.
Great, he's probably gonna need a tetanus shot after this.
His citation book was halfway used up and the pen he carried with it was no longer working right. The sheets were starting to get wet as John sweated. He couldn't tell how long he’d been in here, but it was heating up. His shirt and his undershirt were half-soaked and bunching up on his back.
There was nothing in the trunk save the metal shard that was embedded in the grimy rug on the trunk bottom. John couldn't tell for sure, but it felt like it was part of a screw. Definitely not strong enough or big enough to be any good to him.
John thought furiously for something, anything and for a brief second, felt irritated to discover that every idea he could come up with would require the assistance of one of the guys at 51. When did that happen? When did John Gage suddenly need someone else to help him? He’d grown too dependent on them.
But boy, he wouldn't mind seeing any of them right now. Even Chet.
The car felt like it was going over gravel, the back wheels skidding and jittering. Occasionally, the muffler coughed and the back bounced in return. John gritted his teeth and covered as much of his head as he could. He felt like he was in a cement tumbler. His arm burned and was most likely bleeding again and his knees felt scoured, skinned despite his trousers. What a time not to be wearing his turnout gear.
When the ride smoothed out, John fumbled out the citation pad, tried to write 'Frog 1G9' again but it felt like he'd written 'Foop 1O8' instead. Damn it. He crumpled it up into a twisted knot of paper anyway and poked it out the hole but just as the paper was pushed out…
The car stopped.
Uh oh.
The hole he made let in a weak beam of daylight. Dawn was creeping up from somewhere. The light blinked when a shadow crossed it. He could hear voices, yelling and the thump of car doors slamming before a shadow blocked the hole completely.
Hurriedly, John crammed his citation book up against the side of the trunk just as the hood lifted. He squinted up at the bulky shadow that stood in front of the sun.
Another face, a meaner one with a scar up his left cheek that gave him a permanent side sneer, glowered down at him. The kid, the one who put him in the trunk, was hunched behind the giant.
John didn't bother to try for a smile. All he could manage was a stare. A few minutes passed as blue eyes considered John and then—oh great—another gun was pulled out and aimed at his head.
"Get out."
Nothing.
Roy found himself holding onto his partner's helmet again and fighting the urge to scowl or throw up. He couldn't tell which urge was stronger.
I shouldn't have left him alone, he thought as he rotated the headgear around in his hands. He sat on the hood of Vince's patrol car, his mind reeling, far too fast for him to nail anything down as the next course of action. There was a bitter taste in his mouth. His hand ached from the memory of how heavy the O2 tank was. He flicked a glance to the people on the street. As a fireman, Roy was used to rubberneckers milling about and gaping. Today though, he felt the urge to shout at them, scatter them away from the scene. What was the matter with him? His jaw worked as he could hear snatches of his captain's conversation with HQ on the HT. Roy diverted his attention to the squad instead.
Bullet slug retrieved, the vehicle was left alone now although there was still a policeman standing guard. The trauma box, the defibrillator, even the biophone were all over the ground.
"What a mess," Chet muttered from behind. He tipped the brim of his hat back with a knuckle. "They say when we can go back in there?"
"Not yet," Roy murmured. He stared at the passenger side door. It felt odd not to be sitting in there, inside the confines of the squad, bumping elbows with Johnny as they kidded and talked. What were they talking about before? It already felt like a long time ago. He was supposed to ask him about dinner tonight when their shift ends because Joanne wanted him to meet Li—Joanne. He should call her. She would want to know. Should he also call John's—
"He's all right."
Roy lifted his heavy head towards Chet. The fireman scratched his mustache with a thumb.
"He's probably walking back over here as we speak." Chet clapped his shoulder. "Guy got the drugs he wanted, ditched Gage at the side of the road. You know how Johnny yaps. That would have turned the guy off."
Roy tried for a smile. He failed. He turned back to the helmet on his lap and swallowed.
"Left him alone by the squad," Roy rasped. "I grabbed the O2 and left my partner there. Alone." Something bubbled up his throat. "And for what? There was no victim here…no heart attack…no 317…" Roy sat up. Chet's mustache had a decided downward tilt. He rounded back his shoulders. He gave Chet a smile he didn't feel.
"You're right…Johnny's okay."
Chet slapped him on the shoulder again but it barely registered on Roy.
The irregular stacks of half-crushed cars stood high above him. They reminded him of the surfaces on Castle Cliffs he and Roy had tackled last month. John didn't stop to compare the crumpled layers of colored metal to the oddly shaped rock formations on Castle Cliffs though. He couldn't. Not with two guns poking him on his back.
"All right, all right," John grumbled when one muzzle prodded him on the back of his neck to raise his hands higher. His drug and IV boxes rattled in the kid's fists behind him, reminding him that he needed to pay attention and stop drifting. He squinted at the sun beating down on him as he was nudged through one turn after the other. His shoulders ached, his shirts stuck to his back and his hair was plastered to his skull. And—as a final insult but he wasn't sure if it was funny or not—John was now also hungry.
Great.
The random pillars of metal opened up and they approached what looked like a tiny structure of corrugated metal piled precariously like a house of cards. The rusty sign, nailed lopsided on top, read 'Carson's Salvage' with the E too washed out that the sign read 'Carson's Salvago'. The place looked like something John would have written a citation for—maybe six—and he couldn't help but note the random violations as he walked past. Acetone wasn't stacked upright, too close to a heating source, they didn't—
"In there." One gun jabbed on his arm, deliberately at the graze.
John clenched his jaw. "Nice place," he bit out. "Yours?"
A fist cuffed the back of his head.
"Just wondering!" John grumbled and he cupped the back of his own head. At least it wasn't hard enough to give him a concussion.
"Well, don't," the older man growled. Whereas the kid was tentative when he tugged John out of the trunk of the car, this guy seemed to relish kicking at John's heels, tripping him, using the gun like a yoke.
"Doug—" the kid began.
"Shut up!"
John frowned. The kid stammered, the equipment rattled again. In the bright glare of day, the boy no longer looked scary, gun or not. Where he was scrawny, Doug towered over him in bulk and height. The only thing they both seemed to have in common were their eyes and the same light brown hair coloring. Now the kid just looked like a kid; a really freaked out kid.
Doug shoved harder at his back with the wordless demand to walk faster.
"Listen. You got the drug box. You could just—" John's knees buckled when something exploded just behind his right ear. He dropped and his forehead touched the ground as he doubled over.
"One more word, pal and you'll be needing those drugs, too," Doug snarled.
"Maybe we shouldn't…I mean, he said he was the only one who knows how to use what's in these things," the kid stuttered. "He may be the only one who can help Jak—"
Beyond the blood roaring in his ears, John could hear the kid cry out as 'Doug' told him to shut up with a meaty smack to his face. What a rotten thing to do, John thought dimly as he flexed his jaw, relieved it didn't feel like it was broken.
A hard metal rod dug deep into the meaty part of his right calf. John tilted his head up and glared at the white twist of the man's face.
"Get up now," Doug said coldly, "or I'll give you a reason why you can't."
John bit back what he wanted to say and levered up to his feet, managing to stagger back only a step when the ground tilted. Hands up again, John steered for the shack—it didn't look stable enough to be called a structure—and skidded to a halt at the sight of the cot at the back of the room, between the file cabinets and short ice box with no door, a creaking fan blowing hot air across the supine figure.
Doug curled a hand around John’s good arm, the gun pressing into his ribs.
"Now you gonna fix our brother with those drugs, paramedic."
Oh boy.
DeSoto stared at the tape recorder like it was a rattler.
"We got this from dispatch," Richards explained as he settled into a chair. He raised an eyebrow at the faces pressed onto the glass window of Hank's door but said nothing. Hank drummed his fingers on his desk as he studied the boxy device.
DeSoto barely glanced at it. "We should be out there looking for him."
Hank swallowed back a sigh. He's heard it all before. Not just from the paramedic, but from the rest of his men since HQ told them to wait in the station. They stayed as long as they could, stayed until the sun rose and a gray sky turned to a cloudless blue. They found nothing—dead or alive. Hank tried to convince his men this was good news, but as the engine rolled back into 51 even Hank couldn't help think of dire predictions.
Fire and emergencies cared nothing about a man down. While Desoto stayed until detectives cleared the squad, a burning traffic accident had sent Engine 51 and Squad 99 to Citrus. There was something wrong with watching DeSoto in his side mirror, standing alone by his squad as they pulled away. When they reunited at the station house, DeSoto looked ready to murder when he was ordered to wait for a relief partner to cover the remaining hours of the shift. Hank felt sorry for whoever HQ was going to send. He would be coming into a cool reception.
The detective tapped the tip of his pen to his lower lip. "We've searched everything within a one mile radius. Nothing. No drug box, no paramedic, no bod—" Richards thankfully didn't finish what he was going to say. "Look, what we have going are these slips of paper and this 911 call."
"'Frog 1G9'?" Hank repeated by heart because after countless times of reading the same scrawl on each crumpled page over and over, he's memorized it. "Any ideas at all, Roy?"
DeSoto shook his head. He stood by the door, arms folded across his chest, looking oddly like Gage, ready to bolt out to the squad at the first bell. Hank wondered if the older paramedic realized he was doing it.
"Then why don't we listen to the 911 call and see if it'll help?" Richards suggested and Hank had to admit, the detective was patient even when everyone around him wasn’t.
The tape recorder cackled and beeped as the LA dispatcher took the next call.
"911…what is your emergency?"
The silence thundered with gasps and coughs before a gravelly voice came on. "I think I'm having…having a heart attack."
"Is there anyone with you, sir?"
Hank grimaced as the caller coughed. He certainly sounded convincing. The supposed victim wheezed as if out of breath.
The call stuttered on tape. "…I'm all alone. I need…I need help. My chest hurts. Send one of them firemen paramedics here. Send them quick."
"Calm down, sir. Where are you located?"
"317 Ninth Lane. H-hurry."
Hank blinked when the detective jammed his thumb on the 'Stop' button. He looked up at DeSoto, who shook his head.
"Tape's too garbled to tell. But it doesn't sound like anyone Johnny and I know," DeSoto said. He pressed a finger to his temple. He stared at the tape recorder as his finger massaged small circles over his right eye. "It sounded like he was certain about the address."
"And he asked specifically for a paramedic. Not an ambulance," Richards added. His face darkened, his brow furrowed. "Not easy to access an ambulance without being in it first."
"So it was deliberate." DeSoto took a deep breath. "Someone called, knowing we’d come to help and they…" DeSoto slapped a hand on his thigh. "As if we didn't have enough to worry about with fires. Now we're targets of every…" DeSoto sucked in his breath.
"What does this mean for my partner?"
Richards rapped his pen on the tape recorder. "We got the original recording to our labs. Maybe—"
"Maybe?" Hank scowled.
The detective sighed as he rose to feet and retrieved the tape recorder. "There's not much to go on and it's been five hours since…" Richards met DeSoto's wide gaze then averted his gaze to Hank.
"We're doing everything we can," Richards promised.
"Find him," Hank said, his eyes steady on Richards. His gut churned like it just had Chet's firemen stew again. "All we ask is that you find our man."
The detective looked like he wanted to say something more but he just nodded with a wan smile and left. The men by the door scattered as soon as it opened.
Hank leaned into his chair and wondered when did fire become the least of their problems.
"I never should have left him, Cap."
Hank lifted his gaze. "Roy…" but DeSoto was already gone. He stared at the empty doorway, Lopez standing in the middle of the garage. His arm was mid-air, left hanging after he had called after DeSoto and was ignored.
Kelly tentatively poked his head into his office. "So what we gonna do now, Cap?"
Hank thrummed fingers lightly over his aching brow and suddenly felt really old.
Then the tones warbled out. Structure fire on Wolcott. Dammit.
Crouched by the unconscious man's head, John rolled back the man's sleeves to get a pulse and froze at the old needle marks and collapsed veins on the paper dry skin.
"What's he using?" John asked sharply as he held the thin, bruised arm with both hands. Geez…
"It doesn't matter," Doug snapped and gave John another push. "Help him!"
"It matters because anything I give him could kill him!" John ground out as he slipped two fingers on the carotid. He couldn't get a decent reading from the upper extremities.
The body shuddered and bloodshot blue eyes cracked open. "H-heroin," he wheezed. "B…but I…" A tremor rippled through the body and John could have sworn the beat under his fingers skipped. "I quit…tried…"
Cold tickled down his back as John slipped his stethoscope on. He stopped and bit back a curse.
"W-what?" The teen, crouched on the other side of the cot, leaned over anxiously.
"My pressure cuff," John muttered. He gazed up at a pair of wide eyes. Same color as his patient, but paler with fear not pain.
"I need his blood pressure but the cuff is in the other box…back with my squad," John explained. He yelped when Doug roughly tugged his collar from behind.
"He don't need his blood pressure taken. You're not a doctor. He just needs drugs." The snarl by his left ear reeked of sour bourbon and just bad breath.
John grimaced and he yanked free, dropping back down on his knees by his patient. "Listen, I can't give him anything without knowing if it's safe or not! Anything I got might interact badly and—hey, don't mess with that!" John slapped away Doug's hands from the drug box. "You can't just fool around with that stuff!" John kept his fingers on the erratic beat even as he tried to meet Doug's face, then the kid's. "He needs a hospital."
If anything, Doug looked like he was considering taking the IV box and beating John to the ground with it.
"D-doug," the teen whimpered. "What if he's right?"
Doug rapped his head with the heel of the hand holding the gun.
"Doug…"
"Shut up," Doug muttered. He smacked his lips together over and over as he paced a short line besides the cot. Abruptly, he spun on his heels.
"Where you going?" The teen sprang to his feet.
"Need to think," Doug grumbled as he reached the door.
"But—"
Doug suddenly twisted around and strode back to John before he could react. John grunted when Doug dug the tip of his gun into his ribs.
"You stay right here," Doug snarled into his ear. The gun poked deeper and John gritted his teeth at the bruising pressure. "I see you step out of here, I'll shoot both your kneecaps off. You got me?" When John didn't answer, Doug curled fingers right over his graze. "You got me?"
"Yeah," John snapped as he wrenched away from the larger man. "I got you!"
Doug grunted. He appeared more amused than annoyed at John's struggle. He flicked a glare at the boy across from John. "Watch him. Yell if he tries something. Use that damn gun I gave you." He didn't give them another glance as he stormed out.
John gritted his teeth as he probed the cut on his arm. Thankfully, it wasn't too deep but ouch! He avoided touching the area directly. The edges looked red, but luckily there was only minor bleeding. Clots were already trying to form to seal the wound. He'd probably still need a tetanus shot though. Man, this was nothing like the movies!
"I'm sorry."
John lifted his head. The youth bit his lower lip. He didn't look as threatening as he did before.
"I remember seeing some bandages in your stuff. Do you need to use them?"
With a smile he normally used with victims coming to inside the ambulance, John tried to imagine it was another accident victim he was trying to calm on the way to Rampart.
"It's fine," John told him quietly. "It isn't too deep. Won't even scar."
"Oh, t-that's good." The boy looked about ready to cry again.
"What's your name?"
"Huh?" The kid started. "Me?"
John nodded, keeping the smile on his face. The guy was what? John had originally thought twenties, but now he was thinking seventeen? Eighteen? "Well yeah. I know this is Jake." John indicated to the cot. Jake had lapsed into unconsciousness again. Not good. "And Mr. Personality who just left," John said in a dry tone, "was Doug."
There was a tentative quirk of the mouth at the mention of Doug. "Stevie. Stevie Car—" Stevie's eyes widened and his mouth snapped shut.
"All right, Stevie," John murmured. Good ole Doug probably warned him against names. "I'm John Gage. Okay?" He took a deep breath. Here goes nothing...
"Listen," John tried, his voice lowering to a steady lull. He tried to sound sure, tried to sound like his partner. "Heroin's heavy stuff. I'm not a doctor but I’ve seen enough to know we can't just mess around here. Your brother here needs more than drugs. He needs a hospital."
Stevie ducked his head. He absently stroked Jake's shoulder.
"Jake said no hospitals," Stevie whispered. "They gonna put him away again once they find out who he is."
John's brows knitted. "Who he is?"
Wordlessly, Stevie tugged down Jake's collar to show a tiny eagle tattoo just under the clavicle. John's eyebrows rose and he gave a low whistle.
"Army, huh?"
"Marine," Stevie corrected him, a hint of pride in his voice. He eyed the door and fidgeted. "Doug said it was a waste of time. Jake didn’t listen to him. Signed up anyway."
John set the stethoscope's bell under Jake's shirt. "Vietnam?" he murmured as he listened.
"It messed him up," the younger man sighed.
John grimaced. "Sorry."
"Jake's a hero though," Stevie added fiercely.
John glanced up briefly from his concentration to the stethoscope. "I'm sure he is," John murmured. Stevie gave him a watery smile.
The ragged breathing had given John a funny feeling in his stomach before. Now listening more closely, John could hear the tiny bubbling crackling in his ears. His jaw set but he relaxed his expression as soon as he was aware of it. Rales. Damn.
"What is it?"
John inwardly winced. Stevie caught his look anyway. "Stevie," John said carefully. He made sure he used the kid's name. "How long has your brother been sick?"
Stevie ducked his head. Limp hair swept forward, concealing his eyes, but John caught him gnawing his lower lip.
"He was trying to quit," Stevie fumbled, "Jake didn't do drugs before, you know? But then he got back and…" Stevie sniffed. "But he was doing better with us. Doug said so. Theys got something different when we couldn't buy what Jake needed anymore. Jake said it helped."
"Stevie," John repeated, his stomach growing heavy with dread. "What did your brother get him?"
John already knew the answer the moment Stevie swung his eyes over to his drug box. Still, the word made his insides clenched.
"Morphine."
Part 4-->
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-
