Father's Day part two

"Jesse? Are you awake?"
The voice at the door startled the young doctor out of his gloomy introspection and he had scrambled off the bed before he even realised what he was doing. His heart was pounding madly in his chest and he suddenly realised he couldn't breathe.
"Uh … I … what?" he gasped.
"We're having dinner," came the announcement in the modulated tones which sounded so much like his dad. "You coming, son?"
'I'm not your son!' he wanted to scream. 'You're not my father!' But he couldn't make the words come out of his mouth. Instead, he cleared his suddenly dry throat. "I … uh … I … yeah," he managed, finally.
He didn't want to go back in that room, with those men. They scared him - not just because he knew, instinctively, that they intended to kill him.
Their eyes were soul-less, their demeanour cold and hostile. They were dangerous. Very, very dangerous - and not just to him. He could sense their loathing of him, not because of who he was, but of what he was. They despised him because of his nationality and his freedom and the country in which he lived.
He shivered violently and wrapped his arms around himself in a futile effort to get warm. It was never going to work because his chills originated on the inside. The temperature of the room had very little to do with them. He wished he was anywhere but here; wished that this was just a nightmare from which he would awaken at any second.
But it was horrifyingly, appallingly real.

He got through the ordeal of dinner, although every bite he took of the delicious meal prepared by his pseudo father tasted like sawdust. He couldn't remember ever feeling less inclined to partake of a meal.
His appetite was something over which his friends endlessly teased him. Steve in particular maintained that he would eat anything that wasn't actually bolted to the table and even then he would probably manage to prise it off. He had thought this a bit rich coming from the man who preferred Community General's meatloaf to practically any other kind of food and had made a point of telling the detective so - often and always when others were around to hear him. It was fun goading his best friend, especially in public.
He wanted nothing more than to see that best friend charging through the door at that moment, gun trained on the four men seated round the table, followed by half the LA police force.
But that wasn't going to happen.
He had realised that he had absolutely no idea where he was and, he suspected, neither did his friends. Rashid wouldn't just kidnap him and make it easy to locate him. This would have been some pre-ordained meeting place, somewhere that had been scouted out well in advance. He knew they were miles from any civilisation. He hadn't seen one other living soul since they had been here, aside from the three men who had arrived to stay with them.
He was avoiding their eyes, but he could feel them glaring at him. He felt like a bug under a microscope and he was absolutely terrified that he would slip up and make the one mistake that would end his life here and now.
As he drank his juice he couldn't help wondering, yet again, if it had been drugged. What better way to prevent his escape and keep him docile than to slip him a Mickey Finn? It wouldn't be the first time it had happened, after all. Mark had done the same thing to him when he had tried to convince his mentor and Amanda that he had seen a murder in the parking lot of the hospital, only for the body to disappear and a healthy man pose as the dead guy. Sure, he had been suffering from sleep deprivation at the time due to all the extra shifts he had been working but it had hurt when everyone had believed he was just hallucinating.
But he hadn't been in any danger that time. Quite the opposite, in fact. Mark and Amanda cared about him. They had only been trying to help.
These men, though … he got the distinct impression that these men were actually looking forward to getting rid of him once and for all.
Choking down the last bit of dessert - a delicious concoction he hadn't appreciated in the least because fear had rendered everything flavourless - he smiled shakily when Rashid told him he had enjoyed their walk today and answered in the affirmative when asked whether he had had a good time.
He couldn't wait to get back to his room. Even though it felt small and claustrophobic, at least he would be away from those cold, dead stares that bored into him, chilling his soul.
But he wasn't allowed to get away that easily. As he stood, making excuses about being tired after the long walk, feeling nauseous as Rashid's face broke into Dane's smile, one of the other men rose from his chair. He was shadowed all the way to his room, then, without warning, the other man slipped in front of him, barring his escape.
"Wh …. What d'you want?" he stammered, nervously, backing up until he was against the wall, the man mirroring his movements, towering over the young doctor as he advanced toward him and giving him no place to go. Unbridled hostility exuded from the man as his mouth curled upward in a sneer of disdain. The situation, already scary, was all the more frightening for the fact that not a word was spoken by his antagonist.
It could have lasted longer, had Rashid not barked out an order for the man to back down and step away.
As he did so, Jesse wilted, glad to have the wall behind him as he was quite convinced that otherwise, he would have fallen to the floor.
Rashid asked if he was all right and he managed to answer that he was. He wasn't fooled, though. The man didn't care about his welfare. He was more concerned that they didn't give the game away too soon. Whilst he was playing the willing victim, things were easier for them. Rashid obviously preferred it that way.
As soon as he could move again, he practically ran into his room, slamming the door shut behind him. He could hear raised voices from the living area, as Rashid took his colleague to task, his tone harsh and deadly. Jesse shivered, then stumbled over to his bed, sinking down on it with a grateful sigh.
He had to get out of here.
But he was exhausted. His limbs felt heavy and leaden and he could feel himself becoming sluggish. Yawning copiously, he curled up into a small ball, intending to sleep for just a few moments, until the others retired for the night. Then he could get out of there.
Before he knew what was happening, though, he had succumbed to the sedative that had indeed laced his drink.

Morning saw a flurry of activity in the Sloan household. Not one of them had actually slept that night, although Dane had catnapped on the couch at Mark's behest. The doctor was worried about the other man. He was running on adrenalin and caffeine and little else. He acknowledged privately that he would be doing the same thing if it were Steve. He would move heaven and earth until he found him, safe and well, his own comforts relegated to non-importance.
But Jesse wasn't his son, even if the fear that was engulfing him told Mark he might as well have been.
Steve and Dane had managed to draft in some of the local cops in each site in order to assist in their search. It wasn't going to be enough. There was no way they were going to be able to get to every cabin in every location - not in time. They had just over 4 hours left before the deadline Rashid had set for them. Just over 4 hours to do the impossible.
Mark cooked breakfast on automatic pilot. He mindlessly threw the pancake batter onto the griddle, watched the eggs bubble and spit in the frypan and placed the bread in the toaster. His thoughts were consumed with thoughts of his young friend, alone and helpless in the hands of a trained killer.
He wondered if Jesse had managed to figure things out yet, as Dane had predicted he would. The young doctor was far from stupid. In fact, he was highly intelligent and extremely perceptive. Mark had formed an instant bond with him from the moment they had met - Jesse stumbling over his own feet and a cleaning trolley as he ran down the corridor toward the locker room. As Mark had helped the new intern to his feet he had tried hard to smother his laughter at the damning imprecations the young man was muttering at himself.
"Clumsy, stupid … oh god … I hope I don't fall over my own feet in front of Dr Sloan. What a great first impression that would make!"
Then Mark had been the recipient of a blinding smile of thanks as Jesse brushed himself off, smoothing down the stray locks of hair which had tumbled over his brow.
"I'm sorry," the intern had apologised. "I hope I didn't hurt you."
"No, no," Mark had assured him. "I'm just fine. I was more worried about you and your encounter with the homicidal cleaning trolley! You have to watch out for them - they seem to pick on unsuspecting interns."
Jesse had regarded him dubiously for a long moment then he must have seen the twinkle in Mark's eye and his mouth had quirked in another smile as he acknowledged the teasing comment. "I'll try and remember that, sir," he said. Then he had glanced at his watch and the smile faded to be replaced by a look of alarm as he realised how late he was going to be to meet the famous Chief of Internal Medicine. "I gotta go," he had said, regretfully, moving off even as he had uttered the words. "Thanks again!"
Then he was gone, leaving Mark standing bemusedly in the corridor, feeling like he had just been hit by a miniature whirlwind.
And that was the moment he had decided which of the new interns he was going to take under his wing.
He sighed, staring unseeingly at the food he had just prepared - another reminder of the missing member of their small family. Jesse had spent so much time at the beach house since his arrival in LA, it was practically like a second home. In fact, occasionally, Mark had been forced to gently remind him that he didn't actually live there, although he had not pushed the point too hard. He wanted his young friend to feel welcome at the beach house. It was, after all, probably the first real home he'd known for some considerable time.
Swallowing hard past the sudden constriction in his throat, he couldn't help but wonder if he would ever see Jesse walk through the door, into his house again.

Jesse spent the morning in a drug-induced stupor, courtesy of the strong sedative that he had unwittingly ingested during his evening meal.
Rashid wanted him kept compliant. The act he was putting on had begun to wear. The younger man was an irritating bundle of boundless energy, always questioning, always eager to please. More than once, though, he had caught the hurt in those expressive blue eyes and had wondered at the relationship between his nemesis, Travis and his son. His own boy had been strong and single-minded, devout in his beliefs and a dutiful son. He had obeyed Rashid's every command unwaveringly, and his respect for the older man had been apparent in every deed he had performed.
He had loved his son. The product of the usual arranged marriage, Rashid had raised him to be proud of his heritage, to love his country and to fight for what he believed in. No-one was more important than their cause. Not even his own wife. He had abandoned her long ago to take up the struggle for his faith and his country. Enlisted into an elite company of men who believed that dying in the fight against the imperialism of the Western world was a great honour and would have its rewards in the afterlife, he had risen up through the ranks quickly thanks to his wealth, his connections and his penchant for disguise. He could walk into anywhere as anyone, plant a bomb or assassinate someone and no-one would ever realise it was him. He had proved a valuable asset. Not for him suicide attacks. Not until it was absolutely necessary - and then he would be only too willing to die for what he believed in.
His son had been willing, too. But he had not died a hero's death, annihilating those who stood against them, be they men, women or children. He had died at the hands of an American - worse still, an American who had been working for his own Government - a corrupt, power-hungry, arrogant Administration who believed they were untouchable.
They would learn soon enough that this was not the case.
But once his son had been killed at their hands - at the hands of someone who did their dirty work for them - he had vowed vengeance.
Over the years he had devised a plan so elaborate that it was utterly foolproof. It had taken time to get all the necessary pieces in place and during that time he had allowed rumours of his survival - which he had at first allowed to be in doubt - to surface. It was a way of keeping the other man on his toes; constantly vigilant and constantly afraid.
Rashid had done his homework. He had followed Travis; had discovered that he had a family of his own, albeit one he had abandoned and had been delighted to discover that he too had a son; one that he obviously cherished even though they had been estranged for many years.
His plans to wreak revenge on the man who had murdered his beloved boy had come to fruition once Travis made contact with Jesse once more. This was the perfect time. Everything had come together. The preparations were complete, the timing just right. Jesse Travis was the same age now that his own son had been when he had been slain.
Dane Travis would soon discover that Rashid was not a man to be crossed.

The call was placed at exactly the same time that day as it had been made the day before. Rashid smiled as the haggard face of Dane Travis flickered into life on the screen. The man looked like he had been to hell and back.
He didn't know what hell was, yet.
"So, agent Travis, have you procured the funds I requested?" he asked, evenly.
"No."
Rashid had to give the man credit. His voice never wavered even though he knew he had just condemned his own son to death. He merely raised an eyebrow at this response, however. "I see," he said. "You know that this means, do you not?"
Travis's tenuous hold on his emotions wavered and finally snapped. "No!" he exploded. "You don't lay one finger on him, Rashid! If you touch him, there'll be no place you can go that I won't find you! I shall hunt you down like the dog you are and I shall take great pleasure in killing you - slowly."
So, the man had balls after all. Rashid smiled. "Now you have some idea of what it feels like," was all he said, however. "A life for a life, agent Travis. You took my boy away from me. I now return the favour."
"No! Rashid …"
"Goodbye, agent Travis. Be sure to thank your Government and the work you do for them for this. You have no-one else to blame."
With that he broke the connection once more. Then, without even turning, he issued three words to one of the men standing behind him, but just off to one side so they could not be seen by the camera.
"Go get him."

Jesse was rudely awoken by being manhandled from the bed upon which he had fallen asleep. Groggy and disoriented, he struggled weakly in the grip of his captors, but they were too strong for him.
"Wh … what are you doing!?" he gasped as they dragged him into the other room. "Leave me alone!"
They halted in front of Rashid, who had risen from his seat in front of the computer - which he had made no effort to conceal, unlike the previous occasion, after Jesse had eavesdropped on his conversation with Dane. He had glanced around for it then upon exiting his room, but it had been hidden away.
The fact that it was in plain view this time made his blood run cold.
"No!" he protested. "No, please! You don't wanna do this!"
"Do what, Jesse?" queried Rashid, still using his father's voice.
"Why?" demanded the young doctor, ignoring the question. "What have I ever done to you?"
Rashid smiled slowly. The expression was cruel and devoid of humour and had the unexpected effect of lessening his resemblance to Dane Travis. "Because I can. How long have you known?"
"Since … since yesterday," Jesse choked out, squirming ineffectually once more in the grasp of the two men who had hauled him out of bed. "I … I heard you talking to my dad."
The grin widened, the grey-blue eyes glinting dangerously. "So you've been playing a little game with us?" he mused. "Very clever, Jesse."
"I … I …"
He got no further as Rashid stepped toward him and roughly grabbed his chin, the large fingers digging painfully into his flesh "Your father does not care about you," he hissed. "He has not even attempted to raise the money we required to secure your freedom. All he cares about - all he has ever cared about is himself. It is a cruel world, Jesse. Welcome to reality."
'He's messing with my head,' Jesse told himself, desperately. Still, there was a part of him that couldn't help but wonder whether Rashid wasn't just verbalising the truth that he had been denying since his reunion with his dad. Maybe Dane didn't really care. Maybe his declarations of affection for Jesse were all a sham.
His morbid contemplation was abruptly ended as he was pulled roughly toward the door, Rashid having spun on his heel and leading the way.
He did everything he could to halt his progress trying to make it as hard as he could for his captors, but a derisive laugh greeted his efforts as he was led inexorably to his death.

Dane continued staring at the screen long after Rashid's image disappeared. He was shaking uncontrollably. He didn't know if it was rage, fear or anguish that was to blame. It was probably all three.
"Dane."
He remembered when he had first talked Jesse into going fishing with him in Baja. His son had seemed distant - which was only to be expected given that they hadn't been close in years - and a little reluctant, but had finally agreed.
"Dane."
The trip had been cancelled when he had realised that he had become a target for an assassin. It hadn't been Rashid that time but the son of his dead partner, Greg Kesslar.
"Dane?"
The incident had actually succeeded in doing what no amount of fishing trips would have accomplished - it had brought Jesse and himself closer; aided by the fact that he had finally told his son the truth about his occupation and the events that had coloured his life.
"Dane?"
He was inordinately proud of his son. Jesse should have been handicapped by his apparent desertion and his mother's preoccupation with her career. But he had grown into a fine young man; gentle, compassionate and good-natured. He was forging a brilliant career in medicine - Mark had confided to him that his young protégé was one of the best and most naturally gifted doctors he had ever known and was pretty sure that Jesse would eventually surpass even him. He had also told of his fondness for the younger man, albeit apologetically, when he had confessed that he considered him somewhat of a surrogate son.
Jesse deserved nothing less than two fathers to care about him.
But now Dane had failed spectacularly in his first responsibility - taking care of his only son; ensuring his safety at all times.
His son was about to die.
"Dane! Dane!"
The hand gripping his shoulder and the sound of the voice jerked him roughly out of his melancholic introspection and he raised his head to meet the pale blue eyes of his host. Mark Sloan seemed to have aged ten years in the last few minutes. And there was no-one to blame for that but him.
He had condemned Jesse to death the moment he had killed Rashid's son all those years ago.
And he was helpless to stop the inevitable. They had run out of that precious commodity - time.
His mouth worked but nothing emerged and slowly, he lowered his head into his trembling hands as his heart snapped in two.

Jesse writhed frantically as they reached the trees a short distance away from the cabin. His struggles were to no avail. Kicking out in desperation, he made contact with the shin of one of the men who held him. He was rewarded by a sharp blow across the face as the man cursed furiously in a language he didn't recognise.
"You shouldn't antagonise Sajjad," Rashid rebuked him, mildly. He extracted a cigar from his jacket pocket and lit it, inhaling the tobacco with an expression of gratification.
"Why? What's he gonna do? Kill me? I think we've already established that I'm gonna die anyway!" retorted Jesse, valiantly.
Rashid chuckled. The sound grated on Jesse's nerves and the cigar smoke the older man blew into his face made him cough. "Such courage!" he mocked. "Tell me, Jesse, did you learn that from your father?"
"No!" grated out the young doctor, struggling to breathe as more cigar smoke was wafted in his direction. He didn't want this man to see how truly terrified he was. "And where did you learn yours? It's real easy to kill someone when it's three against one, isn't it, Rashid?"
The use of his real name elicited a raise of the man's eyebrows but otherwise he did not react - either to that or the challenge in Jesse's words. He shrugged nonchalantly. "I do what must be done," he said. "And this must be done. I have been waiting a long time."
"Why?" demanded Jesse, again. "Why are you doing this? Please - just tell me!"
The man's brow furrowed in thought as he contemplated the request, then he nodded. "Very well. Many years ago, your father killed my son. He murdered him. I am now returning the favour."
Jesse's lips thinned. "If my dad killed your son, then it's probably because he deserved it! He works for the good guys!"
That earned him an open-handed blow which connected solidly with his cheek, slamming his head to the side where it scraped against the side of the tree against which he was being restrained.
"My son was a hero," grated out Rashid, his tall, imposing figure looming over Jesse as he moved in even closer. Jesse could smell the expensive cologne that the man used, could feel the warm breath on his inflamed cheek and turned his head away. Again his chin was grabbed and brutally forced back so he was forced to look into the man's eyes. He cringed as they bored into his with an intensity that was truly frightening. "My son fought for his beliefs; for all of us. Your father had no right to murder him."
Jesse could only stare as Rashid moved back, letting him go. Then the older man nodded at his colleagues and they released their hold on Jesse's arms, moving back and walking toward the cabin.
Before the young doctor could react to this, Rashid produced a gun from beneath his jacket, caressing it lovingly before stepping forward and placing the barrel against Jesse's head.
"Say your goodbyes, Jesse," he said, in a low, deadly voice.
Rigid with terror, Jesse could only stand there, squeezing his eyes tightly shut as he felt the cold metal pressing into flesh, bone and hair. His breathing quickened and his heart began to race as the entire world narrowed down to encompass only the two of them and the weapon that was about to end his life.
He found himself hoping it would be quick and it wouldn't hurt whilst at the same time he wanted to throw up. He had never, ever been so scared.
The silence stretched into infinity as Rashid drew back the trigger and Jesse clenched his fists, in a desperate effort to stave off the horror of the moment.
He heard the click as the hammer fell, then nothing. Hardly daring to breathe, he risked prising open one eye, to see Rashid staring disbelievingly at his gun. Then the man hurriedly re-cocked it and placed it once more against the young doctor's temple.
Again the click that preceded the emergence of the bullet - and again nothing happened.
Rashid swore angrily under his breath, pulling back slightly from his victim. It was the first time Jesse had ever seen him lose his cool.
Suddenly, and without conscious thought, Jesse exploded into action, sheer desperation taking over as he launched himself at the other man. He took Rashid completely by surprise, his momentum bearing both of them to the ground. Then he aimed a punch at the assassin. It was clumsy and completely unco-ordinated, but it did the job, stunning Rashid long enough for the younger man to scramble to his feet.
Then he ran.
He didn't look back. He didn't dare. But he could hear the furious yell that followed his flight for freedom. It echoed through the trees, and he winced, expecting to feel the impact of a bullet in the back at any moment.
The shot resounded through the forest, spooking a flock of birds which surged upwards out of a large bush to his right as a searing heat spliced through his side. He stumbled, but carried on, adrenalin and utter terror spurring him forward as the crashing sounds through the undergrowth behind him told him that Rashid and his cronies were in hot pursuit.

"They're gonna kill him." Steve's voice was barely audible even in the silence which had fallen following the conversation with Rashid and Dane's breakdown. "My god, they're gonna kill him."
Mark glanced miserably at his son. He wanted to offer some words of comfort, reassure him that everything was going to be all right, but the empty, hollow feeling that had engulfed him rendered him incapable of speech.
The clichéd phrases would be meaningless. The truth was, Steve was right. Despite all their efforts, despite their hopes, they had failed to locate Jesse in time and now he was doomed.
Mark remembered the last time he had been engulfed by such grief - when his wife had died of cancer. Katherine had lingered for a long time and he had been given that period to get accustomed to the fact that he was going to lose her. It hadn't helped. Her death had opened up a chasm in him so deep that he had thought for a long time that nothing was ever going to fill it.
Gradually, though, it had closed. The love and support of Steve, who had also been grieving, had helped in the process. Amanda's presence in his life, a few years later, had been a balm to his wounded soul. Then Jesse had come along and the boyish enthusiasm and his obvious hero-worship of his mentor had completed the healing. His small family had become a source of great pride and joy to him.
It had become his whole world.
Now that world had been shattered once more.
He tore his eyes away from Steve, unable to endure the agony in the younger man's cobalt blue eyes, only to find himself face to face with Dane. If Jesse was family to him, then he was this man's flesh and blood. The agent was steeped in misery, his face drawn with anguish and the horror of what they knew was about to transpire.
How were they ever to get over this?

Jesse sank to the ground as his legs gave out under him. He had no idea how far or for how long he'd run, or whether he had lost his pursuers, but his chest was heaving and he felt dizzy and sick. He had to stop. He had no choice.
He closed his eyes briefly as he leant against the tree against which he was slumped. Everything tilted sickeningly and he had to fight the urge to throw up. Blinking, he tried to focus on his surroundings, listening for any sign of the men hunting him. He could hear nothing save for muted birdsong and the cicadas incessant chattering.
Dusk was falling. In a few minutes he wouldn't be able to see anything at all. He had no torch to light his way and the canopy of branches would prevent the moonlight from reaching the ground.
He had to keep going.
His right side throbbed mercilessly. Inevitably, the numbness of shock had worn off some considerable time before and intense and burning pain had seared a path through him. He had kept going anyway. He couldn't afford to stop. They were hunting him. He could hear them. Their angry voices and the sound of them pounding through the forest after him had forced him to quicken his pace, despite the burning agony that had stolen his breath and made his stomach churn.
So he had put on an extra burst of speed, completely oblivious to the spectacular scenery, not caring which direction he was headed - as long as it was away from them.
He had careened down a bank at one point, tumbling over and over until he landed, winded, hurting and covered with dead leaves at the bottom. He had lain there for some considerable time, panting for breath, ruthlessly suppressing the tears of anger and frustration that threatened to rise up and choke him. Then he had slowly sat up, looking around and trying to get his bearings.
He had no idea where he was nor how to get out of the forest. He could, conceivably, be stuck here for days - weeks … months, even.
Where the hell was the road?
Slowly, he had risen to his feet, wincing as injuries old and new protested the movement, and had staggered off in roughly the same direction he had been travelling before his fall.
The only good thing to come out of that particular incident was that the men tracking him would probably have lost him by now.
The problem was, he was lost himself.
Now, he clutched at his side, feeling the wet stickiness soaking through his t-shirt and tried to stifle the resultant cry this action provoked. His fingers came away covered in red and he glanced down as he delicately lifted his t-shirt from his pants, exposing the wound to the air.
It looked nasty. The bullet had gouged a path along his side, although he couldn't see the entry wound. The flesh was raw and jagged and was still seeping fresh blood, which wasn't a good sign. It hurt. It hurt a lot. He had to get help, before it became infected.
He didn't want to move.
He wanted nothing more than to stay where he was until help came. But that wasn't an option. Help wasn't coming. No-one knew where he was. Hell, he didn't even know where he was. He had to get up and keep on moving.
It was one of the hardest things he had ever done.
Struggling to his feet, he had to wait a moment as a fresh bout of dizziness assailed him. He leaned against the tree, thankful for its presence, knowing that otherwise he would never have remained on his feet. Finally, as the vertigo receded somewhat, he stumbled forward, hoping that he would find his way out of there soon and wishing that he had some way of contacting his friends so that he could just surrender to the encroaching darkness and let them come find him.

He blinked disbelievingly when he suddenly found himself clear of the trees and on a road. The tarmac was wet. That made sense. There had been a rain-shower. He had been partially protected beneath the canopy of the trees although eventually some of the rain had made it through and now he could add damp hair and clothing to his list of woes.
He stood there indecisively for several minutes. Inexplicably, now that he had finally found his way out of the forest, his mind had shut down and he had absolutely no idea what to do or which way to go.
The road gleamed wetly in the pale moonlight, offering no clues as to which direction his salvation may lie. He stumbled further out onto the hard surface, glancing left and right, trying to figure out which would be the best route to take.
The headlights appeared suddenly, coming over the hill. He froze, rooted to the spot, staring at the approaching vehicle with utter shock. Then he raised his arms, waving them frantically above his head, praying for the car or truck or whatever it was to stop.
He couldn't believe it when it did.
"Hey, young fella, you all right?"
The voice was gruff but friendly but it still took Jesse several moments to dredge up a response.
"I .. I … uh … hospital," he managed to ground out. It hurt even to talk. "I … phone …"
The old man shrugged, smiling genially at him as he opened the door, inviting him in. "Okay," he said. "You look a bit the worse for wear. I'll take you to my place. You can use the phone there."
Holding his arm against his side, which was throbbing in tandem with his heartbeat, Jesse manoeuvered himself inside the battered old truck, casting a glance at his companion, who looked him up and down quizzically before frowning at him. "You look like you could use a drink," he observed, as he fumbled beneath his seat. He produced a hip flask, proffering it to the younger man. "Here," he went on. "Have some of that. Good for what ails ya!"
Jesse stared at it for a long moment. He didn't want to refuse the man's generosity, but he couldn't help being wary - after all, the last time he had eaten and drunk anything he had wound up unconscious for several hours. Besides, he suspected that this was something alcoholic and he wasn't entirely sure it would be a good idea to ingest it on an empty stomach. He shook his head, leaning back in his seat as the older man shrugged good-naturedly and, raising the flask to his own lips, took a generous swig before placing the flask on the seat between them.
"So, what's yer name, young fella?" asked the man, conversationally.
"Uh … Jesse," the young doctor replied. "Jesse."
"Well, Jesse, you just relax there. You look about done in … and wet. You get caught in that rain?"
He nodded. He didn't feel up to doing much else. Now he was relatively safe and each second was taking them further and further from danger, the adrenalin and self-preservation that had kept him going had evaporated. His body was now reacting to the stress and the injuries he had sustained and it was shutting down. But he couldn't afford to relax - not just yet. He had to phone his friends. He had to let them know where he was so they could come get him. It never even occurred to him to let the local law enforcement know. All he could focus on was the fact that as soon as Mark and Steve knew where he was, everything would be all right.

The ringing of the phone shattered the silence that had fallen in the beach house. They had tried to get past the realisation that Jesse was going to die - that he was very probably dead by now. But it had been impossible to do so. Mark had trudged into the kitchen, methodically taking stuff off shelves and out of cupboards, trying to cope by burying himself in the mindless task of cleaning before sinking onto one of the kitchen stools, lowering his head into his hands and letting go of his turbulent emotions. Steve, unable to deal with the knowledge that his best friend had more than likely had his brains blown out by now had tried to call in favours from everyone he knew in law enforcement, trying in vain to close in on the cabin - something that hadn't even managed to accomplish in the hours before the call from Rashid. Dane, meanwhile, had remained seated at the table, staring unseeingly at the blank computer screen. Cinnamon had tried to get through to him, but he could no longer hear her voice.
They were waiting for Rashid to call them back - which they knew he would, to inform them of Jesse's demise.
So the telephone's shrill tone startled them.
Steve picked it up. "Sloan," he said, despondently, expecting it to be one of his contacts with the news that they had found the cabin and his friend's body.
"Ste… Steve?"
The detective's mouth went dry. "Jesse?" he managed. "Jess, is that you?"
"St ... Steve …"
The younger man's voice sounded rough and pain-filled and Steve couldn't help wondering if he was hallucinating. Maybe he only thought he was hearing it. Maybe this wasn't real. He suddenly became aware that he had an audience - an audience who were staring at him, hope and disbelief warring for dominance in their faces.
"Jesse, is that you?" he repeated. He needed verification. He needed to know this wasn't just some trick of Rashid's; a tape recording or just his overworked imagination.
"I … Steve, please … come get me."
The plaintive note struck a chord in his heart. Jesse sounded about done in. He sounded like he'd been through hell. Christ, he probably had been through hell.
The detective had so many questions. What had happened? Where was Rashid? Why wasn't he dead? But he knew that this wasn't the time to ask any of them. Still, there was one thing he did need to know. "Jesse, tell me where you are, pal and I'll be on my way."

The warmth from the heater in the truck had lulled Jesse into sleep. He'd woken up when they got to the old man's house. As he opened the door and practically fell from the vehicle, he realised he didn't even know the man's name.
"You comin' in, then, Jesse?"
The voice startled him and he glanced upward. Light was spilling out from the doorway, silhouetting the man. His beard and moustache looked even whiter in the illumination, offset by hints of grey. The wrinkled skin was shadowed and he was smiling, although there was a worried caste to his expression that absurdly reminded the young doctor of Mark.
He suddenly felt the urge to hear his mentor's voice; to talk to Steve. To have them tell him everything was going to be all right.
As he stumbled up the short path to the small domicile, he chastised himself for being so weak, so needy. But he felt awful. He was wet and cold and miserable and he hurt. The pain in his side had not abated since his escape from the forest. Instead it flared savagely, pulsating with an energy that was almost a living thing. He felt sick and weak and he wobbled as each unsteady step threatened to send him plummeting to the ground.
More by luck than management, he made it through the door, his left arm clamped around his abdomen, his fingers splayed over the bleeding skin.
The old man's frown deepened as his guest weaved an uneven path over to his couch and collapsed on it. "Hey, you're bleedin!" he exclaimed. "Let me look …"
"No!" The protest was out of his mouth before Jesse could stop it, his eyes, which had fluttered closed upon sinking into the comfort of the soft cushions, bursting open, widening in barely concealed panic. "No," he repeated, his voice raspy with pain and exhaustion. "Please … just … phone. Please?"
Brow furrowing in concern, the older man complied with the young man's shorthanded request, reaching out to grab the telephone and placing it in front of Jesse.
For a long moment, the young man stared at it uncomprehendingly. He knew he had wanted the instrument that even now nestled safely on his knees but couldn't for the life in him remember why and then, as he recalled the reason, Mark's telephone number evaded his memory.
He felt the old man's eyes on him as he struggled to remember what he was doing and whom to call, then, slowly, it came back to him and, tentatively, he picked up the receiver, punched in a number that should have been second nature and waited as it connected to the other end.
The sound of Steve's voice acted like a balm to his shattered nerves and decimated spirit and he felt every last ounce of tension leave him as he spoke his friend's name.

"He's in the Angeles National Forest," Steve said. He was in shock. They had been so close - all this time.
"Angeles?" echoed Mark, clearly feeling the same way if the look on his face was any indication. "But … we never thought they'd be so close."
"My god, of course," Dane's grey-blue eyes reflected both his bewilderment and his profound relief that his son was alive. "That bastard wanted to stay close. He was laughing at us the whole time. He knew that we'd be searching areas further afield. We'd never believe he'd stay in the area, practically within spitting distance." He glanced at Steve as they donned their jackets and left the beach house. "How long is it gonna take us to get there?"
"An hour, tops," Steve told him, grimly. "Jesse sounded pretty rough, I hope he's okay."
"What did he say?" asked Dane. "Exactly?"
Steve averted his gaze from the perceptive gaze of the older man as he gunned the engine of his truck - into which they had all piled. "He asked us to come get him."
"And the other guy you spoke to told you where they were," observed Dane, thoughtfully. "Did he say anything else - anything useful that might tell you Jesse's condition?"
Steve had been surprised that Dane hadn't snatched the telephone out of his hand at the time. He could only assume that sheer astonishment at the knowledge that Jesse was still alive had stilled the agent's hands. The older man who had replaced Jesse's voice had informed him where they were and then had told him he had better bring a doctor. That had almost stopped the detective's heart. The man hadn't imparted any more information and he had been left staring at the telephone as the line had disconnected. It had given him an eerie sense of de ja vue. The call had been as abrupt as those from Rashid.
Telling himself he was being totally irrational and he should just be glad that his friend had survived his ordeal, he had then relayed the news about Jesse's whereabouts to his companions. He hadn't been at all surprised when everyone stood as one and followed him out of the door, his father grabbing his medical bag on the way without even thinking.
"He - uh - he said we should bring a doctor," he admitted, aware of Dane's eyes riveted on him from the back of the vehicle. "Good thing I'm related to one!"
The light comment didn't raise a smile amongst the other three. Mark's brow furrowed into a worried frown and he clutched his bag ever more firmly, whilst Dane's face drained of all colour and Cinnamon rubbed his arm comfortingly.
"It'll be fine," she attempted to reassure him, with a gentle smile. "He's alive, Dane. Let's not forget that. A few hours ago we were convinced he wasn't."
"Yes, but in what condition?" demanded Dane in an anguished voice. "We don't know what he's gone through, how they've hurt him. My god, Cinnamon , what if they tortured him?"
"We don't know that!" she interjected, sharply. "And assuming the worst isn't going to do you any good. You'll see him very soon. He's alive. Let's be grateful for that."
He nodded, patting her hand absent-mindedly. He appreciated what she was saying. Still, it wasn't her son that his worst enemy had kidnapped, possibly tortured and almost killed. She couldn't understand how he felt. He had been rendered helpless to do anything for Jesse, rendered impotent to save his son. It was a miracle he had survived and he was thankful. Still, he couldn't also help being terrified what they would find.
In the driver's seat, Steve exchanged glances with his father. Mark shook his head, indicating he didn't want to discuss the implications of the old man's statement. Reluctantly, because quite frankly he would have felt better if they could have talked about it, Steve turned his attention back to the road and unconsciously floored the gas pedal.

Less than an hour later they were at the small house just off the road that had proved to be Jesse's sanctuary after his nightmare flight through the forest. One single light burned on the outside of the small building, illuminating the short path that led to the pale wooden door.
Dane was out of the truck first, swiftly followed by Mark, Cinnamon and then Steve. The tension was unbearable, although it was tempered by the relief they all still felt at Jesse's survival.
Dane's short, sharp rap on the door seemed to echo in the still of the night and he shifted from foot to foot impatiently whilst he waited for someone to answer. He didn't have to wait long. There was a creak of floorboards from within, a fumbling with the lock and then they were face to face with a grizzelled old man who regarded them with narrowed eyes.
"You the boy's friends?" he demanded, gruffly.
"I'm his father," said Dane. His foot was already in the doorway and he looked set to barge in past the homeowner.
The man nodded, opening the door further and stepping aside to admit them. "He's over on the couch over there." He indicated the rather battered piece of furniture at the other end of the room. "One of you a doctor?"
"I am," Mark informed him, as he followed Dane. He extended his hand to the old man. "My name's Mark Sloan."
The man grinned toothily. "Well, pleased to meet yer, Dr Mark Sloan," he said, genially. "And who're these others then? That his mom?"
Mark smiled. "No, that's his father's colleague and this is my son, detective Steve Sloan."
"Detective, huh?" echoed the man, staring at Steve with a certain amount of suspicion before shaking his hand too. "A detective and a doctor in the same family? Must make a lot of money, huh?"
"If you want a reward for finding Jesse …"
"Hey, now, young fella," interjected the old man, holding up a hand to forestall the rest of Steve's words. "I was only making conversation. The young 'un needed help and I was in a position to provide it. Don't need no reward only to know he's back with his friends."
Steve looked suitably chastened as his father shot him an amused look. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean anything by that, Mr …er ?"
"Carl," the man supplied, as Steve foraged for a name. "You can call me Carl. Lived in these here parts for forty years. Never had so many visitors all at once. Never had so many visitors in all the time I lived here, s'matter of fact."
"Well, we're very grateful to you, Carl," Mark said. "Now, I need to look at Jesse?"

The diminutive form was curled up into a small bundle on the couch, covered with a rather garishly coloured throw. As Mark drew closer, he was alarmed at the laboured breathing and the rattle in the young doctor's lungs. "Jesse?" he whispered, squatting at the side of his friend.
Dane had his hand on the blond hair, stroking his fingers through it with a painful tenderness, as though he couldn't believe Jesse was real. His eyes met Mark's over the slumbering figure and Mark flashed him a worried look. Dane's face blanched and he swallowed hard as he knelt at the head of the couch, placing his lips against his son's head in a kiss of benediction.
"Jess?"
Fever-bright blue eyes cracked open. For a long, dreadful moment there was no recognition in them, then, slowly, the confusion cleared. "M… Mark?"
The thin thread of sound caught at Mark's heart and he placed a gentle hand on the side of the unhealthily flushed face. "We're here, Jess," he soothed him. "It's all right now."
"Sh … shot."
This was news to all of them. Dane inhaled sharply, whilst Mark drew down the blanket which was concealing much of the young man's body. He bit his lip when he saw the blood-stained t-shirt and cautiously lifted it, to inspect the flesh beneath. The wound was raw and ugly, the inflamed flesh showing the first signs of infection. Jesse's skin was hot to the touch, his temperature having risen steadily since he had sustained the injury, the downpour only having exacerbated the situation.
"Well?" demanded Dane, his voice unconsciously brusque with worry.
"We need to get him to a hospital," replied Mark, grimly. He glanced behind him, catching Steve's eyes. "Steve, can you call the emergency services, get a rescue chopper in here? We don't have any time to waste."
Steve's didn't even hesitate even as his face drained of all colour. Whipping out his cellphone, he started to place the call, simultaneously interrogating Carl about the best and nearest places to land a helicopter.

Amanda was waiting for them when they arrived on the helipad on the roof of Community General. Mark sighed heavily when he saw the frosty expression and the folded arms. He hadn't intended to keep her out of the loop on Jesse's disappearance. It was just that things had escalated whilst they had all been at the beach house and he hadn't had a chance to call her.
Or hadn't wanted to call, he admitted to himself, reluctantly, as he climbed out of the chopper, watching as they unloaded the stretcher bearing Jesse and then falling into step alongside it. The young pathologist had enough to worry about with a toddler at home and an absentee husband. She didn't need anything else on top of that.
Unfortunately, Amanda didn't see things his way when he tried to explain that to her.
"You didn't tell me!" she admonished him, reproachfully. "Jesse is my friend, too, Mark and you couldn't even call me at home to tell me he was missing!"
"He wasn't just missing, Amanda," he said, trying to hold on to his rapidly diminishing patience. He hadn't slept since the moment they had discovered Jesse was in danger and it had taken its toll on his customary equanimity. "He was under a death threat. The people who were holding him were enemies of his father and they had threatened to kill him if he didn't come up with a lot of money in time."
Her eyes widened at this revelation. The rumours about Jesse's disappearance and his father's involvement had finally made it down to the path lab that day. She had tried to substantiate the reports, knowing better than anyone the kind of outrageous gossip that permeated the corridors of Community General, her inability to contact Mark whilst he had been on his way to the Angeles forest serving to raise her suspicions about their veracity. The call to the ER from Steve Sloan, requesting an emergency airlift had then authenticated them, particularly when she overheard the identity of the patient.
Which was why she had been waiting on the helipad for the arrival of the chopper, her heart in her mouth as she saw the bundled-up form of her young friend being unloaded from the aircraft.
He looked awful. His face was bleached white aside from the twin spots of fever high on his cheeks and he was having difficulty breathing. An oxygen mask had been placed over his mouth and nostrils and he was on an IV and when she reached out to place a hand on his forehead she was shocked at the heat that emanated from the dry skin.
"Oh, Mark, what happened to him?" she gasped.
"He was shot," came the succinct response. "Amanda, would you assist in the trauma room? I could use some experienced help. I'm … a little tired."
That was an understatement. Now that she could really see her old friend in the harsh fluorescent lighting of the elevator in which they were travelling down to the ER, she was shocked at his appearance. He looked haggard and grey with fatigue, with dark smudges under his blue eyes, which were dulled with worry.
"Of course I will, Mark," she said, gentling her tone. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you. I was just … I just …"
"You were mad at me, I know," he interrupted her with a bleak smile. "I'm sorry, Amanda. I know I should have told you. I just - I think it was partly that if I admitted aloud that Jesse was going to be executed by his abductors, it would make it that much more real."
"You didn't manage to raise the money?" she enquired. "Mark, I would have helped out. You know I have money of my own."
"I know," he said. He laid one hand over hers, which was resting on Jesse's right arm. "But you couldn't have done anything, honey. They were asking for ten million dollars. Besides, it was never a question of money. The man responsible for taking Jesse hostage wanted revenge on Dane. He never intended to let Jesse go free."
The pathologist hitched in a breath at this statement, her gaze going automatically to her ailing friend. Jesse was oblivious to their presence as his head tossed to and fro on the gurney and he mumbled deliriously under his breath. "Oh, Jesse, honey …" she murmured. "But how … I mean … he got away?"
Mark nodded, as they exited the elevator and he called for a nursing team whilst they headed into the nearest trauma room. "We don't know how," he told her. "But you know Jesse. He's very inventive."
"Thank god," she breathed. Then there was no more time for conversation as they set about trying to save their young friend's life.

Dane, Cinnamon and Steve arrived at the hospital a little under an hour later. There hadn't been room on the flight for anyone other than Jesse and Mark, who had more or less browbeaten the paramedics to take him with them.
By the time they had parked and made their way to the ER, Jesse was in theatre. Mark had ceded responsibility for his care to one of the other doctors on call, knowing that he wouldn't be able to give of his best given his exhaustion and how emotionally involved he was with the patient.
He and Amanda were in the doctors' lounge awaiting the arrival of the others and he wasn't at all surprised when Steve led Dane and Cinnamon unerringly to them as soon as they arrived on the ER floor.
"How is he?" was Dane's opening salvo, as soon as they walked into the room.
Mark, who had been nursing a cup of coffee that Amanda had insisted on pouring for him, smiled ruefully. "He's stable," he replied. The weariness in his voice was palpable and Steve traded a look of concern with Amanda, who shrugged helplessly She had tried to persuade Mark to go get some rest in the on call room whilst Jesse was undergoing surgery, but he had refused point blank. Sitting in the doctors' lounge whilst she kept an eye on him was the best compromise he could offer her.
"And?" prompted Dane, single-mindedly. "Is he going to be all right?"
The older man rubbed a hand over eyes gritty with the lack of sleep. "He's been placed on broad spectrum antibiotics for the infection and the onset of pneumonia," he reported, softly. "He's been given blood to replace that which he lost since he was shot and Dr Turner is removing the bullet. Fortunately it hadn't penetrated too deeply so it should be a fairly simple procedure. It didn't hit any major organs and aside from superficial cuts and bruises to his face and torso, there were no other injuries."
"That bastard beat him!" Dane clenched his fists, his face contorted in fury at the litany of injuries. "He won't get away with this!"
"Actually, the lacerations looked more like something you'd sustain from a fall," pointed out Amanda, calmly. Worried as she still was about her young friend, she also knew that Rick Turner was an exceptional surgeon and that barring the unforeseen complications which could affect any form of surgery, Jesse's recovery from his bullet wound should be trouble-free. It was the infection that had been given the time to build, coupled with the beginning of pneumonia from being out in the rain with an already weakened immune system that concerned her.
Still, Jesse was a fighter. He had proved that by escaping from the killers in the first place. She was quietly confident that he would be all right, given time and rest.
"A fall?" echoed Cinnamon. "That must have been when he was running."
"My god, he must have been so scared." Dane sank onto the couch, his fury evaporating as images of his son's flight through the darkened forest beset him. "How could I have let it come to this?"
"Dane, you mustn't blame yourself," Cinnamon comforted him, winding an arm around his shoulders as she took a seat beside her partner.
"Why not?" Steve cut in, unable to hide his own wrath at the jeopardy in which his best friend had been placed thanks to his father's carelessness. "If Dane hadn't made contact with him again, none of this would have happened!"
"Steve, stop it." The command was issued in a quiet voice but the authority in it was unmistakeable. "Dane," Mark went on. "It wasn't anyone's fault. You had every reason to believe that Rashid was either dead or had simply given up his quest for revenge. It had been 15 years, after all. You wanted to see Jesse again, re-establish your connection with him. It's only natural. If you had known that Rashid was so intent on vengeance then you would have stayed away to protect him. We know that. Jesse knows that. He won't blame you and no-one else should, either."
The last was clearly meant for his own offspring, who looked suitably chastened at the implicit reprimand. But Dane shook his head sadly.
"No, Mark. You're wrong. I blame myself. This was my fault. I should have seen it coming. My own stupidity almost got my son killed. How do I live with that?"
"Talk to him," Mark said. "Jesse is a fine young man, Dane. You should be proud of him. He's compassionate and has a big heart. I'm pretty sure he'll be able to convince you that you're not in any way to blame for all of this. That's another of his qualities - persuasiveness."
"He had a good teacher," Amanda commented, smiling warmly, as Mark met her eyes.
"Maybe," he agreed. "But I only helped him to hone it. The ability was already there." He chuckled. "I'll never forget how …"
Mark's reminiscences were abruptly cut off as the door opened and Dr Turner entered. Five pairs of anxious eyes swivelled toward him, one question voiced in five different ways.
"Doctor ..?"
"Guy?"
"My son ..?"
"Doc ..?"
"Guy, how's Jesse?"
Turner smiled reassuringly, the expression encompassing the entire group. "He's going to be just fine," he said. "We extracted the bullet cleanly. It hadn't penetrated far enough to hit anything major. Luckily, it had glanced off one of his ribs and come to rest in the soft tissue, so we debrided the infected skin and sutured it. He's still on broad spectrum antibiotics and a saline IV and he should make a full recovery from the injury."
His words echoed Mark's reassurances of earlier. Still, Dane couldn't help the niggling worry that refused to leave him alone. "What about the pneumonia?" he asked. "He looked so sick, doctor."
"He is sick," Turner confirmed, his smile fading just a little. "But the antibiotics are working. He's already doing much better in that respect than when he was brought in. It was a combination of both the infection at the wound site and the fact that he got chilled when he was caught in some rain. His immune system had already been weakened. Something was bound to give. That and the fact that there was mud and leaves on his clothing, some of which had contaminated the wound … but he's doing a lot better. We'll be moving him from recovery soon. We're going to put him in ICU overnight - just as a precaution," he added, hurriedly, seeing the alarm that his news had provoked in all except Mark and Amanda. "We'll probably move him to a regular room tomorrow, or even later on tonight if he continues to improve."
"So he's going to be all right?" persisted Dane. His eyes were bright with emotion.
"Yes," the doctor said. "Yes, he is."
"Can I … can I see him?"
"Once he's out of recovery. I'll send someone to get you at that time."
Dane closed his eyes, sagging in relief. "Thank god."
"Thank you, Guy," said Mark. He smiled wryly at his colleague. "I've been trying for the last hour or so to convince everyone that Jesse is going to be all right. I couldn't get them to believe me."
The other man shrugged. "I guess if I had been in their shoes I wouldn't have believed it either," he confessed. "But the fact that you did such a great job at the scene helped, Mark. And don't tell me you weren't just a little worried yourself. You might be a doctor but Jesse is a friend of yours. Of course you're going to be concerned."
"Perhaps," the older man hedged. "But you'd better go and get cleaned up. And thanks for coming to let us know."
"My pleasure."

Dane stood silently, staring down at the bed on which his only child lay. Jesse was hooked up to two IV's, there was an oxygen mask over his face and the top of a pristine white bandage was just visible beneath the sheet which covered him.
Tentatively, the agent stretched out a hand to touch the blond hair, smoothing it down tenderly before sliding his fingers down toward Jesse's neck, where they rested on his carotid artery for a moment. The steady but rapid beat beneath the burning skin was proof that his boy was still living. But he would have felt a whole lot better if Jesse would just open his eyes and talk to him.
He knew that wasn't likely just yet. Dr Turner had told him that his patient would probably not regain consciousness until much later that day and even then he would probably be groggy and disoriented.
Still, that didn't stop Dane from trying to awaken him. Perhaps Jesse would hear him on some level and know that he was there.
"Jess, it's dad," he said, hearing the break in his voice and struggling to control it, for Jesse's sake. The last thing he needed right now was an emotional scene. "You're going to be all right, son. Mark took good care of you and Dr Turner removed the bullet. You're safe now, Jess and you're not going to be hurt again. I promise. I am so sorry. This is all my fault. I just … I can only tell you that I didn't know … I didn't realise. My god, Jess, I thought Rashid was dead. How could I have known he would come after you after all this time? Jess, I can understand if you can't forgive me. If that's the case then I'll go away. I'll leave you alone and I'll never bother you again. But you have to know how much I care about you, son. I would do anything to protect you. Anything."
"I'm not sure that baring your soul is exactly what Jesse needs right now," came the gentle admonishment from behind.
He spun around, to come face to face with Mark, who closed the door as he stepped further into the room.
"Mark! I … I just …"
"I know, Dane, I know." The other man's lips had compressed into a thin line of disapproval. "Jesse needs to know you're here for him. He doesn't need your guilt. Not right now. Give him time to recover a little first, at least."
"I … I didn't think he could hear me," Dane faltered. "I just … I needed to apologise, Mark. I needed to let him know …"
"Dammit, man, think of Jesse's needs!" The doctor's eyes were blazing with indignation. "What you want right now is immaterial. Believe me, I have been here where you are now. Salving your own conscience is all very well, but at least wait until he can deal with it properly. And as for him not hearing it - well, maybe not. But equally, there is a chance that he can - and you must have known that on some level otherwise you would never have said what you did." He sighed heavily at the distress his words had engendered. "Dane …"
The agent held up a stilling hand, forestalling his words. "No, no, Mark. You're right. I was wrong. I just - I needed to let him know how much he means to me."
"I think he already knows that," said Mark, with a sad smile.
"I'm not sure he does," argued Dane, dismally. "Our relationship is still so fragile, Mark. He's still so angry with me."
"He just needs time." Mark's tone was gentle. "He loves you, Dane. Never doubt that."
The other man nodded. "I know. God knows why."
"Because you're his father."

It was another twelve hours before Jesse actually awoke and even then he wasn't entirely lucid, the fever not having abated quite yet despite the medication that was coursing through his veins.
Dane sat beside him, talking to him softly, aware that Jesse wasn't listening to him; couldn't even hear him, truth be told, but unable to keep still and silent just the same.
Jesse still looked dreadful. The bruises he had sustained on his tumble down the steep incline had appeared now, a garish kaleidoscope of black, blue, red and purple. His face was wan and drawn, dark smudges beneath his eyes contrasting with the deep red blotches of fever high on his cheekbones. He mumbled continuously, occasionally crying out in panic; muffled sounds that Dane couldn't quite make out, but which caught at his heart just the same. The agent tried to soothe him with comforting words of his own, or the touch of his hand on the burning brow but nothing seemed to calm him. Then sleep claimed him once again and he drifted away, but he still tossed and turned as the heat in his body enveloped him in molten lava.

It was a full day and a half after he had been found that Jesse awoke with anything resembling coherency.
When he finally managed to focus on the room after having it spin around rather disconcertingly the first time he opened his eyes, he found he was alone. His brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of this. Fragments of memory floated around, of hushed, frightened, angry sounding voices and, later, one voice, an anguished, strangled whisper of sound that nonetheless soothed and comforted him.
Confused, he stared up at the ceiling for a moment, trying to make sense of the jumble in his mind. He recognised where he was - as if he could mistake this hospital room for anywhere other than Community General, even had he not spied the logo on the sheet around which his fist was clenched, but he couldn't remember how he had got there. Lurid details about his horrifying ordeal assaulted him as he searched through his memories for something that wasn't there. The brief tussle with Rashid; hurtling through the trees in an effort to get away; the sound of a gun and the resultant pain that had blossomed in his side. He had fallen at some point, he remembered that. He recalled lying on the long-forgotten path, amidst the detritus of the forest, confused and winded and hurting, until the impetus to get up and run had overcome the needs of his body. There had been a rainstorm and he had been drenched before finally finding his way to the road where the old man had found him.
His mind came up blank as he tried to remember any more. There was nothing there. Just pain and heat and the desperate desire to go home.
And it seemed he had got his wish.
But where was everyone?
He tensed up, wondering if this was all some elaborate hoax and Rashid had caught him, placing him in a mock-up of Community General. The reassuring sounds of footsteps and hushed conversation outside could be a recording, to lull him into a false sense of complacency.
The rational part of his mind tried to tell him that he was being paranoid. That if Rashid had caught him, he wouldn't continue to play some convoluted game with him when all he wanted to do was kill him. But the terror he had felt at the hands of the assassin was still too recent, too raw for him to be convinced by this.
He glanced around wildly, searching for his clothes, raw panic seizing him when he couldn't find them. There were two IV's attached to his arm and an oxygen mask hanging by his bed.
His chest felt tight, his breathing becoming ragged as fresh terror started to overwhelm him. He had to get out of here! He had to escape!
He had just grabbed his IV lines and was about to fling back the bedclothes when the door opened and his heart almost stopped until he saw the identity of his visitors.
"M … Mark? A … Amanda?"

The panic-stricken greeting and the look of disbelief on the face of their young friend alarmed both doctors. Mark was at his side within two strides, Amanda close behind as they tried to prevent Jesse from ripping out his IV's and getting out of bed.
"Jesse! What are you doing?" demanded the pathologist as they wrestled him back under the covers, her heart lurching as wide blue eyes flickered from her to Mark and back again in utter bewilderment.
"M … Manda?" he squeaked, then turned to his mentor. "M … Mark?"
"Yes, it's us, Jess," Mark assured him, keeping his voice even in an effort to pacify the obviously frightened young man. "It's good to see you awake finally, although I don't think Guy Turner prescribed walking on the first day of your recovery!"
The light comment seemed to have the effect he was striving for as Jesse slumped into the mattress and his eyelids fluttered closed.
"Oh man," he murmured. "I'm sorry. I thought …"
"What? Jesse?" Amanda prompted gently as his voice tailed away.
He prised open one eye again and grinned ruefully. "You guys are gonna think I'm bug-eyed nuts," he said.
"We already know that," came the teasing comment. "Well, you are!" she maintained as he glared at her.
"I thought you were my friend," he whined, adopting his patented 'Travis' pout.
"I am." She patted him condescendingly on the head, ruffling his hair in the way she knew he hated.
Sure enough, he jerked away from her touch. "Quit that!" he protested.
"So what did you think?" asked Mark, relieved that his young friend seemed to have recovered from the near hysteria that he had been descending into when they had entered the room. "That you were still a prisoner?"
Jesse's gaze locked onto his mentor's and he regarded him with something approaching awe. Sometimes he was convinced that Mark Sloan was psychic. "Uh … yes," he admitted, a little awkwardly. "I … well, there was no-one here and I got to thinking …"
"Oh no," Amanda interjected with tinkling laughter. "Jesse started thinking! That's it. The world is doomed!"
Another glare was aimed in her direction, but she merely grinned back undaunted.
"You were thinking what, Jesse?" Mark encouraged him, trying desperately to hide the grin that threatened to break out at his friends' antics
The young doctor looked a little sheepish and avoided their eyes as he answered. "Um … Well, I wasn't sure that I was here - at Community General, I mean. With you guys. I mean, I thought you guys were fakes - until you appeared, that is, then I knew. That is, I thought I knew, but I do now and …" Painfully aware that he was starting to babble, Jesse shut up, waiting for the inevitable teasing.
It didn't come.
Instead, he felt the mattress dip as Mark took a seat beside him. "Jess, I'm sorry," he said. That got Jesse's attention. His head came up and he stared at his mentor in surprise.
"What?"
"One of us meant to be here when you woke up," the older man explained. "But I got called to the ER because of an emergency and Amanda was in the path lab and Steve was forced to leave when his new partner called him about a break in the murder case."
"And we made your dad and Cinnamon go home," Amanda added, gently, from beside Mark. "Otherwise he would have been here."
Jesse shook his head in disbelief, his mind latching on to what Amanda had said. "My dad?" he echoed, incredulously. "My dad was here? My real dad?"
Mark winced at the question. Of course, Jesse had been held prisoner by a man who had looked exactly like his father - had, to all intents and purposes been his father. It must have been a hell of a shock for him to find out that he wasn't. "Yes, Jesse, your real dad. And I know this because he was with us the whole time," he added, as extra reassurance.
Jesse shuddered a little. "I … I thought he was on assignment?"
"It was a hoax," the older man told him. "All part of Rashid's plan. You … you know who Rashid is then, I take it?"
Jesse nodded, his face paling considerably as the name brought back some painful memories. Memories he would rather not have. "Yeah," he said, in a low, hollow voice. "I found out when he made that first call to my father."
Mark and Amanda exchanged glances. "You knew all that time?" breathed the older man. "What happened when they found out?"
"They … they didn't. I .. I kept up an act."
"Some act," marvelled Amanda.
"It certainly was," agreed Mark. "It may just have saved your life, Jess."
He smiled, humourlessly. "Yeah, well, didn't help when they drugged me and then he tried to shoot me," he said.
"But you got away," pointed out the young pathologist, her hand finding his and clasping it tightly.
"Yeah." He closed his eyes briefly as he felt again the cold metal against his temple, and the feeling of raw terror which had overwhelmed him as he waited helplessly for his death.
"Jesse? Jesse!"
The urgency in Mark's voice yanked him away from the nightmarish vista of his memories and he blinked rapidly, struggling to focus on the faces of his two very concerned companions.
"Uh … I … what?" he managed. "I … uh … "
"It's okay, Jess, you're safe now," Mark had grasped his shoulder and now squeezed it comfortingly.
"You promise that?" he asked, his voice faltering just a little.
"Steve's had a guard placed outside your room, and only certain people allowed in." Amanda smiled gently as he turned to her, eyes wide with astonishment.
"Really?"
"Yes, really."
"Wow!" The delightfully stunned expression on Jesse's face was a welcome sight and both friends were glad to see it. The whole effect was ruined a couple of seconds later, however, by a cavernous yawn.
"You're tired, Jesse. We should let you get some sleep." observed Mark
"But I've only just woken up!" came the plaintive response. "Don't go yet!"
"We won't be far away," Amanda promised him, patting his hand. "But you need your rest."
The pout made an attempt to return but was thwarted by yet another yawn and Jesse was finally forced to admit that they were right. His eyes were stinging with exhaustion and he knew he couldn't keep them open for much longer. "I … guess I'll see you guys later, then," he said, as both his friends rose as one, but made no move to leave.
"We'll be back later, Jesse, I promise," said Amanda. "In the meantime, get some sleep."
"Okay," he said, rather grudgingly, even as he began to snuggle down in the bed now that Mark had vacated one side of it and his eyes fluttered closed. "See you later."
A moment later he was asleep.
Neither of his friends were in a hurry to leave, instead remaining to regard him with indulgent, grateful smiles.
"Thank god he's going to be all right," whispered the young pathologist, earnestly. Then she slid her gaze across to Mark, shooting him a look that would have withered anyone else. "Don't you ever leave me out of the loop again, Mark Sloan!"
He smiled at her, seemingly irritatingly immune to her residual displeasure.. "No, Amanda," he replied, affably. "Now, how about a cup of coffee before you go home?"
Shaking her head in fond exasperation, she allowed him to lead her from the room.

When Jesse awoke again it was to the sound of dinner arriving. Timing it to perfection, Steve wandered in just as he was about to lift the lid on whatever terrible concoction it was that Community General had served to him.
"You did this on purpose, didn't you?" he grumbled, even as his friend took a seat beside him and eyed his plate with an expression that reminded him of a starving puppy. The only thing missing was the panting and the wet tongue hanging out of his mouth.
"Don't know what you mean," replied Steve, innocently, his eyes remaining riveted on Jesse's tray. "I came to see how you were and … that's not meatloaf, is it?"
Sighing deeply, Jesse reluctantly removed the cover, only to reveal his worst food nightmare and Steve's favourite Community General meal.
"Yuck!" came the less than eloquent reaction as the young doctor eyed it in distaste.
"Yuck?" echoed Steve, incredulously. "You just don't appreciate fine food, Jesse!"
Jesse shot his friend a scathing look. "I appreciate fine food fine … I mean … I like food just fine!" he protested, scowl deepening as Steve sniggered at him. "It's your taste I worry about. Just promise me, Steve, that you'll never open a restaurant. Because I can just see the menu now … plain burgers and Community General meatloaf."
"What's wrong with that?" The detective sounded genuinely bewildered.
"Well, if you don't know then I'm not gonna tell you!"
"You've just got weird tastes!"
"No, I haven't! I have taste - that's the point!"
"Are you two bickering over the food again?" came the long-suffering question from the doorway.
"Huh. This isn't food," groused Jesse, folding his arms and leaning back against the pillows which an attractive blonde nurse with a sweet smile and gorgeous blue eyes had fluffed up for him. "This is torture."
"He just doesn't appreciate good, wholesome cooking," observed Steve, stepping rather strategically out of the way as his erstwhile friend aimed a swat at him.
Mark sighed almost as deeply as Jesse had earlier. "Would you prefer something else, Jess?"
Jesse shot him a look. "Yeah!" he retorted. "Food!"
The older doctor rubbed a hand over his face. He'd had a feeling as he had walked up the corridor that he should just have left well alone. He was beginning to wish he'd gone with his first instinct and just kept on walking.
"Well, if you don't want it, I'll eat it." Immediately suiting action to words, Steve lifted the plate off Jesse's trolley and started tucking in with gusto. "No use letting good food go to waste."
"Says Steve Sloan, human dustbin," sneered Jesse, grimacing as he watched the other man chew delightedly on his lunch.
"Steve!"
The detective glanced up at his father's shocked exclamation. "What?"
"That's Jesse's dinner!"
"No, no, he can have it!" said Jesse, hurriedly, fearful that he would get it back and be forced to eat it. "It's okay, Mark. I'm not very hungry, anyway."
Two sets of eyes narrowed.
"You're not?" Mark, stepped closer to the bed, alarm bells going off in his head as he noted how Jesse's face had slowly drained of all colour during the last few minutes. "Jesse? Are you all right?"
His last question came in stereo as Steve asked the same thing, all levity forgotten as his friend deteriorated in front of his eyes.
Jesse actually looked as though he was about to throw up. His eyes were wide with panic, the green tinge to his skin indicative of his condition.
But even as Mark made a move toward the door, to order a bowl, he strove to get the urge under control. Swallowing convulsively, he tried to breathe through it, until the queasiness finally settled and he was able to utter a small sigh of relief and lean back again.
"Jesse?" queried Mark, anxiously.
"M'okay," he said, although the tremor in his voice didn't exactly reassure either of them.
"You're sure?" the older man pressed.
"Yeah." He rounded on Steve. "See? Told you that stuff made me feel sick!" he joked, weakly.
Steve smiled back at him, but his face was still fraught with worry. It wasn't so much the fact that Jesse had almost lost his lunch before he'd even eaten it, but the deep concern his friend's sudden relapse had kindled in Mark's eyes. "Well, then, it's just as well I'm eating it for you," he responded, as lightly as he could.
Jesse colour was returning, albeit in small increments and he was looking less strained by the moment. The nausea was fading, although it had alarmed him by its sudden onset. He didn't really think that the meatloaf, revolting as it might be, was to blame, but he also couldn't come up with any other explanation.
"Perhaps it's the medication," offered Mark, again seeming to read his thoughts.
He slid his gaze back to his mentor, smiling faintly. "Yeah, maybe," he conceded. "Just … it was so sudden, you know?"
Mark nodded, patting his hand distractedly. "Well, I'll see about lowering the dose again, just in case," he said. "You'll be off it altogether pretty soon, anyway, now that we have that infection under control and you've recovered from the pneumonia."
The smile deepened at the implications of Mark's words. That meant he would be discharged soon. He couldn't wait to get out of there and back to his own apartment, where he could eat what he liked without fear of restriction - or Community General's idea of 'meatloaf'.
"I feel okay," he said, and it was a lot more convincing this time.

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