Father's Day part 4

"I've canvassed the locals, dad. No-one has seen anything or anyone out of the ordinary."
"But that's the point, Steve. He wouldn't be out of the ordinary. He would be someone everyone knew or had seen around. He'd blend in."
"Then how do you suggest we find him?"
Mark rubbed at his forehead in frustration. "I don't know, son," he replied. "But there must be some way. Has anyone seen someone hanging around the beach house a little more than usual?"
"No. Have you?"
"No," he admitted, grudgingly. "But then, I've been more concerned with taking care of Jesse."
Silence fell on the other end of the telephone, then, "How is he, dad?"
"It's started," he said, simply.
"Oh, god. Dad …"
"Just … keep trying, Steve," he went on, quickly. "He may be our only chance."
"Yeah," came the dismal response.
What both men knew but weren't admitting to either themselves or each other was that even if, by some miracle, they managed to find and apprehend Rashid, there was no guarantee that they would be able to make him talk. He would probably just clam up, or request a lawyer and play for time - which was a precious commodity which they were fast running out of.
Mark could even picture the scene - the other man sitting in the interrogation room, smiling smugly whilst Steve and his new partner grilled him about the toxin and its components. The older man unconsciously clenched his fists as he fought to suppress the urge to wipe that self-satisfied smile off the face of the imaginary prisoner.
"What about other leads?" he enquired, tersely. "This chemist who made the compound?"
A long sigh echoed down the line. "We don't even know where to start looking," Steve admitted, wearily. "Well, that's not strictly true. We've got our guys compiling lists of scientists clever enough to come up with something like this and we're trying to narrow it down to people with whom Rashid has a connection but the problem is we don't know much about this guy. I've got calls in to the FBI and Interpol and they're doing similar traces. But we're talking Middle East, dad. It's gonna be … difficult."
"I know." Mark's shoulders slumped. He had hoped that they might have made some headway before now, although realistically he knew that these things didn't get solved in the space of a few hours. But they couldn't afford to wait. "Look, just keep trying, Steve. I know you're doing your best."
"Of course I am," the younger Sloan snapped. "Look, dad, I gotta go. Just tell Jesse … tell him … "
"It's all right, son, I know. He knows," interjected Mark as Steve's voice trailed away.
"They haven't found anything?"
Mark's head swung around at the timid query. "Jesse!" he exclaimed. "What are you …?"
"I'm sorry, Mark." The younger man stepped further into the kitchen, where Mark had retreated to make his call to Steve. "I guess I'm too nosy for my own good, huh?"
The words may have seemed light-hearted, but the accompanying smile didn't fool Mark for a minute. Jesse was terrified. It was evident in the new lines of strain on the boyish face and the tension that radiated from him so strongly that it practically filled the room.
Placing his cellphone back in his pocket, Mark moved toward him, dropping a hand onto his friend's shoulder, trying to conceal his anxiety at the infinitesimal tremors he could feel running through the slender frame. "Steve's not going to stop trying until he's solved this, Jess," he said, gently. "He's put all of his other cases on hold for the time being. This one is important to him."
Jesse nodded. What Mark was actually saying was that he was important to Steve - and warmth flooded through him at the sentiment, although it was tinged with remorse. "Those other cases are important, too," he insisted. "There are friends and relatives out there waiting for closure, Mark. Just because I'm his friend …"
"This is also a case of international importance, Jess," Mark interjected, before his friend's misplaced sense of guilt could gain a firm foothold. "Rashid is wanted in several countries on suspicion for acts of terrorism. Steve has been in touch with the FBI and they have a casefile on him. He's waiting for someone to get back to him with the details."
"The FBI sharing secrets? Wow." The younger man's eyes widened in wonder. "But, really, what are their chances of finding him?" he went on, sombrely. "He's obviously had years of practice outrunning them. He can become anyone. He can hide in a crowd. He … what?"
"That's it," said Mark, smiling as Jesse's words triggered something in his agile mind. "'Hide in a crowd'. That's what he's doing."
"I … "
"Let's go onto the deck for a minute, Jess," he went on, urgently. "I have a hunch."

"What are you looking for, Mark?" asked Jesse quietly a few minutes later. He had followed his mentor out onto the deck, where Mark had then stood, leaning over the handrail, staring out to sea.
"When your father and I were discussing Rashid and his methods, I realised that he would want to watch as events unfolded," Mark replied, a little distractedly. "I asked Steve to canvass the neighbourhood, find out if anyone had seen anything or heard anything. Of course, this man is like a ghost. He can become anyone. So he wouldn't stand out. He could have adopted the identity of one of our neighbours, or the postman, or one of the builders doing work down the street. Then you said something that got me thinking."
"I did?"
The older man chuckled at the surprise in his protégé's voice. "Yes, Jesse. You did. You said 'somewhere in a crowd'. And that got me thinking. What if he is in a crowd, but a crowd far away?"
"But I thought you said …?"
"I know what I said," he continued, over the confused protest. "But it occurred to me that he might not have to stick close. He might have a way of being around without actually making himself too visible.
"O …kay. Where?"
Mark pointed. "See that dot out to sea?"
Jesse squinted in the direction of Mark's finger. "Uh … yeah. It's … wait a minute … a ship? You think he's on a ship?"
The older man shrugged. "Why not?"
"But it's too far away! He'd never be able to see anything from there!"
The older doctor smiled thinly. "He would if he had a powerful pair of binoculars," he replied.
"They make binoculars that strong?" Jesse sounded doubtful.
Mark regarded him steadily. "Jess, the man is extremely wealthy. I suspect he also has access to all kinds of technology. After all, he's in the Intelligence community, even if only peripherally. He could certainly have something so powerful."
"But how does he know I'm even here?"
"He was able to fool you for a few hours into believing he was Dane," the older man pointed out, grimly. "He knows enough about you to know what your movements would be, where you were going and what your likes and dislikes are."
"So he'd know I would stay with you guys," Jesse concluded, faintly. "My god, Mark. How long was he following me, anyway?"
Stumbling backward, Jesse barely felt the impact as his spine made contact with the wall behind him. His eyes were wide with fear, his breathing harsh and erratic as the full implications of Mark's words sank in. Rashid was not only still out there. He was watching. He had been watching - not for a few months, as Jesse had originally surmised at the cabin, but possibly for years. He may even have conversed with him during the course of a normal day at Community General or going about his business outside the hospital without even realising it. My god, he could have been anyone! He could have impersonated Mark or even Steve …
"Jesse?"
Mark's voice seemed to be coming from a long way away, and it echoed tinnily in his ears. A little man with a drum had taken up residence in his head and was banging it repeatedly. His skull was beginning to reverberate with the incessant pounding and he felt giddy and lightheaded. Some rational part of him told him that this was just a panic attack - similar to the one he'd experienced in the hospital. But the other part of him didn't care. The other part of him wanted nothing more than to flee - to run as far and as fast as possible.
If only he could get his legs to move.
He could no longer hear anything above the throbbing in his head. Even the crashing of waves onto the beach below them had been drowned out. He'd closed his eyes as the deck spun nauseatingly around him and his fingers were clamped to his skull, in a vain attempt to dispel his dizziness and the worsening headache.
Sickened at the thought that Rashid was even watching this scene, he desperately fought the urge to vomit. He wasn't going to embarrass himself in front of that bastard. He wasn't.
The expression on Jesse's face was all that Mark needed to know his friend was in trouble. Without further ado, he wound his arm around the younger man's waist and steered him back into the living area. Jesse's progress across the room was unsteady at best and he practically fell onto the couch even as Mark sank down beside him, his left hand smoothing down the blond hair which had ruffled a little in the soft breeze outside.
"It's all right, Jess," he whispered, in soothing tones. "It's all right. Just take deep, steady breaths for me. That's right. That's right."
Continuing encouragingly, he watched as some of his friend's colour returned and the wild, frantic expression disappeared from his eyes. Then it was simply Jesse again, staring at him with a mixture of exasperation and chagrin.
"Uh … Mark …"
The older man smiled gently, moving back a little to allow the young man his own space again. "You had a bit of a panic attack," he explained, although it wasn't necessary. Jesse was fully aware of what had happened, hence the suddenly averted gaze as he figured out how he felt about it.
"Oh man, not again." Jesse's head lowered and he covered his face with his hands. "I've gotta quit doing that!"
"Jesse …"
"I'm so sorry, Mark," he went on, as though he hadn't even heard the other man, which he probably hadn't, wrapped in misery as he seemed to be. "I don't know what's happening to me!"
"Jesse, it's perfectly natural," Mark said, finally, recalling the almost identical conversation in the hospital a few days earlier. "You'd just found out that Rashid was watching you …"
"And had been watching me for probably years," came the muffled interruption. "My god, Mark. He could have been anyone!"
Mark had to admit he had a point. "Well, yes," he conceded. "Everyone but Amanda, probably."
That prompted a snort of laughter and Jesse raised his head to direct a mock glare at the other man.
Unperturbed, Mark shrugged. "Well, can you see anyone pretending to be Amanda?"
"No," Jesse allowed, a tiny smile playing around his mouth. "Especially not when she was pregnant. Or when she had CJ."
The recollection of the birth and Jesse's panic-stricken delivery of Amanda's baby elicited a burst of laughter from both men.
"And what about when CJ wasn't sleeping ?" Mark ventured. Both men well remembered the pathologist's demeanour during that time. Amanda's temper had been a wondrous thing to behold - when they weren't looking for places to hide from her.
"I know. She was scary!" agreed Jesse, fervently. "And so was her hair. Man ... "
"I'm just not sure how to convince you that I'm me," went on the older man, a contemplative frown supplanting the smile that Jesse's words had evoked.
"Maybe we should invent a codeword," Jesse suggested, lightly. "One that only you and me would recognise."
"Hmm … that's not a bad idea."
"Yeah … except if you're not you now how would I know if you weren't you in the future? If you aren't you now, and you were you later then I would think you weren't!"
A slightly bemused Mark was still trying to figure out whether his young friend's words made any sense when suddenly, Jesse clutched at his stomach, doubling over once more. "Jess?"
"Oh god," came the agonised groan. "Not again!"
This time the seizure lasted a lot longer. Jesse tried desperately to breathe through it, barely able to hear his mentor's encouragement as the older man clung on to him, preventing him from toppling face first onto the rug in front of the couch.
The pain spliced through his abdomen, sending tendrils of white heat crawling downwards into his groin. Vertigo assailed him, and his heartbeat boomed like thunder in his head. Sweat broke out on his upper lip and brow, adding to his discomfort, but it was the torture rippling through his torso that tore at his senses, eliciting a strangled scream of sheer agony. Rocking to and fro, trying desperately to escape the torment, he shuddered violently, his vision darkening as the razor-edged incisors of pain ravaged him.
Then it was over, as fast as it had appeared. He was clammy and cold, his face drenched with sweat and trembling with reaction. He felt Mark ease him back into the softness of the cushions behind him and he stiffened in anticipation of another attack even as he sank gratefully into their comfort.
"It's all right, Jess. It's over."
He wished he could believe that. It might be over for now, but it would return and if this time was any indication then it would be even worse. He didn't think he could endure an attack stronger than this. He felt wrung out and exhausted and he didn't dare breathe for fear of awakening the monster again.
"Jesse?"
He heard Mark's anxious voice through the roaring in his head, but he couldn't respond. He couldn't form the words that were needed to reassure the older man - as much as he wanted to. Cracking open one eye he found his mentor leaning over him, anguish in his pale blue eyes. Uncurling one arm from around his aching ribcage, Jesse reached out toward him, groaning softly as his hand was engulfed in one of Mark's own.
"Uhhh …. Can't …" he finally managed.
"It's all right, Jess. Just take your time," Mark said, softly. His voice was shaking, Jesse noted, distantly. He felt inexplicably guilty for that.
"Mmmmm … " It was no good. He couldn't even get Mark's name out. Frustrated with his own inability to even thank the man who had been beside him through this latest attack, he clenched his fist, freeing it from its hold and bringing it down viciously onto the couch.
A warm hand curled around it again as he raised it in readiness to administer another blow to the cushion beneath him. He glanced sideways. The older man was regarding him steadily and sadly, the expression mute testimony to Mark's own sense of helplessness and frustration. "Don't," came the quiet command. "I know, Jess. I know."
The young doctor subsided beneath his mentor's firm grip, closing his eyes against the sting of bitter tears. He had an overwhelming desire to just go to sleep and never wake up. He wanted this to be over. He didn't want to hurt so much.
But countering his despair was the knowledge that he mustn't give up. He valued life too highly to just lay down and die - literally. It was a precious gift, one he appreciated more and more every day in the company of the special group of people whom he called 'friends'.
Besides, he couldn't do that to them. He had to continue to fight for every second he had left. They would never expect nor accept anything less of him. And he owed them so much that he would already never be able to repay, even if he lived a lifetime. He had to hang on - for them, for what they had shared and what was still to come.
He had to find the strength from somewhere and he would.
Weakly, he moved his hand so that it was grasping his mentor's and squeezed as tightly as he was able, trying to convey in that touch alone his gratitude and his decision.
They stayed like that for several more moments as Jesse slowly recovered. Eventually, his breathing started to even out, the tiny remnants of pain receded and he was able to find the energy to speak.
"M… Mark?"
"Yes, Jess?"
"I …" He coughed a little, trying to clear his throat. It felt as though someone had been rubbing it from within with sandpaper. "Could I … have a drink, please?"
"Of course you can, my friend. I'll go get you some water. Stay there."
'And where am I gonna go?' was his first thought as Mark relinquished his hand, placing it gently on his aching abdomen. He felt like he'd just gone several rounds with Mike Tyson - and lost.
Exhausted beyond measure, he allowed his thoughts to drift aimlessly in the few minutes it took Mark to complete his task and return. Then he felt something cool being placed against his lips and automatically raised his hands to grab onto it. He was shaking so badly though that his fingernails rattled on the glass and he had to rely on Mark's assistance as he took several deep gulps of the cool liquid.
"Better?" asked the older man as he removed the receptacle from Jesse's mouth, placing it on the nearby coffee table.
The younger doctor nodded ever so slightly. "Yeah," he replied. "Much."
Mark squinted at him, taking in the new lines of strain on the perpetually youthful features, the drying tracks on his cheeks where a few treacherous tears had escaped and felt the weight of impotence settle upon his heart.
He was being forced to watch his protégé, his friend, the youngest member of his small family die and there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it!

Dane returned to find Jesse curled up on the couch, asleep. He was pale as a ghost and winced even in the midst of slumber. Mark was seated on a chair nearby, ostensibly reading a book, but his eyes were constantly straying to his young companion.
"How is he?"
The other man tore his gaze away from Jesse, to regard Dane with a steely glare. "Where have you been, Dane?" he demanded, coldly, but quietly, in deference to Jesse. He wanted him to rest as much as he could. "How could you leave him like that?"
"I had somewhere I needed to be," replied Dane, defensively, a little stung by Mark's attitude, although he knew he deserved it. It must have seemed to the other man like he had abandoned Jesse just when his son really needed him. If he were honest with himself, he didn't want to watch as his only child suffered the unendurable agony Rashid had outlined in his call. He wanted to be anywhere but here. But by the same token, he shouldn't be anywhere else.
"You needed to be somewhere other than with your own son?"
The agent bristled at the blatant challenge. He didn't have to explain himself to this man. Mark Sloan was Jesse's employer, not his father. "What I do and where I go is no business of yours," he snarled. "And I'll thank you to keep out of it."
Mark peered at him. Behind the bluster he could see the fear in the grey-blue eyes and, although he was angry on his friend's behalf at the other man, he realised he had no right to interrogate him in this way. Closing his book, he placed it on the coffee table beside him. "Dane, let's go out onto the deck and talk," he suggested. "Please," he added as the man made no move to follow him when he stood and started leading the way.
Reluctantly and with a worried glance at the bundled up figure on the couch, Dane complied, stalking after the older man and into the refreshing coastal air outside. "Well?" he demanded, once Mark had closed the doors to the house. "If you're after an explanation, Mark, then you'll be sorely disappointed. I don't have to tell you anything."
Mark ran a weary hand over his face. He couldn't blame Dane for his belligerence. After all, he hadn't exactly been the most hospitable of hosts since the other man had returned. "I'm sorry," he said. "Dane, I had no right to say any of that to you. It's just that I'm worried about Jesse and he needs you right now."
"I know that!" growled the agent. "You think I'm blind to what he's going through?"
"No." The doctor turned away from him, gazing out to sea, where the sun hung low in the sky, burnishing it with a golden hue, the effect mirrored in the gently heaving swells. "No, I don't. I think you know very well what he's going through and I think you're scared to death."
That hit home. For a few moments, Dane struggled to answer. When he did, it was with a lot less animosity than previously. "Maybe," he hedged. "But that's not why I left."
Mark frowned, then turned back to him. "You're working on finding Rashid … or … no, you're trying to locate some way to counter the toxin," he guessed.
The other man stared at him in utter astonishment. Jesse had extolled Mark's perceptive powers on more than one occasion since their reunion a few months before, but he had only had the one occasion to witness it up close and even then the deductions they had made had been somewhat of a joint effort. "Maybe," he replied, warily. "I can't tell you."
"CIA stuff," Mark said, with a knowing smile. "I understand. But why couldn't you simply say that in the first place?"
"Because I don't talk about my work with the Company," answered Dane, candidly. "Not to you … not to anyone. I don't trust many people. I can't afford to. Not in my business."
"I care about Jesse, too, you know."
The quiet statement quashed the agent's anger completely. He could see the sincerity and the concern in the frank, honest gaze and he regretted his earlier antagonism toward the man. Mark was more than just an employer to Jesse. For the past two or three years the older man had more or less fulfilled his role in the younger man's life. Not that this made him feel any better about the situation but at least Jesse had had someone there for him when his own father couldn't be. "I know you do," he said, smiling weakly. "And don't think I don't appreciate what you've done for him, Mark. I do. And I know that I can trust you with his welfare. But I have spent my life not trusting anyone except for a handful of people. You can't simply change the habit of a lifetime in a few moments. I simply am not comfortable with broadcasting my intentions to everyone - and that even includes you."
Mark nodded. "Fair enough. But, Dane, if you are looking for an antidote …"
"There is only one reason I would leave my son, Mark," Dane interjected. "And that is to try and help him. I want him to live. But more than that, I don't want to see him undergo the kind of torture …" his voice failed as he envisioned what Jesse would actually have to endure.
"Neither do I," agreed the other man, bleakly. "I just hope one of us comes up with an answer soon." When Dane remained silent, he sought to further clarify the statement. "He's getting worse," he said.
Dane's face blanched at the news. Unwelcome as it was it was not exactly unexpected. But he had fostering a vain hope that Jesse would escape the worst of the effects. "Right."
"He's going to need us, Dane - both of us," emphasised Mark. "If you're going to leave again …"
"I may need to," confessed Dane, softly. "It depends. But if so, then it will only be to Jesse's advantage."
"You are searching for an antidote to the serum. Well, we can only pray that you're successful in finding some genius who can come up with something or locate one that already exists. Because they're not having any luck so far at the hospital in concocting one."
"Rashid didn't exactly give us the most generous timescale," murmured the agent.
"It's not that," Mark replied. "The blood cells keep mutating. It's impossible to manufacture something quickly enough to affect them. By the time they've come up with a formula, things have changed. God knows why anyone would want to make this thing. It's evil."
"Rashid is an evil man," Dane pointed out, somewhat acerbically.
Mark nodded, conceding the point. "Be that as it may, if he has any more of this and can find a way to get it into the bloodstream of an entire population …"
"He has a deadly, vile biological weapon at his disposal," Dane finished off, "And we don't know how long he's had it. And I never even considered asking - not that he would have told me."
"You were more concerned with what he'd done to Jesse and this seemed a more personal act than anything else," Mark observed. "But it is something I've been considering since it happened. The only question is - how do we stop him from selling it to the highest bidder or, worse, using it himself?"
"He's already used it on test subjects," mused the agent. "But we haven't heard of anything this toxic used in a widescale manner. Maybe he's just biding his time. Or maybe he developed it only to use it for revenge."
"Injecting someone with it is a very personal act," Mark acquiesced. "And delivered that way he can't hope to infect more than one person at a time. Still, the fact remains he has this thing and I very much doubt that we're the only ones who know that."
"You're suggesting that Government agencies already know about it," said Dane, flatly. "Are you probing again, Mark?"
The older man shrugged nonchalantly. "Not at all. But I suspect that's the avenue you're already following and I suspect that Cinnamon is doing it for you. She does seem to have ways of finding out things."
"Perhaps. But what you're implying is that the CIA know about this already."
"Perhaps they do. But they may not know where to find Rashid. I think I do."
"What? Where?"
As he had done with Jesse only an a couple of hours earlier, Mark pointed out to sea, indicating the ship that bobbed along on the waves a couple of miles out. "He's watching," he said.
Dane's face darkened. "That bastard!" he breathed. "If I could get my hands on him …"
"We'd better hope that your people or others don't do it first," said Mark, sombrely. "Because I doubt very much whether they'll leave him alive to tell us how to cure Jesse; not once they have the toxin in their possession. And they're not going to care about the fate of one person when they're acting in the best interests of billions. They'll see Jess as a statistic, a necessary sacrifice."
Dane didn't respond to that conclusion. He couldn't - not without verifying it. He knew the way the Company operated and Mark was quite right. Jesse would be nothing but a dispensable pawn in the greater game of world politics and terrorism. And he wasn't going to allow that to happen to his son.
"He's not going to die," he ground out. "I'm not going to allow it."

Steve's search for Rashid and scientists capable of developing such a dangerous chemical compound had suddenly started running up against a brick wall. Not that it had been going so well before, but they had been making a little progress. Mark had called his son to tell him of his suspicions regarding the ship and Steve had called the Coastguard for their assistance. Unfortunately, they couldn't procure a warrant simply on Mark's suspicions. They needed proof that the man was actually aboard the vessel. They also needed some kind of evidence in order to board it. Steve knew they were right to demand such things. That didn't stop him doing everything he could to convince them otherwise, however, even resorting to pleading - all to no avail.
"If we storm that boat with no provocation or reasonable cause we could find ourselves in the midst of a lawsuit," he had been informed.
Thus, Tanis and Steve had been attempting to ascertain the name of the ship and where it had been berthed prior to its appearance off shore, so they could ask questions regarding its occupants.
Then, midway through the afternoon, a couple of FBI agents had appeared and, after a heated exchange of words in the Captain's office and a terse phone call to whoever was directing them, they agreed that they should all work together, although, of course, they claimed ownership of the case.
Steve was a little surprised that the FBI would send two lowly agents to help on something that involved bio-terrorism, but he wasn't about to argue it. If he started making a stink, the FBI might just take their bat and ball and go home - and they would take the little information he had managed to accrue with them.
And he would be kept out of the loop.
Which meant that he wouldn't be able to help Jesse.
So he gritted his teeth, grinned and bore it.
Utilising the precinct's computers, they had tapped into their own system, searching through files and files of names and faces and cross-referencing them with what little they knew about Rashid himself. They were also still attempting to trace the name of the ship and any other pertinent information about it so they could reasonably secure a warrant and accompany the Coastguard on their boarding party.
Then they hit their wall.
'Classified' flashed up on the screen.
"Is this your idea of a joke?" Steve snarled.
"This isn't us," replied one of the agents. "It's someone else."
Steve stared at them, nonplussed. "The only other agency with anything to gain on this would be …."
"The CIA," the other agent finished off for him.
Steve's eyes darkened with rage and he reached for the phone.

"Dad? Can you put Dane on the phone, please?"
Mark grimaced. Steve was using his 'ticked off cop' tone of voice. It didn't bode well for the agent Gingerly, he held his cell out toward the other man. "It's for you," he said.
With a puzzled frown, Dane took the phone. "Hello?" he said, curiously.
"Dane? Steve. Listen, we've just run up against a problem trying to access information on Rashid."
The frown deepened as Dane wondered what the hell this had to do with him. "And?" he prompted.
"How much does the CIA know about your friend?"
"Friend?
"Rashid," Steve clarified, brusquely.
"He's no friend of mine," snarled the other man. "You know that."
Steve didn't have the time nor the patience for word games. "I don't care," he snapped. "How much does the CIA know?"
"I don't know," retorted the agent, irritably. "Why the hell are you asking these questions?"
"Because we've just been blocked from access to information," the detective elaborated. "And it's not the FBI's doing."
"How do you know that?"
"Because they're here with us. Look, just answer my question, dammit!"
"I … I'm not sure how much they have on him, if anything," Dane admitted, reluctantly, finally grasping the situation. "Your father and I were just discussing it."
"Yeah, that figures. So you admit they might have something?"
"I wouldn't put it past them. But no-one has spoken to me about it."
"Well, don't you think it's time you spoke to them?" suggested Steve, edgily. "After all, you do work for them."
The agent sighed, running a hand over eyes gritty with the lack of sleep. "Yes, and I was trying to keep them out of it."
"Why the hell would you do that?"
"Because if they know about it, that means that they're already after him. If they find him, they will grill him, get the answers they need and they'll have no more use for him. If they didn't already know, then I didn't want to get them involved because the same scenario would play out. Either way, Jesse would be what they term 'collateral damage'. He doesn't matter to them. The big picture is what is more important."
Steve had to clench his fists to keep a lid on his fury at this cold, clinical analysis of the situation. But he knew that Dane was right. The Company would want to get the information from Rashid. They would use any tactics necessary to achieve that goal and locate the scientist who had provided him with the toxin. Jesse was a minor player in the game and of no strategic importance to them. What was one life compared with billions?
Even if that one life happened to be very important to the people who cared the most about him?
"Can you find out - discreetly?" he ventured, a little less belligerently.
"We … I've already got that in hand," confessed the agent, reluctantly. "I'm waiting for a call."
Steve allowed himself a grim smile. He should have known. Dane might not be the most effusive father and he didn't figure too highly in Steve's opinion because of what he had put Jesse through in the past, but there was no doubt that he would do anything for his son and if that included sneaking around behind the backs of his bosses, then so be it. "Okay," he said. "Let me know if you find anything. Because, believe me, if we don't get something soon, I am gonna go see them personally and I guarantee you that if I talk to them, it's not gonna be pleasant. I'm through messing around here. Jesse's life is at stake."
"You don't need to tell me that," Dane reminded him, testily.
"Maybe not. But maybe we need to tell them."
With that, he ended the call.

When Dane walked back into the living room, he was greeted with a sight that simultaneously warmed his heart and caused a pang of jealousy .
Mark was seated on the couch beside Jesse. The younger man was awake, barely and staring at his mentor owlishly through sleep-glazed eyes. A small smile played around the corners of his mouth as they spoke softly. Dane couldn't tell what they were saying but it appeared to be something humorous as Mark was laughing softly.
What hurt his heart though was the way that the older man was clasping Jesse's hand - tightly, but almost distractedly, as though he didn't even realise he was doing it. And then there was the expression in Jesse's eyes - an expression he remembered from a long time ago, when his son had looked at him in the same way. He knew he didn't deserve Jesse's love, although he had it anyway - Jesse may have been angry at him over the years but he had never stopped loving him - but he wanted so much to gain his son's trust.
And he had failed in that endeavour each and every time.
But there was someone whom Jesse confided in, in whom he had the utmost faith and that was Mark Sloan.
It rankled the agent, even though he acknowledged the fact that he had a long way to go before he could regain the easy acceptance with which Jesse regarded him once upon a time.
In fact, they may never get that back. Too much time had elapsed; too many things had happened. There would always be an element of doubt in their relationship now, fostered, he knew, by his profession. He was and would always remain a Company man and that meant that he would always be forced to change plans at the last minute and continue letting Jesse down.
He didn't think it was possible for Mark Sloan to do that. Jesse idolised the man - that much had been evident right from the beginning of their re-forged relationship - although he had never said as much out loud. Dane, however, was very good at picking up on signals - in his profession it paid to be perceptive; otherwise you could get killed - and he had sensed the high regard and affection which the older man attracted from his protégé.
Mark Sloan had his faults, certainly and Jesse was not averse to making gentle fun of them from time to time. He was neither blind nor stupid. But the qualities that drew him to his mentor were ones that Dane had spent half a lifetime trying to eradicate - because having feelings hurt too much when you did the kinds of things he had done.
And somehow, without him even realising it till just now, his obsession with eliminating those he loved from his life had resulted in him losing his only child to another man.
At that moment, he both hated and felt deeply envious of Mark Sloan.

The path lab was in darkness, only the lambent glow spilling in from the corridor outside providing any illumination at all. Curious shapes loomed in the murky interior, shapes that in the light were ordinary, everyday objects such as the examination table, the shelving unit which held books on anatomy and the science of pathology and the equipment that was used to examine the corpses which were brought in.
Amanda sat hunched over her desk, head in her hands. She was exhausted, physically, mentally and emotionally.
She had watched practically all day as the lab technicians in Toxicology ran every conceivable test, tried every method possible in order to concoct an antidote to the toxin running rampant in Jesse's blood. Nothing worked. Each time they came up with a new formula, it had already been superseded by the mutant cells which had developed in the meantime.
It was a losing battle.
But they continued fighting it, hoping that at some stage, by some miracle, they would win the war.
Amanda had been on the verge of complete collapse when one of the technicians had advised her to get some rest. She had demurred, insisting that she be allowed to help, or at least observe - in that way she felt as though she was doing something for Jesse. But she had been gently manhandled out of the lab and practically frogmarched to an on-call room, where she was ordered to lie down and get some sleep.
That was a commodity which had eluded her, however. Every time she closed her eyes, all she could see was her young friend. Imagining what he might be going through was in many ways worse than the actual reality and it haunted her constantly as she recalled how close they had come to losing him last time.
So she had staggered out of the on call room and found herself in her darkened pathology lab. The gloom matched her mood so unerringly that she didn't even stop to turn on the lights, but closed the door gently behind her and stumbled to her chair, which was where she still sat.
She hadn't spoken to Mark since earlier that day when he had visited the hospital with yet another sample of blood. His eyes had been bleak, his face grey and lined with the pain of impending loss. She had swallowed the empty reassurances she had been about to voice, instead reaching out to him and allowing herself to be held - giving comfort as much as receiving it.
It was as much as she could do.
After the test, he had hurried back to the beach house. She had watched him go with a heavy heart and a mind filled with turmoil
She desperately wanted to see Jesse, yet her overpowering need to simply do something about his situation kept her at Community General.
Now she was so worn out, she could barely move. She thanked god that Colin had CJ that week. At least she didn't have to worry about leaving her baby alone.
The baby that Jesse had brought into the world.
A miracle.
A memory that still possessed the power to make her smile in fond reminiscence of a panicked intern who had eventually demonstrated the type of doctor he was going to be. A dear friend who had been thrilled and proud and had gotten just the tiniest bit carried away when she had told him she was going to name her baby after him.
Colin Jesse Livingstone
He had been so excited, she remembered. So animated. He hadn't come down from the ceiling for a week afterward.
A sob broke out of her at what she stood to lose if they didn't discover some antigen to this terrible poison.
The dearest of friends. The gentlest, kindest, most compassionate man she had ever met, apart from Mark. A wonderful and gifted doctor and surgeon.
He didn't deserve this.
Another sob broke free.
Then another.
Before she knew it, she was weeping inconsolably.

"I'm sorry, Jess."
The young man blinked up at his father, confusion lurking in the blue eyes. "Sorry?" he echoed. "What for?"
"For getting you into this."
Jesse regarded the other man in disbelief. "But it's not your fault!" he declared.
"If I hadn't killed that man's son, then you wouldn't be in this mess," maintained Dane, miserably. "You wouldn't be going through all of this."
Jesse shook his head in helpless frustration. He couldn't believe his dad was beating himself up about something that so patently was not his responsibility. Sure, he had killed Rashid's son, but Jesse knew that it hadn't been cold-blooded murder. There had been a reason for it - and a good one, too, probably. Rashid was entitled to be angry about his loss, sure, but he was not entitled to have his retribution in this manner. It was cowardly and despicable. He would have considered it to be so even had he not been the target of the man's vengeance. "Dad, please stop," he urged the older man, who was seated beside him on the couch where he seemed to have spent the majority of his time since leaving the hospital only a day ago. Had it only been a day? So much seemed to have happened in that short space of time. "You're not to blame for any of this. Rashid chose this course of action. Not you. He's got a right to be angry about what you did, sure. He even has a right to hate you. But a life for a life is never right, no matter who you are. You couldn't have foreseen this. I mean, it was so long ago. Who knew that he would have planned this for so long? Please don't do this to yourself. I don't blame you. I never have. Not really."
Dane couldn't look his son in the face any longer. He couldn't meet those clear blue eyes; he couldn't take Jesse's easy forgiveness. He sat hunched over, staring disconsolately at the floor, wondering what he could have done differently that would have prevented this situation. The answer was - nothing. Had he not taken action all those years ago, then innocent people would have been killed. Many innocent people. He had made a split-second decision and now Jesse was paying the price.
He didn't know how his son could even bear to look at him.
So lost in his own wretchedness was he that he didn't notice at first that a gentle, long-fingered hand had been laid on his forearm. When he did he had to suppress the sob that rose in his throat, threatening to choke him.
How could he ever have doubted Jesse's feelings for him? How could he have been so selfish, so blind to his son's needs?
"Jess, I …" He got no further as the hand suddenly tightened painfully. Swivelling his head around he was horrified to discover that Jesse was in the throes of a seizure - something he had not been around to witness previously.
The younger man was bent double, one hand clutching his abdomen whilst the other relinquished its grip on his arm and dug into the sofa, making an agonised indentation in the material.
"Jesse!"
His panicked cry brought Mark running from the deck, where he had retired to leave the father and son in peace. The doctor's jaw tightened as his eyes fell on Jesse and he was crouching beside him almost before the agent's voice faded away.
"Jess?"
There was no response from the younger man. He was too busy striving to fight the clawing tendrils of pain that were ravaging him like some maddened beast. The agony was all-encompassing, blotting out sight and sound until the entire world dwindled to the struggle between it and him. He couldn't even cry out. It was robbing him of the ability to even breathe, let alone form sounds. It tore through him, wreaking havoc on his body, not allowing him a moment's respite, until he thought he might go mad from the sheer intensity of it.
It went on and on, torturous minute after torturous minute and he prayed for an end to it, hoped desperately that oblivion would claim him so that he could be free.
A grey haze descended and he toppled forward, not even feeling the hands that prevented him from falling to the floor. His mouth was twisted in a grotesque grimace of pain, his teeth bared as he felt himself being ripped asunder from within. His blood pounded in his ears and his heart thudded madly in his chest.
He couldn't stand it.
This was too much.
A silent scream issued from between bloodied lips whilst tears of agony leaked out from behind tightly shuttered eyelids, trailing down his colourless face.
Mark just held on, praying that his friend's torture would end soon and feeling utterly powerless in the face of such monstrous agony. Jesse's head was wedged into his shoulder, and the tremors that ripped through the younger man were transferring themselves through his touch.
He didn't know how long the agony lasted; had stopped counting the minutes, when, gradually, he felt the lessening of the tension in the tormented form and Jesse drew in a long, shuddering breath.
"Jess?" he ventured, quietly. "Jesse?"
For a long, unspeakably unbearable moment, Jesse didn't respond. Then, slowly, he lifted his head, squinting at the older man. His eyes glistened with moisture and Mark lifted one hand to gently wipe away the tracks of moisture from the ghost-white face. "Oh … god …" Jesse managed, at length. His voice was coarse and rough with pain and his entire body was quivering from the sheer force of the attack. "Mark …"
"Here, lay down again," counselled the older man, easing his friend downwards, frowning as the young doctor winced, the ragged intakes of air mute testimony to his increasingly frail state. "Dane, can you get me a glass of water?" he went on, not even sparing a glance toward his friend's father, so intent was he on Jesse's welfare.
A wan smile twitched at the corners of Jesse's mouth as the pain continued to subside and he could breathe easily once more. But it had left its legacy in the growing weakness of his body and a distant throbbing in his head that threatened to erupt into a full-blown headache at any moment.
"I wish I could give you something for the pain, Jess," Mark went on, regretfully. "But …"
"Don't … want anything to … interact with toxin …" gasped Jesse. "Too … dangerous."
"I'm afraid so," agreed Mark. "I just feel so …"
"Don't." Jesse managed to hold up a hand to still his mentor's forthcoming apology. He was alarmed to discover, however, how badly it was shaking and quickly lowered it again. "S'not your … fault, Mark." His voice still sounded as if it had been dredged from hell. "S'okay …."
His eyes were fluttering closed despite his best attempts to keep them open. He felt vaguely annoyed at his inability to remain awake, but also had to acknowledge that this was wearing him down; exhausting him. And he still wasn't fully recovered yet from the shooting and his bout of pneumonia. It was all taking its toll on his vastly depleted energy, draining the last dregs. He wondered if he would have the strength to cope with another attack and then discarded the notion. He didn't even want to think about the next time.
Before he knew it, he had drifted off, the delicate touch of fingers ghosting across his brow the last thing he felt before sleep finally claimed him.

"My god, that was … that was …"
Mark glanced upward at Dane as he uttered the choked exclamation. "Yes, it was" he said, grimly, responding to the words the agent hadn't been able to voice.. "And they're getting worse."
The agent sank down onto the couch, at the opposite end from his son. Jesse looked peaceful for now, all trace of the hellish pain gone from his face, the only outward evidence of this most recent assault on his body the drying tear tracks on the finely sculpted cheeks.
Tentatively, he reached out, resting his hand on Jesse's right ankle. It was the contact he craved and yet couldn't allow himself. He had only been able to watch, completely immobilised by shock and horror, as Mark took his place at Jesse's side, enfolding the agonised younger man in his arms as Jesse crumpled into him. He had listened with an increasing sense of resentment as Mark had crooned soothing, nonsensical words which Jesse was obviously incapable of hearing but which had obviously reached him on some level. But still he had been unable to move, unable to displace the man who had found his way into Jesse's heart. He had felt a sense of longing overwhelm him, but fear and helplessness had kept him from acting on the impulse.
And now it was too late again.
He seemed destined to forever fail his only child.
And he hated it.
He hated everything about this situation.
"Dane?"
Mark's concerned query broke through the miasma of his thoughts and he strove to force his attention back to the other man. He couldn't keep all that he was feeling from his face, despite automatically donning the mask that he always wore as he turned to face the doctor.
"Dane …"
"Don't … Mark. Just … don't," he said, quickly, stopping the other man before he could even say anything. "I … I'm not much use here. Maybe I should just go.
"No!"
The retort was quick and sharp and anger flashed across Mark Sloan's amiable features.
"But I …"
"Jesse is your son," the older man went on, sternly. "He needs you here. You can't desert him again, Dane. How many times do you think you can do that before he starts to believe that you don't care about him?"
Stung by the accusation, Dane inhaled sharply. "I do care about him!" he shot back. "I love him! You know that!"
"I know." Mark's tone had gentled, but still bore a trace of annoyance. "Dane, we both know how special he is. He doesn't. He's never thought of himself as anything particularly special. I suppose that's the legacy he's been left by the life that he's had."
There was no censure in the other man's words, but they hurt just the same. Dane hadn't fully appreciated the extent of the hurt his departure and the divorce had inflicted upon their son until this moment. "I … I never meant … I never stopped thinking about him, Mark," he murmured. "I never meant to have him think otherwise."
"I know." Again, there was no condemnation, but he heard it anyway. "And don't get me wrong, Dane. Jesse isn't some broken person who looks for approval to anyone and everyone. He's bright and intelligent and full of life - it's not an easy task to keep his enthusiasm for everything from bubbling over, although, believe me, we've tried. But any pain he does feel - he hides. It's as though he believes that if he lets anyone see it, they'll leave. I suppose that's what being without you has done to him. Not that he talked much about you. And he doesn't talk much about his mother at all."
"He loves his mom, Mark," Dane said, smiling sadly at the picture the other man was presenting of the young man who, even now, winced slightly as low level pain reached him even in slumber. "He loves us both though god knows we've never given him reason to. We were so happy when he was a kid. We had what some would say was a normal family life. All of that changed when I had to leave them. I know his mom took it hard. She was already a bit of a workaholic by that time, trying to build up her practice. After I left … Jesse never had a bad word to say about her but I get the impression that he was left alone a lot and I understand that she's very rich and very successful now. You can only get that way by years of hard work and sacrifice. Unfortunately, it was Jesse who was that sacrifice. Not that I blame her. She was hurting too and it was her way of coping. We all did the best I could, I guess. I just wish he hadn't been the one to suffer."
"Well, he managed," Mark said. "He makes friends easily, Dane. He's never going to be alone."
"Not again, anyway," muttered the agent, a little ungraciously, noting the way the doctor's pale blue eyes softened as he glanced toward their sleeping companion.
"No," Mark agreed, with a sad smile. "Not again."

Jesse slept for a good few hours. When he finally managed to prise open his eyes again, it was daylight and he seemed to be alone.
Blinking groggily, his gaze wandered around the room, finally coming to rest on the doors leading to the deck. He smiled. Two figures were silhouetted in the dim illumination of the overcast sky. They were deep in conversation and appeared oblivious to his return to the land of the living.
He winced as he drew himself upward, biting back a cry as a sudden, sharp pain lanced through his stomach and tensing in fearful anticipation of a fresh onslaught of the torture of the previous day. But nothing happened and, slowly, he exhaled, infinitesimal tremors racking his slight frame as he moved, very, very carefully, praying that he could get to his feet without collapsing.
He felt completely enervated. He had no strength to speak of and his legs threatened to give way beneath him as he took a step away from the couch. Flailing out with one hand, he managed to snag the back of the chair nearby and stood for a long moment, wavering unsteadily, his vision greying alarmingly before the room slowly swam back into focus.
Then he realised he was no longer alone.
"Uh … hey," he managed, before a firm hand grasped his elbow and steered him back toward the couch. "Wh ,,,?"
Before he could utter a word of protest, however, he was being guided downward and found himself seated once more.
"What did you think you were doing?"
Mark's voice was stern but there was no harshness to it. Instead, it contained an element of concern than mortified him. He swallowed and managed a wobbly smile as he looked upward to meet his mentor's gaze. "I … uh … I was just … I need the bathroom," he finally said, realising with a start what had actually awoken him - a pressing need which was fast becoming all-consuming.
"Oh." Evidently, Mark hadn't accounted for this. Jesse guessed he had been a little preoccupied with making sure he didn't fall flat on his face to wonder about why he was on his feet. "I'm sorry, Jess. Come on, I'll help you."
Jesse flashed the older man a horrified look. "Uh … I can manage, Mark," he insisted, wishing he didn't sound quite so pathetic. His voice was raspy from sleep and the vicious seizures that had ripped him asunder only hours before.
But the older man paid no attention to his feeble protest, instead hauling him upright, albeit as gently as possible. Jesse, lost in a haze of exhaustion and low-grade pain, heard him giving curt directions, then another pair of hands steadied him and started to guide him out of the room.
"D … dad?"
"It's okay, Jess," came the modulated tones of his father's voice in his right ear. "I've got you."

Dane was forced to wait outside the bathroom as Jesse ground to a halt when he was about to help him inside. The younger man could barely stand but he wasn't about submit to this final indignity. As long as he was still conscious and able to fend for himself he was going to do so and stubbornly informed the older man of this, refusing to even budge until Dane had acquiesced to his demands.
The agent paced back and forth by the closed door, periodically pausing to put his ear to it and listen, utterly convinced that his son was now a boneless heap on the floor as all his queries as to his welfare went unanswered.
Just as he was about to break down the door, however, it opened, and a white-faced Jesse staggered out, practically falling into his father's arms. He grinned goofily up at him as the older man shifted his weight, gaining enough purchase on his son so that he didn't fall flat on his face.
"'M okay," Jesse mumbled, although his assurance was not at all convincing, considering he looked like he was hovering on the edge of unconsciousness. Dane shook his head in fond exasperation and, wrapping a strong arm around the younger man's waist, prepared to take him back to the living room.
Mark's sudden appearance, however, stopped him in his tracks.
"He needs to lie down on a proper bed," the doctor said, unable to quite conceal his dismay at how fast the symptoms were presenting themselves.
Dane nodded. "All right. Which room?"
"This way," replied the other man, indicating the direction with an inclination of his head and resisting the strong urge to help Dane with Jesse. He was determined to step back for the time being and allow them some time to be together. It was hard, though - harder than he had anticipated. Every instinct was screaming at him to take care of his young friend and only the pain he had inadvertently detected in Dane's eyes as the agent had watched him comfort the younger man a little while before stopped him.
So he contented himself with merely directing the other man and his precious burden to one of the guest rooms - one that would be very familiar to Jesse, as he had actually stayed in it on several occasions during the past couple of years.
Dane lowered his son onto the bed very carefully, frowning as the younger man's eyes closed completely and his breathing evened out. "He's asleep again," he murmured. "Is this an effect of the toxin?"
"I'm not sure," replied Mark, honestly. "Possibly. But don't forget that he's only been out of hospital a couple of days and he's still recovering from that bout of pneumonia. He was pretty tired to begin with, and these seizures have depleted his energy even more."
"What … energy?" came the weak quip from the bed as a pair of glassy blue eyes popped open to squint up at them.
"I thought you were asleep, young man," Mark admonished him, gently.
"Don't … wanna go to … sleep," protested the young doctor, petulantly, although both older men heard the underlying fear behind the statement - Jesse was obviously afraid that if he closed his eyes now he would never open them again.
"Then what do you want to do?" asked Dane, settling on the bed beside his son, his hand poised somewhat shakily over the blond hair, as though desperate to touch it, an intimate gesture Mark would never have hesitated in using with his own son, but which he knew didn't come naturally to the CIA agent.
"Why don't we … try figure out what to do?" suggested Jesse. The intense gaze strayed from one to the other, in an eloquent plea for some form of normalcy in an abnormal situation. "It's … it's what we do in … circumstances like … this one … right, Mark?"
The older doctor felt like crying. "Yes, my friend," he said, unable to quite disguise the tremor in his voice. "Yes, it is."
"I … I was thinking about Rashid …"
"And?" prompted Mark, gently.
"Well … if … if he's on that ship …. Like you said …even with … binoculars … isn't it an awful long way out for him to … for him to enjoy my …. my imminent demise?"
A crooked grin accompanied the words, but neither man was fooled into thinking they had been easy to say, and this was further evidenced by the hesitancy in which they were uttered.
"Yes, yes it is, Jess, but…"
"Hang on, Dane," Mark interrupted. He had been wondering the same thing ever since the moment he had figured out where the assassin might be. Whilst Rashid had a clear view of the beach house, he did not have access to its interior, and would not get the full benefit of his revenge from merely observing the house itself. "What are you thinking, Jess?"
"Well …" The younger man peered around the room, as though searching for something. "I was wondering …."
"You know, that's good thinking, Jess," murmured the older doctor, following both his protégé's line of sight and also his thoughts. At Dane's quizzical look, he mouthed 'Bugs. Cameras'.
Dane scowled, his eyes flashing with fury as he fully comprehended the lengths to which his adversary had undoubtedly gone to ensure he witnessed in full the culmination of his plan. He was also livid with himself for not realising it sooner, although his attention had been somewhat diverted elsewhere since returning to the beach house. "Bastard," he muttered, venomously and then smiled as the outraged expletive prompted a feeble snort of laughter from Jesse.
Silently, both older men rose and started to examine the room carefully. Dane, knowing exactly what to look for and in which places to search, located the first camera and mike. It was a sophisticated piece of equipment - unwired, tiny, but powerful. It gave him immense satisfaction to fling it onto the wooden floor and stamp on it, grinding his heel into the shattered remains until he was certain it was completely destroyed.
Jesse was powerless to do any more than watch as Mark and his father then continued their search - pouting slightly when it took them out of his room and into the others. But he listened as they discovered more and more of the devices, each of which was eliminated in a similar fashion, judging by the various crunching sounds.
Half an hour later, both older men were back in his room, huge, satisfied grins lighting up their faces, which, the younger man noted with a pang of guilt, were equally grey with fatigue.
"All done?" he asked. He was feeling a little stronger now, his enforced rest in a comfortable bed having done him the world of good, albeit only temporarily.
"We certainly are," growled Dane. His expression was dark and forbidding and for the first time ever, Jesse truly appreciated how dangerous his father could actually be. "I swear, I am going to kill that man and I shall enjoy doing it - slowly."
"Well, not just yet," cautioned Mark, in an even tone. "We need to get the antidote from him first."
"He's not going to deliver that up, Mark," responded the other man, stonily. "He'd rather die than see all his plans go to waste now. In fact, I suspect he'd be only too pleased to give up his life knowing what he's done and what little we can do to stop it."
"Dad …"
Suddenly realising he had just all but condemned his son to a hideous death, Dane turned to him, utterly stricken. "Jess … oh god, I'm sorry …"
"It … it's okay." But the younger man's reassurance was tenuous at best. He had scrunched down further in the bed and the smile that he had forced to his face was decidedly shaky.
"No, it's not okay." Dane sank down onto the bed, scrubbing a hand over his face. He needed a shave, he realised, as his fingers slid across day-old stubble. "I should never have said that."
"Why not? It's true."
The blunt statement just made him feel ten times worse. He couldn't even bear to look his son in the eyes, but stared instead at the door, wishing he could escape from this nightmare and take Jesse with him. "That might well be," he allowed. "But I shouldn't have said it aloud."
"Dad …Dad, look at me."
He couldn't ignore that soft request. "Jess …"
"I'm not dumb, dad, so don't treat me as if I am," Jesse said, firmly as his father turned reluctantly to face him. "I know the score, okay? I … lived with the man for three days and I … saw what he was capable of. He's had a long time to … to plan this and … he's not about to give it up now. You only vocalised what … what we all know. Don't … beat yourself up over that."
"But I shouldn't have said it," he insisted, wretchedly. His hand sought out that of his son's and came to rest lightly on top of it. "You didn't need to hear that from me - of all people."
"Why not?"
Dane gaped at him in bewilderment. "Why not?" he echoed. "Because I'm your father and I should have kept it to myself."
"Why?"
He was suddenly flung back more than twenty years to a time when his then two year old son had begun to talk and ask questions - incessantly. And his favourite had always been 'why'. 'Why does the sun shine, daddy?' 'Why does it snow, daddy?' "Why can't I do that, daddy?' He shook his head in fond reminiscence. "You've never changed," he said.
"Huh?"
The confused expression on the younger man's face dragged him rudely back to the present. "Why? Because I should be reassuring you, not making you feel worse."
Jesse laughed somewhat bitterly. "I don't … think you could make me feel any worse than I do," he said.
"Jess …"
"Jesse .."
The young doctor's eyes slid from one man to the other and he sighed heavily. "I'm sorry, but … let's face it. We're not gonna … find an antidote. Not in time, anyway. If Rashid had … someone concoct this thing then … then we're gonna have to find the scientist who developed it and … how likely d you think that is?"
"Not very," Dane admitted, grudgingly. "But we're not just going to give up."
"I … never said you should. But we gotta be realists, dad. We have to face the fact that … this time, we might …. might not win."
"Jess … " Dane's voice tailed off as he traded glances with a grim-looking Mark. Jesse was right. Their chances of locating the scientist who had come up with the toxin and getting the antidote out of him in time were astronomical. But he couldn't just give up. None of them could. This was his son's life and he wasn't about to let him go willingly. He was going to do everything he could to save him, even if it meant giving up his own life in the process.

"We've discovered the identity of the nurse Rashid claimed to have killed," Steve informed his father by cellphone a little later. "His name is Dwight Malcolms."
"And?" prompted Mark.
"He's disappeared," came the grim news. "His landlady hasn't seen him in three days and he didn't report for his shift at Community General yesterday morning."
"You haven't found a body yet?"
"No." The detective heaved a huge sigh. "Look, dad, we already knew he wasn't lying when he told us how he got into the hospital. This only serves to further validate the truth of his statement. The problem is, we still can't get to him."
"What about the ship?" Mark asked. "Have you found out the name yet?"
"Apparently, it's called the 'Sea breeze'. We're still trying to trace the owners. We can't just board it on a whim, which is what it would be if we tried. They'd never let us on. We need probable cause and your suspicions aren't valid enough for that."
The older man nodded. "I know," he said. "And even if you could get aboard and Rashid was there, it wouldn't do you any good. He won't talk, Steve. He's achieved his objective now. He's not about to give up on it."
"Yeah, I know." His son sounded as disconsolate as he felt. "So why are you calling?"
"Dane and I found some surveillance equipment at the beach house," Mark said. "It proves he's nearby - although it doesn't prove he's on the ship, unfortunately.
"What?"
"Cameras, microphones … he's been watching and listening whilst we go through hell." 'Whilst Jesse goes through hell', he amended, silently.
"That could mean he's anywhere!" exclaimed the detective. "Hell, dad, that ship could just be out there fishing for all we know! He doesn't even have to be in the vicinity with that equipment monitoring everything for him!"
"Actually, he does," the older man countered. "Dane destroyed all but one - which he dismantled. He says that it's a short-range transmitter although he'll need Cinnamon to check out the actual distance involved. He's taken it to her."
"How's Jesse taken his dad leaving again?"
"He knows why he's gone this time, Steve. He knows that it's to try and save his life."
"Yeah."
"But?"
"But as you said, it doesn't much matter if we find Rashid before … I mean in time … you know. What we need is the antidote and he's not gonna give us that."
"What we need is what the Feds would call 'intel'," Mark mused. "And that can only be found by doing what you're doing and trying to find his accomplice. Maybe he'll be more pliable."
"As long as he isn't some kind of control freak like Rashid," came the bleak response. "Look, we're not gonna stop. You know that. I just … I wish I could be there, but …"
"Jesse knows that, son," Mark reassured him. "He knows you're doing everything possible."
"But it's not gonna be enough, dammit!" Steve fumed. "We need more time …"
"That's something I can't give you, Steve. It's something we simply don't have."
"Yeah, I know."
Mark had never heard his son sound so weary. They were all expending energy they didn't have in a futile race to locate something they weren't even sure existed.
But the price of simply standing still and doing nothing was far too high.

Jesse was staring listlessly out of the window when Mark returned to the room. The older man had trodden quietly, in case his young friend was sleeping. Instead, he caught him unawares, as Jesse dropped the façade he was so desperately trying to hold together for everyone else.
The older doctor felt his heart lurch at the sight and at the very real prospect that this bright, eager, vibrant young life might well be extinguished by the same time the next day. Stepping through the door took every ounce of courage Mark could muster. He too was playing his part, with his staunch conviction that everything would be all right; that they would, as on every previous occasion, win the day. Deep down, however, darker opinions held sway. That this time they were battling an adversary which would not surrender, nor give an inch; this time, the conflict would end in their defeat.
He recognised the darkness of his thoughts as the product of his increasing despair as the hours ticked by with no resolution. But he could no sooner stop them than he could hold back the tide.
Jesse glanced toward him as the floorboard creaked beneath his foot and flashed him a warm smile. "Hey, Mark."
" Hey, Jess. How are you doing?"
The younger man lifted one shoulder in response. "Okay, I guess," he hedged. "Was that Steve on the phone?"
Once again, Mark marvelled at his friend's astuteness, a trait they both shared. He recalled the day two years before when a newly arrived intern had entered a dead man's house to search for clues, only to discover Mark already there, looking through his computer files. The older man had been bemused by Jesse's sudden and unexpected appearance, and the chagrined expression that had fallen when his mentor admonished him for practically breaking and entering that had soon disappeared when Mark had inferred that Jesse reminded him of himself.
"You just can't help yourself, can you?" he had demanded, with soft laughter.
Now, however, there was little cause for amusement. Jesse was trying to make light of his situation, trying to focus on anything other than what the future held for him, but it was impossible not so see the struggle he was having tamping down his fear.
"Yes, it was," he said, in response to the question.
"He's not having much luck, is he?"
Sinking down onto the bed next to his young protégé, Mark tried to keep his tone light when he felt very much like crying. "Now how do you know that?"
"I can see it in your face," the younger man told him. He looked as though he was about to say more when a violent shudder suddenly wracked his slender frame.
"Are you cold, Jess?" queried Mark, noting for the first time that the young doctor's lips had turned slightly pale - almost blue.
Jesse nodded, miserably. "Yeah," he said, trying and failing to suppress the deep, numbing chill that had abruptly beset him. He hitched in a ragged breath. "God, … Mark …"
Eyes widening in alarm, Mark leaned over to put the back of his hand to his friend's forehead. There was no heat in his skin at all. In fact, the pale flesh was almost glacial to the touch. This was a symptom of the poison about which they had not been forewarned and had not, therefore, been expecting. Jesse was already curling into a tight ball beneath the bedclothes, as if to preserve what was left of his rapidly diminishing body heat, but it was already too late.
"Jesse?"
The diminutive form didn't respond, except to wrap his arms even tighter around himself, his knees already jammed up into his chest. His teeth chattered uncontrollably as the incessant shivering continued and he could barely draw breath as his extremities turned to ice in a matter of seconds. He could hear Mark talking to him, but the roaring in his head drowned out the actual words. He felt the movement of the bed as Mark left him and wanted to beg him not to go. But before he could even attempt to vocalise the plea, the mattress dipped as the older man returned and something heavy was tucked securely around and beneath him.
"M … M …. M …" Even his tongue seemed to be frozen to the roof of his mouth as the frigid cold engulfed him, its cruel, pervasive fingers reaching out to squeeze the very breath out of his lungs.
"It's all right, Jess," the older man crooned, rubbing his friend's shoulders and torso briskly through the thick blankets he had wrapped around him. But nothing seemed to be helping. The diminutive form was being ravaged by the unremitting motion, his face buried so deeply into the pillow that Mark was afraid he would suffocate. "Jesse … don't …"
He was reaching toward the blond head when the first convulsion hit. Without warning, the slender body was suddenly bent backwards in a vicious, painful paroxysm. An agonised scream burst from Jesse's throat, brutally cut off midway as he fought for air, twisting and writhing in sheer agony.
Long, agonising moments passed, during which all Mark could do was watch as his friend suffered through the throes of this latest torment. The boyish face was contorted into a teeth-baring grimace, eyes tightly shut, dark lashes spilling over waxen cheeks. The ghastly white of his skin was accentuated by the pale blue lips and the prominent veins bulging out on his neck as the spasm distorted his spine, arching it into a painful-looking bow.
The doctor was wracked with despair over his inability to help. Although as a physician he knew better than to try to restrain a convulsing patient, as a friend and surrogate father, it was very hard to simply do nothing.
Mark considered himself a reasonable, rational man, but nothing made him angrier faster or caused him more pain than the cruel things humans could do to each other in the name of greed, or revenge.
Whoever had concocted this vile substance that now coursed through his young friend, putting him through such a horrendous ordeal, was nothing short of a monster. Science was an art-form which he prized very highly for its ability to help and heal people and he loathed how it could be put to such a vile use. It was a despicable thing to do to someone and he believed that it took someone with a sick and twisted mindset to concoct such a loathsome substance - especially if it had been designed to act as a biological weapon to kill indiscriminately and not simply as a tool for one man's vengeance.
And seeing the manifestation of its effects at such close quarters, in such a close friend enraged him and made him even more determined to continue to stamp out the evil that existed in society.
In the meantime, however, he was incapable of doing anything to save his friend from what he was going through.

Dane had reached Cinnamon's with the one complete but deactivated bug only to discover that she was trying to call him.
"I have a lead," she told him as she grabbed her jacket and ushered him out of the door almost before he had set foot in the house.
"A lead?" he echoed. "What kind of a lead?"
"I got a call from a retired scientist whom I've been trying to contact for the last day. He was on a boating trip with his family. He just got back. We need to go over to the beach house and get a sample of Jesse's blood."
He stared at her, dumbfounded, a tiny flame of hope kindling in his heart. "Do you think he can help us?" he demanded.
"I don't know," she replied, as they got into the agent's white Ford. "But it sounds as though he's prepared to try."

They reached the beach house in record time, Dane having risked breaking the speeding laws to get there. Fortunately, he wasn't pulled over by some over-zealous cop. He wasn't sure what would have happened had they done so - because he was certainly in no mood to be detained.
There was no response to his sharp rap on the door and panic flared as he tried not to think about what could be keeping Mark from answering. Plagued by ghastly images of what could have occurred during his absence from Jesse's side, he tried the door and as it swung open, he stepped inside, Cinnamon close on his heels.
The reality was far worse than anything he had been imagining. The agent sucked in a breath of pure dismay as he surveyed the scene in the bedroom - which he reached within seconds of entering the house.
Jesse was lying on his side, curled into a fetal ball. Dane didn't know what had occurred in the intervening period since he had left the beach house, but it had reduced his son to a writhing, whimpering heap of humanity. Tears seeped from beneath tightly shuttered eyelids and the sound of his laboured breathing echoed throughout the room. Mark was at his side, gently smoothing back the sweat-matted hair, crooning soft reassurances that were obviously having little effect as the younger man rocked from side to side, harsh, guttural sounds being torn from him as he struggled against whatever pain was consuming him.
"What the hell …!?"
Mark glanced up as Dane uttered the exclamation. He looked utterly destroyed - it was not a look that the agent was accustomed to seeing on the other man's face and that scared him even more than Jesse's condition.
"Mark?"
The older man shook his head. "He's been suffering from convulsions," he said, raggedly. "Now he's developed a fever. His temperature has been climbing for the past few minutes. He's also in a lot of pain, but he hasn't been lucid enough to tell me where it is."
"Oh god. Jesse."
Dane was crouched at his son's side without even realising he had emerged from the stasis that had gripped him upon seeing the younger man's deteriorating state. Jesse didn't respond. It was doubtful that he was even aware of his father's presence. He was lost in the agony that was devouring him, bludgeoning his senses, relentless in its brutality and the strength of its assault. The little energy that had remained had been leeched away by the constant battering and he was still quivering in the aftermath of the seizures that had afflicted him. His blood was boiling in his ears and his head was pounding, a tight vice constricting his skull until he was sure it would burst from the pressure.
But it was the white heat in his gut that robbed him of the ability to think, to even react to outside stimuli.
He couldn't hear his father's words, nor could he feel the light touch of the other man's fingers on his cheek. His world had been reduced to a molten hell that refused to allow him even the meagre consolation that was oblivion.

Dane watched for long, anguished moments as his son tossed and turned, moaning incessantly. Paralysed by horror and an ache that threatened to rip his heart in two, he rested his hand on the blond head, as though trying to absorb the white heat that seared the paper-dry flesh.
"Dane."
Cinnamon's voice from behind was a vague irritant, which he easily ignored.
"Dane."
He couldn't answer her. She wasn't a part of this. His entire world had been condensed to Jesse and himself. Jesse was the only one who mattered right now.
"Dane. We need …"
"No!" He didn't even recognise the voice as being his own. It was thick and harsh and sounded as though it had been dredged from hell itself. "No. Leave us alone."
"Dane, if we don't do this now, then he will die. Do you really want that?"
"No!"
The concept was inconceivable. He had always striven to keep the evil in his world away from his son and now that evil had not only caught up with them, it had ensnared Jesse in its insidious embrace and it wasn't letting go.
He couldn't let Jesse die. If he did, then all those years away from him, of sacrificing his own happiness for that of his only child's would have been for nothing. And Jesse … Jesse didn't deserve this. He was worthy of so much more. He had to live.
A new sense of purpose filled the grieving father and he raised his head to meet Mark's eyes, nodding once in mute acknowledgement of the empathy he found therein. Then he did the hardest thing he had ever done. He drew back from Jesse and slowly rose to his feet. If they were going to do this, then it was imperative that they do it quickly, because even if Jesse had another 24 hours before the poison in his bloodstream finally killed him, his appalling pain would only increase and Dane couldn't bear to have him suffer any longer.
"Mark," he said, quietly. "We need to draw some more blood. Cinnamon thinks she's found someone to help us. We don't have much time."

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