Every Mother's Son

By Peg Keeley

Part 2

Danny walked out of the hotel, across the courtyard towards Steve's car, still practicing in his mind what to say. For the first time, he wondered if Steve would be angry with him for interfering. It seemed better than having Chaney appear in Five-O with his wild proclamations.

"Danno!" Steve called to him as they approached. "What's all this cloak and dagger about?"

Robert lined up his cross hairs on Steve's chest. McGarrett and Williams were walking side by side and it was hard to stay on target. This has to be good. I may get only one chance. Don't miss.

"This is pretty strange," Danny began, uncomfortably. He stopped walking, and when he did, so did Steve.

Now! Robert pulled the trigger.

"It's about-" Danny turned to face Steve. The same instant there was a shot. Danny was thrown against McGarrett. Steve left a white-hot searing pain in his left arm as they both landed on the ground. For an instant, he thought Danno had pushed him down. But Williams was limp and then Steve saw the rapidly growing blood stain on the back of the gray sports jacket.

"My God," he uttered, ducking for cover behind the stone wall and dragging Danny with him. Less than fifteen seconds had elapsed since the shot.

Robert knew he had missed his mark. "NO! NO!" he screamed and in rage, flipping the automatic on the AK47 and firing in fury on the stone walled garden. Lead pounded into the rock face, the plants, and dirt. People down below were screaming and running.

McGarrett crouched low behind the wall, rolled Danny onto his back. The bullet entrance had been just left of his spine in his upper back. McGarrett tore open the shirt. The exit through Danny's chest was also left-sided and nearly three inches in diameter. Air bubbled through oozing blood and, with each gasping breath, only the right side of his chest rose. There was a peculiar sucking sound as air was pulled in through the wound. Steve knew he'd live only minutes without medical attention. Already Danny had paled to an ashen gray and his lips were turning blue. Steve fumbled with a handkerchief, attempting to make some kind of seal against the leaking air. If the collecting air and blood collapsed the other lung, Danno would die. Steve's left arm felt like fire and he noticed blood dripping from the cuff of his shirt. He could hear sirens approaching from the distance as he slowly pulled off his jacket. The shirtsleeve was saturated with blood. He took off his belt and used it to tourniquet his arm above the bullet wound.

A black and white squad car streaked around the corner into full view.

"No! No!" Steve waved them back. They were too close, in perfect line of the sniper. Even as he attempted to warn them, the gunman opened fire with the machine gun. The windows in the squad care fragmented, and the bubble light exploded. The car came to a rolling stop ten yards away from McGarrett, with Steve still between the sniper and the vehicle. On the far side, the driver's door opened and the officer hit the ground. McGarrett could see him clutching his radio and hear his voice edged in panic. "Officer down! Officer needs assistance! Central, help!" He was young, probably a rookie.

Steve, huddled by the wall, called quietly to him. "Officer, you all right?"

"My partner," he called back.

By the amount of blood and glass on the passenger side, Steve could tell that the young officer's senior partner was most likely dead. "Can you toss your radio out here?"

The officer tried to get closer by crawling under the car.

"Careful, careful," McGarrett cautioned.

He flung radio out, but it landed far short. There was a single gun blast. Both McGarrett and the officer ducked down; the radio shattered into pieces.

This guy's good, Steve thought, already analyzing what little bits of information he had. Professional? Military training? Why? Who is he? What does he have to gain?

Other units were pulling up around the corner, a respectful distance away. McGarrett could see them, but the gunman couldn't. Duke and a swat officer were pointing and gesturing, but Steve couldn't hear the words. Bulletproof-vested swat officers hurried away around the back of the hotel.

Duke viewed the scene. HPD Chief Paulua's car pulled up with a shriek. "Lukela," he called to Duke. "They tell me I've got a unit with a rookie cop pinned down."

"You've got more than that," Duke replied, pointing. "Steve and Danny are pinned down behind that concrete planter. Your officer is under his car--I think. He's the one that reported an officer down. That was about three minutes after the 911 call from the hotel. The shooter's been quiet, but I'm pretty sure he's still up there."

Paulua squinted through field glasses. "We've got more than once officer down."

There was a new burst of gunfire; everyone ducked instinctively. Bullets traced around the concrete garden for several seconds, the palm in the center slowly bent and toppled over.

In his room, Robert was wild. Nothing was going right. He needed a plan. He stopped to glare at the image in the mirror. I can do this! I can do this! This last exchange convinced him he could not penetrate the concrete protection. He needed to get to be better location. McGarrett couldn't stay hidden forever. How long can I wait? Surely the police are already trying to find me, perhaps room to room. It wasn't supposed to go like this.

Below the swat officer commented to Duke: "This isn't random. He wants McGarrett. We've got to keep him from moving to a better location." He picked up his two way and spoke to his unseen team. "I make it fourth floor, midsection. Evacuate everybody in the place and notify me when secure. Keep him contained. But stay away from that fourth floor, let's not spook him into shooting up a bunch of tourists."

"That'll take time," Duke commented.

Ben came over from his car. "Jenny says Danny went to see a guy named Robert Chaney in the Royal Surf. Room 403."

"He's got to be our man," Duke agreed.

The police negotiator patched his phone in.

Robert jumped as the phone gave a shrill ring. He stared at it dumfounded for a moment. They were on to him. How much time would he have? It kept ringing. He stared out at the courtyard again.

"He's not answering."

"Let it ring," Paulua ordered.

Duke bit his lip, his attention on the figures huddled behind the concrete wall. Paulua's people were looking at the situation, not at the victims. McGarrett might be a seasoned officer, but right now he was still a victim, there were injuries, and he needed to be reassured. "We need a way to make contact with Steve and let him know we're doing all we can. Evacuating that hotel will be awhile," he told Ben. He hurried to the back of his car and opened the trunk. From a paper bag, he pulled out a new skateboard, ripped off the plastic wrapper. "My son's birthday gift," he remarked to Ben. "Get me a radio unit." In seconds Ben was back, two way radio in hand. Duke pulled off his tie and used it to secure the radio to the skateboard.

"A long shot, Brudder," Ben said.

It was 25 yards to McGarrett, but Duke hoped the slight slope of the pavement would help. "Here goes nothing." He gave the skateboard a shove and it scooted out, trailing the tie.

McGarrett looked up as the board sped towards him. There was a series of single shots as the sniper fired at it, but missed. Steve lunged out for it with his good right arm and a bullet struck the pavement next to him. He quickly pulled the radio from the board. "My compliments, Duke," were his first words over the radio.

"What's your status, Steve?" Paulua's voice came back.

"One officer in the car probably dead. One under the car all right. Williams is critical, we need to get him out of here soon or we'll lose him. You'd better get a thoracic surgeon out here. What's the game plan?" He glanced down at Danny. He was failing fast. His breath gurgled in his throat as he struggled to breathe. The attempts were getting feebler and his pulse was weak and racing. Steve realized he'd missed part of Paulua's reply. "Repeat that," he asked.

"The swat team is evacuating the building," Paulua repeated. "We can't make voice contact with the gunman, so we'll have to flush him out. May take another 10 minutes or so."

"We haven't got ten minutes," Steve replied hotly. "Can they get the guests into main corridors away from windows?"

"McGarrett, it's a big place," the swat lieutenant broke in. "We're doing the best we can."

Ben's voice broke in. "Steve, the surgeon's on his way."

"Yeah, Ben." He released the button. His fingers on his left hand were numb. He released the belt for a moment. He was exhausted and knew he was losing blood, too. Everything became quiet. McGarrett glanced down. The gurgling sounds had stopped. So had Danno's breathing. In horror, he groped for a carotid pulse. There was nothing. Pure emotion waved over him. He could not let this happen. "Don't you do this!" he shouted at the unconscious form. He grabbed the radio. "I need to break for it now!" he yelled.

"You can't-" Paulua started to protest, but could see McGarrett was already trying to get Williams up off the ground.

An EMT broke in on the radio. "McGarrett, you move him, you'll kill him."

"I've got nothing to lose." He dropped the radio and pulled Danny up over his shoulder. Blood poured out of the chest wound down McGarrett's back. He staggered to his knees. The swat team opened fire on the sniper's window as Paulua prayed the tourists had been cleared and Duke prayed for a miracle. Steve started to run as best as he could. Shots seemed to blaze everywhere. The distance was closing. Korea, repeating itself, he thought. The pain, the smell of blood and gunpowder. Halfway there. His own blood pounded in his ears, every muscle strained to keep moving.

Ten yards to go. McGarrett felt a sudden explosive pain in his right hip and went down.

Ben and a paramedic jumped out into the thick of the firefight, each grabbed a man and pulled them to safety. McGarrett gestured Ben to leave him at the step of the ambulance as the medics lay Danny out inside. Steve felt oddly detached from everything around him. Officers were shouting orders amongst gunshots outside. Inside, a medic slapped electrodes onto Dan's chest.

"No respiration, no BP, no pulse," one stated levelly.

"Cardiac standstill," a second reported.

"Let's defib and see what happens." The third flipped a switch. "Clear." The defibrillator discharged. Danny's body jumped. All eyes shifted to the monitor. It blipped once, then straight-lined again.

"Bicarb! Epi!" the first said, opening syringes.

"Got no IV," the second reminded him.

"Then get one! Put the Epi down the trach tube," he shouted at the third.

"Not yet." The third man, up at the head of the gurney, had inserted a laryngoscope down Danny's throat to try to insert an airway. "Suction. I can't see a damned thing for all this blood."

A young man entered and stepped over McGarrett as though he wasn't there. "Get me a thoracentesis tray and suction." He ordered the medics. "You don't get O2 in there, you'll get nothing else." He flipped Danny to his right side like a rag doll. "Come on, hustle, folks. The clock is running here."

McGarrett felt awash in hopelessness. He struggled to follow what was happening, but exhaustion and blood loss were taking their toll. There was another siren now, voices calling out. More gunfire. He needed to do something but couldn't move. His arm grew numb again and he lacked the strength to loosen the tourniquet. The void of unconsciousness was closing over him but he could still hear voices...."...Still searching, he's not on the roof..."..."this way, this way!"..."Another 50cc syringe..."…"Rib splitters, let's crack this chest…"…"Basement is clear…"…"Hey! Keep an eye on those elevators!"…"I'll try direct cardiac massage…"

Steve roused slightly as someone touched him. "McGarrett," a quiet voice said.

He could not speak, just moaned.

"We're gonna get you fixed up, man."

He used the last of his energy to force his eyes open. He looked past the EMT kneeling before him. All he could see was the monitor with its straight line.

"This is hopeless," said a voice of despair from without or within.

As everything drifted away, he suddenly could see Chin Ho Kelly, as he had laid dead in front of their office two years ago. Then there was nothing.

Steve opened his eyes and waited momentarily for the world to come into focus. He was where he knew he'd be--a hospital bed. He ached all over.

"Steve," said a soft, feminine voice.

He turned to the sound. "Suzy?"

The young oriental woman, Suzy Kelley, smiled and put aside her book. "How do you feel?"

"Why are you here?"

"Ben called me. He said you were calling out daddy's name. He thought--" she stopped. "I'm glad to be here."

"But all the way from San Francisco?" He marveled.

"Who better to do it for?" she replied.

He squeezed her hand. "You're a special lady," he whispered. He noticed it was dark outside. "What time is it?"

"Twelve-thirty at night."

"The gunman?"

She gave a sad smile. "I'm afraid I don't know much except they didn't catch him."

He shook his head. Everything hurt, physically and emotionally, but there was work to do. Anything to keep the thoughts away. "I'd better call Duke." He reached for the phone, but pain shot through his hip, checking his action. "Mind?"

She brought the phone over, but left her hand on the receiver. "You should know about Danny."

He cut her off. "I know he's dead, Suzy. I don't have to ask."

"He's not, Steve."


"He's alive," she repeated, earnestly. "It isn't good, but he's hanging in there."

He stared at her, then whispered in disbelief. "Alive?" He could remember the blood pulsing between his fingers, the gray skin, and the dismal flat line on the heart monitor. Had it all been a hallucination? "I need to see him."

She patted his arm. "In the morning."

"Now," he said firmly. "Get Doc Bergman."

"But it's the middle of the night," she protested.

"Bergman's here already," came a familiar voice in the doorway. The old burly doctor came in. A wrinkled lab coat was thrown over jeans and a flowered shirt. He never liked the situations that brought him into the hospital; it usually meant one of McGarrett's team was in trouble. But, as a pathologist, there was a certain pleasure in having live bodies choosing your counsel or that of a surgeon's. "You didn't really expect me home in bed at a time like this, did you? It's not a good idea for you to run all over the hospital. A surgeon picked two slugs out of you this afternoon."

"I know about myself," McGarrett snapped.

"Danny won't even know you're there," Bergman persisted. "Your hip needs rest."


He shrugged. "I've got a stretcher outside the door. I'll take you upstairs, but watch that leg."

It was good advice, the leg hurt like fire.

Outside ICU Bergman introduced Steve to Dr. Wallace, the young doctor Steve recalled seeing in the ambulance. He shook hands at the introduction.

"I'm not going to mince words with you here, McGarrett," Wallace started. He clipped off his sentences like a short list. It was a way he'd developed to maintain a detachment from the dying and their loved ones. "Things are pretty grim. There's been considerable chest damage. I picked a lot of metal fragments out of the left lung, including two that were lying against the pericardial sac. In the end, we removed the upper third of his lung. We've got chest tubes in, he's ventilator supported. We've cardioverted him three times in six hours, which isn't encouraging. He's not coming through with any spontaneous respirations. We're using medication to maintain his blood pressure and reduce swelling in the brain. It's pretty early to make a prognosis. I just don't know how long his brain was deprived of oxygen. If we have to, we can check for brain activity with an EEG in twenty-four hours. Things are complicated in that there's no immediate family."

"Danny has a living will," Steve murmured, hollowly, painfully aware at the lack of emotion Wallace had expressed and why. He thinks this is hopeless.

"Yes," Wallace nodded. "It's on his chart. You were appointed in it to make the decision."

Silence hung like a dark shroud for a moment.

"Questions?" Wallace asked.

Steve shook his head. It had been no hallucination after all.

Wallace opened the door to ICU. "If you're ready."

The Intensive Care Unit was set up with six small cubicle rooms with glass walls that faced to the common area dominated by the nurses' station. A nurse, cup of coffee cuddled in her hands, sat before a bank of small screens, each one showing a little green electrical tracing of someone's heart rhythm. Another nurse was in a cubicle talking with a patient as she offered her a drink through a straw. Wallace gave a wave of a high sign to the one at the desk. She gave a disapproving glance at her little monitor, and gestured towards the cubicle on the right. Bergman pushed Steve on the stretcher to the glass wall.

Nothing could have prepared him. Danny lay flat on a gurney-like bed with IV lines and equipment wires strung everywhere. The little cubicle was crowded with equipment, IV lines, machines and pumps. The ventilator dominated the room. The ET tube tied in place covered the lower half of his face. His eyes were taped shut. A swan-ganz central line fed into the subclavian artery. There was a fresh sutured incision six inches long running up his chest, terminating at a bulky dressing at the top. Three chest tubes, one on the right, two on the left, ran from his sides to the vacuum containers.

McGarrett looked away overwhelmed by the day and the moment. "My God."

Wallace touched his shoulder, his own humanity peeking out. "What he needs is time."

The sun was barely cracking at the horizon when Ben arrived at the hospital.

"Visiting hours won't start until ten o'clock," the receptionist at the desk said, curtly.

He flashed his badge. "Steve McGarrett's room."

Ruffled, she waved him towards the elevator. There was a uniformed officer at the elevator where he got off and one at the door of the room.

"How is it?" Ben greeted him.

"Quiet," the officer answered with a shrug.

Ben as entered, Steve looked up from the morning newspaper he was taking notes from. "Ben," he nodded, "fill me in."

Ben was not surprised at McGarrett's business-first attitude, but could detect how upset he was behind the tone. "When the squad entered the room, Chaney had escaped through the ceiling."


"Pulled down some ceiling tiles. Went out through the rafters. I saw that in a movie once, too." He cleared his throat. "We scoured the building. No luck. He left prints all over, no matches with our files, haven't heard from Washington."

"Keep on it, Ben. My bet is he's had some military experience somewhere. He was too good a shot."

"Well, looks like he's been clean till now."

"Till now. What's the background on this guy? Why now? Danno said yesterday he was asking nosy questions."

"What kind of questions?"

McGarrett adjusted the sling on his left arm. "He said Chaney was a tourist with nosy questions. We probably won't find a history here. Did you check with the airlines?"

Ben nodded. "A Robert Chaney arrived eighteen days ago on a flight from LA. It was a stopover, he'd started out in Washington."

"A long way from home."

"Address the airline had was in Norfolk, Virginia. Probably false."

McGarrett frowned. "Maybe not. Ben, what kind of man comes to the islands to make a hit using his real name, leaving an open trail?"

"Maybe he didn't plan this."

"He certainly had the firepower. See what the gun shops here had been selling. He's an expert shot. He planned this whole thing. Of that I'm certain. But why?"

Ben pulled Chaney's tourist map from a manila folder he'd been carrying. "No question he was following you."

Steve could recognize places he'd gone and the blue ink line that had been traced over and over. He noticed some of the circled spots weren't things related to him. Duke's home address. Danny's apartment complex. The health club. A chill ran up his spine. This was a calculated stalking of the Five-O group.

"One more thing. This picture was in his room." Ben handed him the framed photo.

McGarrett looked at the 27-year-old picture in surprise. "Karen," he whispered.

"Who is she?"

He sat there for a moment looking at the photo. He hadn't seen her in years, but now he missed her like yesterday. His look told Ben there was a lot here, maybe more than he wanted to know. "Get somebody to Norfolk, Virginia. He'll be looking for Karen Smith."

"Smith?" Ben murmured writing the name down. How many smiths will there be in Norfolk?

"Check the county records. She probably married," McGarrett added, still staring at the picture.

"Duke flew out for Washington three hours ago. He's going to call when he arrives."

Steve nodded. "Good, Ben."

Ben was aware that McGarrett was still preoccupied with the picture. "Um, Steve?" he added uncomfortably, "you didn't see Chaney, did you?"

"No," he answered, not looking up.

"We haven't gotten a good description of him. None of the hotel people seem to remember him. Pretty forgettable guy."

Steve looked up, trying to focus on what Ben was saying and trying to recall his conversation with Danno the day before. It already seemed so long ago. Odd how distorted the emotions of shock made everything seem. He dragged his attention back through disciplined determination. What was important? "Check with the health club Danno belonged to. What's the name of that little waitress? Linda?"

Ben nodded. "Yeah, I've met her once or twice."

"Talk to her. She doesn't miss anything." He tapped the circled spot on the map. "He went to that club."

The door opened. Che Fong entered, a file under his arm. "Hi, Ben," he said, then nodded to Steve. "How are you feeling?"

He doubted Che really wanted to know that internally he was unraveling in emotional agony. Not since Chin was killed--he pushed the thought away. "What do you have, Che?"

"Some pieces, nothing conclusive. From clothing articles, hair, etc. in the hotel room, your man is about five ten to six feet tall. Dark brown hair, weight 160 to 180."

"That fits about one hundred thousand people on this island," Steve remarked.

"His weapon is a late model ak47 machine gun with hollow points, could be purchased through those survivalist catalogs till a year ago. We also found several rounds of hollow points for a .357 magnum, but no gun."

"Then he's not finished."

part 3

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