ʻAʻohe ʻāina kanaka (No Man's Land)

by fanfic_phoenix

Summary:

While meeting an informant, Steve is ambushed. When Danny and the team arrive, Steve gives his partner an ultimatum, forcing him to follow through on an unimaginable order and one that could cost Steve his life.

Danny laughed. Not just a chuckle—full body, can’t-breathe, probably-sprain-a-rib laughter—after Steve had finally been browbeaten into explaining why one of the nurses from Kings Medical had just approached him at Kamekona’s Shrimp Truck to ask if “everything was okay after last week’s visit.”

To be fair, the nurse had asked quietly, all professional discretion and bedside manner. But of course leave it to Danny Williams to have his  bat-sonar hearing engaged on max at that exact moment.

“You closed the truck door on her hand?” Danny wheezed, half-mocking, half in disbelief, as he clutched his chest and tried not to fall backwards off the picnic bench.

“Clearly, I didn’t mean to,” Steve hissed defensively. “Who puts their hand between the door and the frame anyway?”

Lou had his fist pressed against his mouth, part sympathy for the young woman, part desperate attempt to keep the grin from taking over his face.

“I dunno… I was trying to be chivalrous, wasn’t I?” Steve argued weakly—right up until he caught Kono’s horrified expression.

“How’d that turn out?” Danny pushed, eyes lit with genuine, unfiltered joy.

“I mean…” Steve shrugged, all sheepish SEAL. “She ended up with two crushed fingers and eleven stitches… you do the math.”

“Oh my God…” Kono whispered, covering her eyes with one hand like if she couldn’t see him, maybe he’d be less of a disaster.

Danny, however, was thriving. He was absolutely living his best life. This was the kind of incriminating material about his best friend he could, and absolutely would, dine out on for years. Maybe decades. “So, in the hospital? That’s how it turned out? Oh man, you are something else.” He pushed his half-eaten shrimp plate aside; suddenly hunger was no longer a priority when fate handed you comedy gold. And to be clear, he was absolutely not making fun of the poor, unsuspecting victim of Steve’s constant need to be an alpha male. No, he was strictly mocking his partner’s uncanny ability to be an awkward idiot. “Honestly? Sounds like the perfect date night for you, babe.”

“That’s terrible,” Kono said, dropping her hand and shaking her head. “How did she take it?”

“I’ve sent messages,” Steve muttered, picking up his phone and checking the screen for the thousandth time because apparently he enjoyed emotional self-harm now. “She’s not replied.”

“No, because you maimed her, Steve.” Danny wagged his index finger like he was delivering universal truth. “Women…” He paused, for emphasis. “Women do not take kindly to being maimed.”

“Yeah, well…” Steve exhaled. “I’ve decided it’s a higher power telling me not to date.”

“Oh, come on now, Steve,” Lou said, pursing his lips to keep from laughing. “You needed to get back on the horse.”

“Yes, back on the horse, Steve. That is exactly what you should do.” Danny pointed at him, delighted. “Horses don’t have doors. You should be safe with those.”

Truth was, Steve had only gone on the damn date to shut them all up. No way he’d have entertained the idea so soon after Catherine had upped and left. Maiming aside, it was a decent excuse to tamp down the unwanted pressure. Nuclear fallout from the date was just a bonus.

“I have literally seen you face all kinds of insane, life-or-death situations with limitless amounts of confidence,” Danny said, leaning in. “Terrorists, bombs, suspicious meats at sketchy food trucks. But with women? You choke.”

Steve nodded once. “You’re gonna choke on my fist in a minute.”

“Steve, you know you’re supposed to sweep a woman off her feet, not put her in the hospital, right?” Chin added, voice mild but eyes dancing.

“Oh no, no…” Danny held up a hand. “Steve couldn’t even sweep a floor.”

“You know what?” Steve narrowed his eyes in mock outrage, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him. The team hadn’t had much to laugh about lately, and if his dating catastrophe was the price of this moment, he’d pay it. “I’m gonna take myself for a time out, because I’m the mature one here…” He shot Danny a look, grabbed his empty plate and drink, and stood. “I’ll drop the Lakin’i evidence off at HPD and meet you back at the office in an hour.”

“You do that…” Danny called after him as Steve headed toward the parking lot. “And while you’re there, do the entire female population a favor and turn yourself in for being the most disastrous date in the world. There’s gotta be a charge for that, right?” he asked, turning to Chin.

“I’m sure it falls under something,” Chin said, deadpan.

Steve lifted a hand and waved them off without looking back.

“Putz,” Danny muttered fondly, smirking as he watched him go.

*****

Typical. The first time in months Steve had driven Danny anywhere in his truck, and he’d picked that exact moment to do something uncharacteristically sensible and adult-like. Now they were crammed into Kono’s tiny Chevy Cruze instead, inching their way through Honolulu traffic and debating whether the City had deliberately chosen today to fix every single roadwork issue it had on the books.

Kono and Chin sat comfortably in the front, sharing the occasional amused glance, while Danny and Lou were wedged into the back. Grover was hunched over with his knees practically up under his chin, broad shoulders swallowing the limited space, grumbling like a bear in a trap. He kept goading Kono to hit the lights and sirens, muttering something about this being an emergency as far as his back was concerned. Kono wasn’t biting, much to his increasing dismay.

Danny grimaced when his phone started to ring, interrupting his progress on whatever the hell game Grace had gotten him addicted to during her last visit. She’d downloaded it “just to show him,” but somehow he was the one obsessively trying to beat his own high score.

“Don’t tell me… this is your one phone call, you need bail money?” he answered without checking the display.

“If I needed bail money, you would be the last person I would call,” Steve responded dryly. “I just wanted to let you know I’m gonna be another hour.”

“Steve… it doesn’t take that long to drop evidence off,” Danny whined, tipping his head back against the seat. His partner’s latest bout of heroically inefficient time management would almost certainly cut into the afternoon of relentless taunting he had carefully planned. “You give it to the Sergeant, and he gives you a chain-of-custody receipt. It’s not advanced calculus.”

“Natalya texted. Said she had something new on Rinski. I’m meeting her at her place.”

Rinski was an international arms dealer, among other deplorable things—an elusive phantom and a highly sought-after thorn in the side of multiple law enforcement agencies worldwide. He was infamous for his disappearing act, a ghost who slipped across borders at will, appearing and vanishing in countries with the most sophisticated security and immigration systems as if they were nothing more than polite suggestions.

Four months earlier, DHS had contacted Five-0 with a heads-up: there was credible reason to believe Rinski had slipped into the U.S. mainland. Although they were almost certain he hadn’t made it as far as the islands, they wanted the team to question his younger sister, Natalya, who had fled St. Petersburg for Hawaii in a desperate attempt to escape her brother’s control.

Natalya had been more than cooperative—eager, even, to do anything that might chip away at the empire he had built on other people’s suffering. She didn’t know much about her brother’s current movements, but she did have a low-level source inside his organization with whom she maintained irregular, carefully coded contact.

The mere thought of her brother ever finding her again was understandably terrifying. Years of his threats and abuse had ensured that fear wasn’t just emotional; it was structural, carved into her bones. Since the age of thirteen, he’d used her body as a bargaining chip with other vile criminals, offered her up as an incentive for politicians to look the other way, and promised her to oligarchs who had funded his schemes. She’d grown into adulthood trained to believe that her life, her safety, even her name, were simply commodities he could trade away.

There had been an instant, unspoken connection between Steve and the young woman. The moment she’d opened the door to them months ago, he’d recognized the deep-rooted terror hiding behind her striking blue eyes—the wary way she flinched at unexpected sounds, the way her gaze tracked every movement in the hallway over his shoulder. She measured each word as if something unseen were always listening, as if any slip could summon a monster.

For months now, McGarrett had stayed in contact with her, long after the formal interviews at the Palace had concluded. Even when her intel arrived too late to be actionable in the moment, the meetings themselves had value. Piece by piece, they had assembled a working map of Rinski’s world: names and aliases, transit points, shell companies, loyalty networks, the scale and structure of the organization that orbited him like a small, vicious planet.

DHS had been impressed—impressed enough to pull McGarrett into the wider, multi-agency investigation that was quietly forming around Rinski. Steve’s updates were now being read in secure rooms thousands of miles away by people who knew the name Rinski the way other people knew the weather.

In the meantime, Natalya had continued to feed him what little information she could pry loose without alerting her source or, worse, her brother. Steve, in turn, kept her updated on what progress they could safely share. In the spaces between the case details, a cautious friendship had formed. For Natalya, who lived in a constant state of half-packed readiness, he had become something rare: a stable point, a person whose promises meant actual safety, not more danger.

Steve was already in the process of helping her legally change her identity—another vital layer of protection he knew she needed if Rinski ever turned his attention back toward her. New documents, new name, new life. It wasn’t a cure for the past, but it was at least a shield against the future.

Danny had briefly wondered if their relationship might become something more, but it had quickly become clear that Steve saw her safety as a responsibility, and by no means an opportunity. There was no flirtation in the way he talked about her, just an almost grim determination. For him, whatever existed between them was rooted in duty, not romance—an obligation to protect someone who had spent most of her life with no one to protect her at all.

“You want company?” Danny asked, though he already suspected what the answer would be.

“No… no, it’s okay. I’m good.”

“Well, don’t let her get in your truck, okay? She’s a violinist… last time I checked, they rely on their fingers.”

“You’re an idiot,” Steve replied, and ended the call before Danny could respond.

“How long are you going to keep this up for?” Chin asked, turning with a grin that said he already knew the reply.

“Listen, I’ve suffered five years under his reign of terror,” Danny replied with a determined smirk. “Allow me a couple of days to show him my appreciation for that. Oh, and I need to find out who this nurse was—send her a fruit basket for giving us this absolute gem. We would have been none the wiser if it had been left to Steve.”

Chin laughed, shaking his head.

“Natalya?” Kono frowned, unease tightening her voice as she shifted slightly in her seat to glance back at Danny.

“Yeah. She said she has some information, Steve’s heading up to the house now.”

“Steve’s going to hers?”

Danny’s smirk faded as he caught what she found odd. Natalya had always insisted on coming to the office for any discussions, unable to trust that her place hadn’t been bugged. She’d refused to let Danny and Steve cross the threshold the day they’d met her, practically herding the pair back out onto the street. Steve had been less than comfortable with that, his SEAL instincts kicking into overdrive as he clocked every open window and blind corner within line of sight. They’d quickly convinced the young woman to come to the Palace instead, where the walls and security were theirs.

“Maybe they are seeing each other,” Lou hissed irritably, shifting to try and find another millimetre of legroom. “Guy’s got terrible timing, but even he knows how to show up for a date.”

“I dunno.” Danny shook his head slowly. “Steve would keep that quiet… and he wouldn’t have told me he was going to her place if that’s what was happening. He clearly thinks it’s business.”

Kono’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel.

Danny woke his phone again and pressed Steve’s number. The call went straight to voicemail. He ended it and tried again. Same result.

“What do you wanna do?” Kono asked, glancing at Danny in the rear-view mirror.

“He’s not picking up,” Danny muttered, more to himself than anyone else. The first cold edge of anxiety settled, heavy, in the pit of his stomach. “It’s going straight to voicemail.”

“Do you think we should head out there?” Chin asked cautiously. He didn’t sound opposed; if anything, he sounded like he was waiting for permission to agree with what they were all already thinking.

“Man, if it gets me out of this tin can any quicker, I’m all for it,” Grover growled, but his eyes had sharpened, all complaint giving way to concern.

Danny hesitated for a heartbeat, weighing Steve’s insistence that he was fine against every bad feeling he’d ever ignored and later regretted. Finally, he nodded. “Yeah… maybe we should,” he said quietly, trying—and failing—to keep the worry from his voice. The budding anxiety in his gut flared, and this time he didn’t bother to push it down.

*****

To what would have been Danny’s surprise, the unusual change in Natalya’s usual rules had crossed Steve’s mind. She’d always been hypervigilant, but over time some of that hard-edged paranoia had worn down. If she pushed him back onto the street like the first day they’d met, he could always retreat to his truck. He thinned his lips, recalling Danny’s comment about not letting her in the Silverado, and dismissed it with a quiet huff.

The house itself looked tired and defeated. An old wooden place, rotting at the edges, its peeling paint flaking off the tatty façade in tired strips. The windowpanes sagged in their frames, clinging on more from habit than structural integrity. Two chipped concrete steps led up to a small, rickety porch and a front door that looked like a decent gust of wind could take it off its hinges.

His knuckles rapped carefully against the door, light and deliberate. He waited, listening for the slightest movement inside.

Nothing.

“Nat?” he called quietly, careful not to announce her name with any real volume in case someone else was listening.

A long beat passed. Then, finally, he heard the faint scuff of light footsteps on the worn floorboards. The tension in his shoulders eased by a fraction.

The door creaked inward. Natalya pulled it back just far enough to reveal herself. One look at her and his calm evaporated tenfold.

Her eyes were raw and red, swimming with tears. Her face—usually controlled, composed—was contorted with unfiltered terror. Her brown hair hung loose and wild around her face, uncharacteristically dishevelled. A long but seemingly superficial scratch traced her bottom lip, angry and fresh.

“Steve…” she breathed.

“Hey…” he said softly, immediately cataloguing every detail: the trembling of her hands, the way her chest hitched with every breath, the unbridled fear in her eyes. “What’s going on? You alright?”

“I’m so sorry…” she whispered, voice fractured. Her shoulders shook. “Run…”

McGarrett’s eyes widened as his hand went automatically to his weapon.

“Run, Steve… get out of here…” she begged, desperation sharpening her accent. Her eyes flared as her mind scrambled for a way to get more across, fast. They’d talked strategy before, contingencies. Both she and Steve were multilingual—but there was only one language besides English they shared.

“Il est là. Ils savent où il est. Au chantier naval,” she muttered quickly, barely moving her lips.

Steve’s brow creased. For one fatal heartbeat, the earlier warnings were swallowed by confusion. Why switch to French? His French was rusty at best, a high-school obligation he’d abandoned as soon as he could. He knew pieces, fragments—but not enough for something this critical.

Precious milliseconds evaporated as his brain tried to drag the sentence into meaning.

He didn’t get the chance.

A large hand lunged from behind her, tangling in a fistful of her hair and yanking her back. Natalya cried out, but in a last surge of defiance she managed to slam the door shut, the wood rattling in the frame. She was clearly hoping that if she couldn’t save herself, she might at least buy him enough time to escape.

Self-preservation, however, was the last thing on Steve’s mind.

“Nat!” he shouted, his fist hammering into the door. What had looked flimsy moments ago was deceptively solid under the assault.

“Steve! GO!” she screamed from inside, her voice breaking with panic. The muffled sounds of a violent struggle bled through the wood.

Then the first gunshot cracked.

Natalya’s pleas cut off mid-scream.

McGarrett stepped back, knee lifting as he poised to kick the door in, but a second shot echoed.

Splinters exploded outward as a small hole punched through the door at chest height. A split-second later, his body jerked sideways under a sudden impact.

“Natalya!” he shouted, instinctively pressing his hand over the area of his shoulder where he’d felt the dull, concussive thud.

At first, there was no pain—just the abstract knowledge that something had hit him. Then his gaze returned to the door, to the raw, shredded edge of the new bullet hole, and reality caught up. A hot, burning sensation flared under his palm.

His body prickled with a generalized discomfort, like every nerve had been switched on at once. The edges of his vision greyed out, just a touch. He looked down to see blood seeping steadily between his fingers.

He shoved aside the creeping instinct to let shock take over, forcing his breathing to steady. Survival mode finally snapped into place. Natalya was still inside and she was still in need of help. He refused to accept anything else. Even if the silence said otherwise, he wasn’t willing to declare her dead. But he also had to face the fact that, tactically speaking, he was exposed and compromised.

Cover. He needed cover.

A quick scan showed only two workable options: a large tree planted near the sidewalk where the property met the street, or his truck. The Silverado, however, came with a rifle and a Kevlar vest.

Decision made.

He turned and bolted for the vehicle. He’d barely made it ten feet when the front door flew open behind him and an automatic weapon spat a vicious barrage into the air.

This time the pain was instant and white-hot. A round tore through his leg, the impact buckling his stride. He stumbled, nearly losing his footing, but sheer stubbornness and muscle memory kept him upright.

Running on nothing but instinct, he pivoted, staggered into a half-stance and fired back toward the source of the gunfire, squeezing the trigger in controlled bursts. He barely had time to register the series of muzzle flashes in the doorway before another wave of searing pain tore through him, punching into his body in a brutal cluster.

Steve gasped, legs finally threatening mutiny as his weight tried to collapse. Through the rising haze of pain he saw a heavy-set figure topple in the doorway, crashing down onto the decaying wooden deck with a lifeless thud.

Threat, at least momentarily, neutralized.
He lurched one step back toward the house before another volley of gunfire ripped through the air, this time from deeper inside. A second shooter.

Almost all the rounds went wide, kicking up shards of wood and dust, but one carved a burning line across the edge of his neck, slicing open skin and muscle. That last insult tore through his last reserves of control.

This time there was no overriding his body’s demand.

He dropped.

He hit the ground face-first with a choked sound, rolling onto his back automatically. As he moved, another barrage of wild shots chewed up the concrete around him. None of them struck home, but pulverised concrete and dirt blasted into a choking cloud around his body.

Pinned.

He lay there in the open, moaning softly through clenched teeth, his hand fumbling up to clamp over the new wound at his neck. For a bleak moment he wondered if this was the shooter’s play—leave him bleeding in no-man’s-land and let gravity and blood loss do the work.

He forced himself to stillness. Other than his painstaking attempts to slow his breathing, the world gradually fell silent again. The dust settled. For a few seconds, it was as if the house had been abandoned.

Then, faint and distant at first, a siren wailed. Growing closer.

Relief and dread warred in his chest. Backup meant hope. It also meant that anyone rushing in blind could walk straight into the same kill zone he’d stumbled through.

He closed his eyes, turning his head limply toward the road, letting his body go slack. If the gunman thought he had passed out—or worse—maybe he’d hold his fire. With any luck, Steve might catch the eye of whoever arrived before they made the same mistake he had.

The first thing Danny saw was Steve’s Silverado, parked innocently at the curb. From a distance, it looked like any other day. No shattered windows, no obvious chaos.

Kono eased the Chevy to a stop a couple of houses down, dropped it into park, and the four of them scanned the scene in silence.

From this angle they could just make out the open front door and a dark, irregular shape heaped on the porch. Shrubbery blocked their view of the yard beyond, hiding everything from the doorway down.

The open door alone was enough to send Danny’s heart into overdrive. Natalya might have relaxed some of her rules, but she still took security seriously. She didn’t leave doors ajar. Not for anyone.

Something was wrong.

Chin, Kono, and Lou hadn’t arrived at the same conclusion yet, their eyes still methodically sweeping for movement. Before they could, Danny’s roiling anxiety snapped its leash. He threw his door open, gun already in hand.

“Danny!” Chin shouted, frustration cutting through the hot air. It was the familiar exasperation of a man watching Danny’s tendency to overreact collide with a worst-case scenario.

But when Danny’s brisk walk dissolved into a full-tilt sprint toward the property, the penny dropped for all of them. They burst from the car in unison, fanning out but keeping pace right on his heels.

“Steve!” Danny yelled, voice cracking with panic as he rounded the line of shrubs and got his first clear view of the yard.

Steve was sprawled on the ground in front of the house, blood on the concrete, motionless except for the faint rise and fall of his chest.

Danny. Of course it would be Danny. Even through the haze, Steve knew. If anyone was going to blow past protocol and throw himself into the line of fire, it was his loyal, relentless partner.

“Dan—” he gasped weakly, eyes flicking open, trying to find the familiar blur of blond hair and agitated blue eyes without daring to move his head. He couldn’t see him. “Danny… stay back,” he managed to hiss, hoping his voice would carry far enough.

Gunfire answered him instead.

Another burst erupted from the doorway, shredding the ground in front of the house. The impact sent another cloud of dust and debris rolling into the air. Steve flinched, his entire body tensing and then spasming with a ragged yell of pain.

Danny ducked and swore, instincts warring with training. He veered off his direct path to Steve, diving behind the front wheel of the Silverado and slamming his back against the metal hub and tire.

“Steve?” he shouted, heart hammering, gun clenched in a white-knuckled grip.

Kono, Chin, and Lou had all hit the ground the moment shots rang out, dropping to their knees mid-stride. Their heads snapped toward Danny, eyes burning into him, wordlessly demanding information.

“Shooters in the house,” Danny panted. “Steve’s down outside.”

That was all they needed. Kono and Chin immediately pivoted, still low, and retreated toward her car at a crouch to gear up properly. Lou angled out toward the neighbouring property, hugging the cover of a parked RV, handgun sweeping the porch and windows. From there he could see Danny, but not the shooters or Steve. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

“Steve…” Danny called again, shifting slightly to press closer to the wheel well. His current position gave him no line of sight on his partner. “Talk to me, man.”

“At least…” Steve gasped, every word an effort. “At least two gunmen… one down… I don’t know about Natalya.”

Danny closed his eyes briefly. Strategic intel was useful. It just wasn’t the answer he’d been fishing for.

“You? What about you?” he pushed.

“Ah…” Steve winced, struggling to separate one area of pain from the relentless blanket of agony. “Four… maybe five hits.”

Danny squeezed his eyes shut tighter, bowing his head for a second. “How bad?”

“Not ideal…” Steve panted. “I can’t… I don’t know…”

Danny risked it. He eased up, just enough to peek over the hood. For a fleeting instant he caught a full view of his partner.

Steve was still flat on his back, clothes torn and soaked in crimson patches, blood pooling slowly around him on the dusty path. His face was pale, jaw tight, eyes open but glassy.

The move didn’t go unnoticed.

A harsh volley of rounds chewed into the opposite side panel of the truck with a metallic tink-tink-tink, forcing Danny to duck down again with a curse.

“Steve?” he growled, frustration and fear grinding together.

“I’m good…” came the weak reply. “I’m okay…”

But Danny heard it—the shift. Steve’s voice had gone soft around the edges, sluggish, like he was already fighting to stay tethered to consciousness.

Something had to change. Fast.

His mind jumped to the Silverado. Steve’s assault rifle. The gun safe bolted beneath the rear bench seat. If, just this once, McGarrett hadn’t decided to reorganize his rolling armoury.

“Danny…”

“Right here…” Danny answered, already sliding along the side of the truck toward the rear door.

“I think he’s here…” Steve forced out, each word clipped by pain.

Danny frowned, yanking the door open and dropping to one knee in front of the safe. “Rinski? Rinski’s here? In the house?”

Steve arched his back in a reflexive attempt to suck in more air, but the movement pulled at the wound at his neck and he cried out, the sound raw and shapeless.

“Steve?” Danny shouted, hating that he couldn’t see him.

The SEAL closed his eyes and settled his head back on the ground, fighting past the burst of pain. “Maybe… but you gotta… gotta take this guy alive, Danny… If it’s not Rinski, he might know where he is.”

Danny’s fingers shook as he punched the code into the safe. The lock clicked and released. Relief flooded him when he saw the familiar rifle inside, flanked by two loaded magazines.

“Dan…” Steve winced. “Danny… you hear me?”

“Yeah, I heard you,” Danny muttered through gritted teeth, dragging the weapon out. He hated this thing. Always had. To Steve it was a comforting relic of his Navy days; to Danny it was overkill and a lawsuit waiting to happen. But right now, overkill sounded pretty damn reasonable.

“You want us to take this idiot in alive…” he growled as he slammed a magazine into place and flicked off the safety. “But guess what, Steve… he’s kinda low on my priority ladder right now.”

“Danny…” Steve tensed, trying to argue, and was instantly punished for it by a savage bolt of pain. “Agh!”

The agonized sound lit a fuse in Danny’s chest, his anger crystallising into something sharp and focused.

“Listen to me,” Danny snarled, voice low and deadly. “We’ve moved from any operational objective to my only objective, which is getting you safe. If it means we gotta check him out to do that, then what are you gonna do?”

“Danny… I spoke to DHS on the way…” Steve managed, each word punctuated by ragged breaths. “On the way… out here…”

Danny grimaced. There it was. The incoming spanner he’d dreaded. He’d always known, in some abstract way, that there’d come a day when a national security nightmare and Steve’s life would end up in the same equation. He’d hoped—prayed—he’d never have to balance it.

“Steve… please,” he bit out. “Do me a favour: just concentrate on breathing and shut up.”

“Danny…” McGarrett’s voice had weakened considerably, but the urgency still pushed through the gasps. “They think he’s… supplying weapons… weapons for an attack, maybe local…”

Danny’s eyes pinched shut as frustration knifed through him. Of course. It couldn’t just be a garden-variety hitman with a grudge. No. This guy had to be potentially sitting on information that could stop a mass casualty event.

“You need to take him alive,” Steve mumbled.

Danny looked across the hood and caught sight of Kono and Chin now back beside Lou. Vest-clad, serious. Chin had a 12-gauge tucked ready, Kono had her sidearm holstered and her SR-25 in hand. All three watched Danny, waiting.

“Kono… can you get to me?” Danny called quietly.

She nodded without hesitation. She didn’t need the full plan. She trusted Danny’s read of the scene.

“Lou,” Danny continued, “cover her and Steve. Only fire if he starts. Copy?”

The captain nodded, edging from behind the RV to the thicker cover of a large tree trunk, testing each movement. No answering fire. The shooter was either conserving ammo, or waiting.

Kono dropped flat onto her belly, hugging the warm asphalt as she crawled forward. For a heartbeat she had a clear view past the corner of the truck.

Steve lay motionless in the yard.

Her stomach clenched, but she kept moving.

Danny reached out and snagged her wrist, pulling her the last couple of feet into the shelter of the wheel well.

“Steve…” she whispered, her throat tight.

“We’re gonna get him out of there,” Danny said, more conviction than certainty.

“EMTs are on the way. Chin asked them to hold down the block till we call them in.” Kono reported. “SWAT’s en route too.”

Danny exhaled, a brief, shaky sound of relief. Thankful for the cousins foresight. “Okay,” he said loudly enough for the others to hear. “We gotta pull Steve out. We can’t do that with this asshole standing. Chin, I want you to draw his fire over to you. Kono, you take the shot when Chin moves.”
He paused, listening instinctively for the inevitable protest from the ground. When none came, his anxiety ratcheted up another notch. “Did you see Steve? Was he conscious?” he whispered to Kono.

Her eyes flicked sideways, trying to replay the half-second view she’d had. Blood. Stillness. She hadn’t been able to focus on his face. “I don’t know… maybe.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Danny said, forcing himself not to look toward the yard. “This needs to happen now. Listen… Steve thinks this guy knows where Rinski is. DHS has new intel. It’s bad. His order is to take the guy alive.”

“Okay, but Danny…” Kono breathed. “Steve’s not in charge right now. What are your orders?”

The weight settled squarely on his shoulders, heavier than any vest. For a fraction of a second, he let himself feel all of it.

“Me?” he said finally, voice low and bitter. “I say do what you can to minimise injury. But ultimately? You do whatever you need to do to take this jerk out of play.”

Kono nodded once, firm and sharp.

“When he’s down,” Danny added, “take Steve’s gun and all three of you move in, clear the house.”

“You got it,” she said, shifting to the rear wheel, shouldering her rifle and checking her sightlines.

“Steve?” Danny called again.

An incoherent moan answered him.

It was enough.

Danny held up three fingers and began counting down for everyone’s benefit.

On “one,” Chin exploded from cover, sprinting from one end of the exposed flank of the RV to the other. The movement was obvious and loud enough to draw fire.

It worked.

The shooter appeared in the open doorway, spraying a furious stream of bullets at Chin’s last position, shredding metal and fiberglass.
Good. He thinks it’s just me, Danny thought. Let him keep underestimating us.

“Kono…” Danny snapped.

She rose from behind the bed of the truck in one smooth motion, as fast and precise as a striking snake. Her cheek settled against the stock, eye lined up with the scope. She squeezed the trigger once, the heavy report cracking through the street, then worked the bolt and reset without thinking.

Red mist bloomed briefly in the doorway. The man crumpled forward, collapsing onto the threshold and down onto the porch, screaming in pain as he landed atop his dead colleague.

“Target down. Moving!” Kono announced, dropping the sniper rifle into the bed of the truck and snatching Steve’s rifle from Danny’s hand in the same motion. She swung it up and advanced, low and cautious, skirting the side of the truck.

Chin and Lou peeled away from their cover to move in from different angles.

Danny surged to his feet, trailing Kono until he reached Steve’s side. His knees slammed into the broken concrete with a jolt. For a split second he hovered his hands above Steve’s body, paralysed by the sheer number of places he could put them.
The plan had been to move him. Now, seeing him up close, Danny wasn’t so sure that was possible.

“Ahhh,” he breathed, the sound half-choked as the brutal reality of Steve’s injuries came into focus.

Steve’s breaths were shallow and laboured, each inhale a fight. He made small, unconscious attempts to shift his weight, but they died off almost immediately, his reserves clearly tapped. His eyes were open, but unfocused and distant.

“I got you…” Danny murmured, his hand finally settling, feather-light, against Steve’s cheek. His skin was cold and clammy. There was a pallor to him that made it look like the colour had been drained out by force. And he was trembling, a fine, constant shiver that Danny could feel under his fingertips.

A deep groove scored the side of his neck, raw and ugly. It looked dramatic, worse than it likely was, but Danny catalogued it as serious anyway. On his right shoulder, a bloody hole marked an entrance wound; probing gently underneath, Danny found the exit point.

“Okay, buddy… you’re doing good,” he whispered, keeping his voice steady for Steve’s sake.

His gaze moved lower. A wound in Steve’s thigh, bleeding but not spurting—no arterial spray. Another through-and-through.

Then his eyes landed on the twin dark circles staining Steve’s shirt: one just above the hip, one on the lower left edge of his ribcage.

Danny yanked at the buttons, ripping the shirt open.

Dark red circles mirrored the damage beneath. The hip wound, for now, seemed manageable—slow seepage, nothing explosive. But the upper wound…

Blood bubbled with each exhale, frothing slightly at the edges. Each uneven breath made it surge and recede.

Danny rolled him carefully, just enough to check Steve’s back. No exits. His stomach dropped.

The higher round hadn’t obviously hit the lung, but it sat in the territory of major organs and large vessels. He pressed his hands down over it, putting firm, steady pressure on the oozing wound.

Lou jogged over from the house. “All clear,” he reported, weapon low but ready.

Steve groaned, his hand lifting clumsily, catching Danny’s shirt and clinging weakly. Danny knew immediately what it meant—even without words. Natalya.

Lou’s eyes flicked to the house, then back to Danny. “Two injured,” he mouthed silently. “Shooter and Natalya. EMTs coming in now.”

Danny gave him a tight nod, grateful for the discretion.

“Buddy… listen to me…” Danny leaned down, bringing his mouth close to Steve’s ear. His free hand swept back Steve’s matted hair. “Natalya is alive, okay? She’s hit, but she’s alive. You hear me?”

Steve’s fingers slipped from his shirt and thudded back to the ground. “Keep…” he rasped.

Danny understood. It wasn’t just about keeping her physically alive. Natalya might be the only one willing to talk who knew what her brother was planning.

Sirens grew louder. Lou turned and saw two ambulances pulling up. His gaze flicked up the street, searching for a third unit.

Nothing.

“We got three injured!” he barked, striding toward the first paramedic who stepped off the rig.

“Third is twenty-five out,” the medic replied, already moving. “Only two were originally requested.”

“You can take two casualties in one of those though, right?” Lou pushed.

“Maybe one serious and one walking wounded,” the paramedic said.

“They’re all serious,” Lou shot back, anger bristling under the words.

The medic’s mouth flattened, but he didn’t argue. His partner rushed past him toward the yard. The first medic followed, dropping to his knees beside Steve. Danny felt the man’s eyes sweep over the blood, the wounds, the pale skin.

McGarrett was getting weaker, his resistance now more instinctive than deliberate. He jerked slightly as the paramedic’s hands brushed his abdomen.

“Danny…” he whispered.

Williams closed his eyes briefly and tipped his head down, as if the weight of Steve’s voice was physically forcing him forward. This was the moment he’d lain awake over more nights than he could count, replaying it in a thousand nightmare variations. Not just in theory, but always with Steve at the centre.

“Danny…” Steve repeated, his voice barely more than air. He didn’t have the strength to form the full sentence, to give the order out loud. He didn’t need to.

The detective thinned his lips, hoping—irrationally—that the medic would override this insanity and call it by the book, declare Steve the priority. But the man looked at the wounds, at Steve’s colour, and hesitated instead.

“Ah… you… uh…” Danny swallowed, forcing the words out. “You need to prioritise the other two.”

The paramedic snapped his attention up, eyes wide. “Sir—”

“It’s…” Danny shook his head, pressing his palms harder over Steve’s wound, blinking rapidly to clear the haze forming in his eyes. “It’s a… it’s a matter of national security.”

Steve’s gaze found the medic’s face. There was no doubt in it. Only grim agreement.

“This wound is severe,” the medic replied quietly, fingers probing gently at Steve’s rigid abdomen. “He’s got signs of internal bleeding. I don’t know how much time—”

Danny cut him off with a sharp shake of his head. “I got it. Okay? We both understand. But that’s the order.” The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable. “You need to do whatever you can to save both of them. Understand?”

The paramedic hesitated, conflict written all over his face. Finally, he nodded, reaching into his kit and handing Danny a stack of gauze.

“Go. Go!” Danny snapped, eyes never leaving Steve’s face.

The medic glanced once more at Steve’s wounds, then rose and jogged toward the house and the second rig.

“The right thing…” McGarrett breathed, the words riding out on a ragged exhale.

Danny glared down at him, jaw clenched so hard it hurt. His eyes were full of doubt and something dangerously close to fury. He wanted to argue, to shake him, to tell him exactly how wrong this felt. But he couldn’t risk those being the last words Steve ever heard.

Natalya emerged from the house on a stretcher, pale but breathing, a paramedic braced at her head, another stabilizing the gurney. The shooter followed, blood soaking his pant leg, his face twisted in pain. Both were quickly loaded into the waiting ambulances.

The third ambulance was still at least twenty minutes out.

Steve’s bloody hand found Danny’s wrist again, curling around it with what little strength he had left. His eyes had gone distant, fixed somewhere up in the sky, tracking a patch of clouds he probably wasn’t really seeing. Each breath shuddered, but Danny knew him well enough to recognize how much effort was going into not screaming.

“So stupid…” Danny whispered, the words slipping out on an angry, helpless sigh. He couldn’t stand one more second of just holding pressure and watching Steve bleed. “Lou… help me get him in the truck.”

Lou spun. “What? Hold on now, Danny… the next ambulance is on the way.”

“We could get him to Tripler before they even get here,” Danny fired back, his voice raw.

“Danny…” Lou protested, shaking his head. “Moving him like this? Bullets can shift. You could make things worse.”

“You drive, I hold pressure all the way,” Danny shot back, not missing a beat. “He’s got a better chance than if we sit here and watch the clock.”

Lou looked back at Steve. In the short span of seconds, the change was obvious. His breaths were shallower, his skin even paler, his grip weaker.

He thinned his lips, weighing risk against certainty.

Finally, he nodded. “Alright.”

He waved to Kono and Chin to grab their attention, then moved to Steve’s head, bracing himself. “On your call,” he told Danny, ready to scoop the SEAL up and gamble everything on speed.

*****

It hadn’t been a simple task to get Steve in the truck.

He was sprawled diagonally across the back seat, his head jammed awkwardly against the rear door, his long legs bent and wedged toward the footwell. Kono had shoved the front passenger seat as far forward as it would go so Danny could crouch in the back, half in the footwell, half on the edge of the seat. It was cramped and uncomfortable, but it allowed him to keep a constant, hawk-eyed watch on his partner.

One of his hands was buried in Steve’s shirt, knuckles white around a fist of gauze pressing into the worst of the wounds. The other was clamped around Steve’s hand, holding on like he could physically keep him anchored.

Up front, Lou threaded the Silverado through traffic, lights and sirens blaring. He pushed the speed as much as he dared while trying to keep the ride as smooth as possible—a precarious balance between urgency and not jarring Steve apart.

They’d called ahead, Tripler warned, ER staff on standby.

The blinks of awareness had started to slow. Steve’s eyes stayed closed for longer stretches; his grip kept slackening, drifting toward a limp, empty hand. Danny hated what he had to do each time, but he did it anyway—he pressed down deliberately harder on the wound. Steve’s eyes would snap open, a flash of pain sharpening his gaze, and his fingers would tighten again around Danny’s.

“Stay awake… okay…” Danny urged, forcing a faint, crooked smile. “Just… stay awake. That’s your whole job right now.”

“Natalya…” Steve whispered.

“She’s on the way to the hospital, Steve,” Danny growled quietly, the edge in his voice impossible to hide. Even now, Steve’s mind was anywhere but on his own survival.

Danny didn’t care about Natalya. Not in this moment. He sure as hell didn’t care about the gunman. He’d done what Steve insisted on: both were still breathing when they left the scene. As far as Danny was concerned, the job was done. Steve was his only priority now.

“You angry?” Steve muttered, his eyes glistening, not just with pain but with something like regret.

Danny’s mouth shut with an audible click of teeth. He was beyond angry. Livid didn’t begin to cover it. But this was not the time to unload. If there was any justice, he’d have the chance later to share every last one of his “extraordinarily strong feelings.”

“Should’a… should’a seen it coming…” Steve mumbled.

Danny closed his eyes and inhaled. It wasn’t even Steve’s approach to the house that sat at the heart of his fury. Steve knew Natalya better than anyone; maybe he had a reason for not expecting the trap. And it wasn’t just about Steve forfeiting treatment for himself.

What clawed at Danny was the bigger picture: they lived in a world where men like Steve—good, determined, irreplaceable—were treated as expendable because some psychopath with a gun might know a few key words. That Steve’s life could be weighed against a three-second confession, and once those words were out, the monster who spoke them would instantly become worthless.

“We can work on your timing, babe,” Danny finally managed, his voice rough. “You know… when to close a car door… when to approach a house…”

Steve let out a ragged, weak laugh that turned almost immediately into a grimace of pain.

“Okay…” Danny rubbed his thumb over Steve’s fingers. “We’ll talk about it later…”

Outside the windshield, the large pink bulk of Tripler loomed into view.

“Almost there,” Lou called back.

“You hear that?” Danny leaned closer. “Just a few more seconds. We’ll get you a nice bed, some nurses to fawn over you… couple of stitches, and you’ll be back on your feet making poor decisions in no time.”

“Call… Cath,” Steve said faintly.

Danny frowned. “Cath? Cath’s in Afghanistan, Steve. You know we can’t contact her.”

“She wanted… surfing… this afternoon,” he mumbled.

Danny narrowed his eyes, his stomach tightening. Another bad sign—confusion bleeding in, his brain shorting between past and present. “Steve…”

Steve’s eyes slid shut again.

Danny pressed harder on the wound and clenched Steve’s hand, but this time there was nothing. No widening eyes, no flinch, no renewed grip.

“Steve… hey…” He pushed down again, harder.

Still nothing.

His gaze snapped to Steve’s chest. No rise. No fall.

“Steve… hey… come on…” he rasped, fingers fumbling to Steve’s neck, pressing hard into the carotid.

Nothing.

“No… no no no no…” Panic flooded him in a hot wave.

“What’s going on?” Lou shouted, glancing at them in the mirror.

“No pulse, Lou!” Danny yelled. “Steve!” He grabbed his partner’s shoulder and shook him hard.

Lou’s foot slammed down on the accelerator. The sudden surge threw Danny forward over Steve, almost pinning him.

Shoving back the rising tide of terror, Danny forced himself to think. He needed compressions, now. The truck was the worst possible place to do it, but waiting wasn’t an option.

He tugged and dragged until Steve’s torso and head lay flatter along the seat, his body at an awkward angle, legs still folded and cramped in the footwell to make it work. The ceiling was too low to fully straighten his arms, but he adjusted, compensating as best he could. Planting the heel of his hand in the centre of Steve’s chest, he stacked his other hand on top, and drove down with as much force as the cramped space allowed.

A crack sounded under his palms, sickening even through the roar of the engine and the tires. He swallowed hard, grateful he couldn’t fully hear the break. At least it meant he was getting deep enough.

Lou eased only slightly as they swung into the ER bay, where a knot of doctors and nurses waited behind an empty gurney.

“He’s not breathing and no pulse!” Lou shouted as he flung the driver’s door open and sprinted around toward them.

“Detective, you need to stop while we move him to the gurney,” a doctor barked, appearing at the open rear door. There was no way to work on Steve properly inside the truck. For a second, there would have to be a gap. No compressions. No anything.

Danny kept going, caught in a tunnel of mechanical movement and sheer refusal.

“Detective!” the doctor snapped again, louder. “Let us get him on the gurney!”

The words finally cut through. Danny’s head jerked up, eyes wide, breath ragged. Only then did he register the hospital lights, the crowd around the truck, the stretcher flush against the open door.

Hands reached in. Someone grabbed Steve by the ankles, someone else supporting under his shoulders. They slid him out in one smooth motion onto the gurney, rolled him forward a couple of feet and stopped for a rapid assessment.

By the time Danny stumbled out of the vehicle, a nurse was already at the head of the bed, sealing an Ambu mask over Steve’s mouth and nose, squeezing air into his lungs in steady bursts.

Adhesive ECG pads with wires were quickly being dotted his chest, but when they were all in place the monitor above them showed a flat, ominous line.

In one quick motion, the doctor took the defibrillator paddles, pressed them to Steve’s chest. “Clear!” he shouted. The surrounding staff stepped back.

A sharp, ugly zapping sound cracked through the air, and Steve’s body jolted off the mattress in a brief, violent arc.

The nurse snapped the mask back into place, squeezing again, all eyes flicking to the monitor.

“Again,” the doctor ordered, positioning the paddles once more.

Danny’s knees threatened to give way. His chest felt so tight he was sure he’d never fully breathe again.

“Clear!” the doctor called.

Another shock. Another brutal jolt of Steve’s body.

For a moment, there was nothing. Then a flicker of activity crawled across the screen, coalescing into an irregular but undeniable rhythm.

A thin, cautious satisfaction slipped across the doctor’s face. “We’ve got him. Let’s get him in!”

They started rolling.

Danny folded, planting his blood-slicked hands on his knees and bending forward, gulping for air that didn’t seem to want to go in.

Lou’s hand landed gently between his shoulder blades, a grounding weight.

The detective straightened with a wince, his stomach lurching with the sudden, overwhelming urge to vomit. He watched, shoulders sagging, as the gurney disappeared through the double doors and out of sight.

“You did good, Danny…” Lou said softly.

The blonde didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The fact that they’d dragged Steve back once didn’t mean they wouldn’t lose him again. The seriousness of it pressed in on him from all sides.

“Come on,” Grover murmured, curling a firm hand around Danny’s arm and steering him toward the waiting area.

*****

A silent and still Danny was probably the worst version of Danny there was.

When he was animated, at least everyone knew where they stood—he was a walking, talking gauge on his own freak-out meter. Volume, hand gestures, foot pace: all data points. But when he went quiet and folded in on himself, there was no telling. That was grenade territory—nerves, frustration, pure indignation.

Probably all of the above.

Grover hovered a cautious ten feet away, close enough to see, far enough to give the blast radius some respect, watching him with wide, wary eyes for any hint of ignition.

It had been over two hours since they’d arrived. The only information they’d had since was a brief, bare-bones update early on—enough to scare them, not enough to settle anything. Danny had dropped into one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs and stayed there, his whole body locked in place except for his hands.

He’d been obsessively picking and scraping at Steve’s congealed blood on his skin, flaking it off in small red-brown curls. He’d been at it so long that Lou was starting to think the reddish tinge left behind on his fingers wasn’t just blood anymore, but the raw irritation of his own abraded skin. Grover had wanted to talk to him. He’d tried—twice. But each time he opened his mouth, the words jammed in his throat. Anything he could think of to say felt either useless or dangerous.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He glanced at the caller ID: Chin.

Lou eased back a step, then another, retreating toward the external doors like he was backing away from a sleeping tiger. Outside, in the cooler air, he answered.

“Chin…”

“Hey, you’ve got me and Kono,” the lieutenant said. “Sorry we haven’t had a chance to call before now.”

“Steve. How’s Steve?” Kono cut in.

Lou drew in a slow breath and tipped his head up toward the dusk sky, as if the answer might be written there. “He, uh, he crashed on the way over,” he said quietly. “Danny had to give him CPR. They shocked him twice and got him back.”

“Oh my God…” Kono whispered, her voice small over the line.

“Doctors said he had internal bleeding in his chest cavity and abdomen,” Lou continued. “They think one bullet hit his spleen, and they’re worried the one around his hip might’ve torn up his intestine. They’ve taken him into surgery, but that’s all we know so far.”

“Danny?” Chin asked. Just the name. No “how is.”

“He’s… uh, he’s a mess, man.” Lou swallowed. “I mean, one minute they were talking in the truck, and the next minute…” He stopped, feeling his eyes sting. He clamped down on it, refusing to let the break happen here, on the phone, where Danny might come looking. There was nothing useful at the end of that sentence anyway.

“Where are we up to?” he redirected, forcing his voice back into something like neutral.

“FBI are processing the house,” Kono said softly, picking up and understanding the change of direction.

“The shooter?” Lou asked.

“He’s stable and out of surgery at Queens,” she answered. “They expect him to make a full recovery. We asked to be notified when he’s lucid enough to talk but…” She trailed off.

“We got the distinct feeling we’re being iced out,” Chin finished for her, his tone flat. “He’s in a lockdown wing with SWAT on the door in case anyone tries to make a move,” he added. “Good for his safety, bad for our access. If they’re keeping us at arm’s length, we’re not getting near him.”

Lou let out a short, bitter cough of a laugh. “Well that’s just typical. Five-0 does the heavy lifting, takes a casualty, and everyone else swoops in to take the lead. They get an ID?”

“We were told DNA and prints are being run by DHS,” Chin said. “They claim they’re still running him through the databases.”

“Yeah, and you and I both know they’ve already got this guy’s name, age, address, and the date he lost his first baby tooth by now,” Grover hissed.

He rubbed a hand over his face. “What about Natalya?”

“It’s not looking good…” Kono said softly. “She’s is non responsive and on a ventilator. Doctors said the bullet’s likely caused catastrophic brain damage.”

Lou’s jaw tightened. “So Steve and Natalya are both clinging to life while this bird gets away with a scratch.”

“It’s what Steve wanted, Lou,” Kono snapped, the words edged but quiet. She knew the irony. She hated that she’d helped make it happen. Killing actually didn’t come easily to her—not really. Her skills let her be precise where others couldn’t be. She could choose where the bullet went. This time however, she would have been happy to put the gunman down for good.

Lou shut his eyes, the regret instant. “Kono… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“No, I know,” she sighed, the bite in her voice softening with guilt and shared exhaustion. “I know you didn’t. It’s just… I guess we’re all feeling it.”

Silence stretched for a few long seconds, all three of them trapped in their own mental replays: each step in the yard, the door, the shots, the decisions. Every move second-guessed and re-litigated in hindsight.

“We’re gonna head over to you in a couple of hours,” Chin said finally. “FBI wants our statements. We figured if we give them something, it might keep them off Danny’s back for a while longer.”

“I know he’d appreciate that,” Lou said, nodding even though they couldn’t see it.

“You’ll call if there’s any change?” Kono asked.

“The minute we hear anything,” Grover promised.

He ended the call, slipped the phone back into his pocket, and took a breath before turning toward the waiting room again. Inside, Danny hadn’t moved so much as an inch.

Lou squared his shoulders.

Whatever came next, he’d be there to catch at least some of the shrapnel.

*****

Four hours and thirty-two minutes of waiting, and Danny had officially shifted from faux composure to irate fidgeting, though conversation was still firmly off the menu.

They’d been moved to a smaller waiting room, which hadn’t helped in the slightest. If anything, the walls felt closer, the air thicker. Danny would stand up, stalk the perimeter twice, then drop back into the same chair for a couple of minutes before repeating. It was like clockwork. Lou had run out of patience a long time ago, so he could only imagine what the detective was feeling.

The detective was just about to push himself up to start another circuit, when a new doctor appeared in the doorway, scrubs on, surgical hat still in place, mask hanging loose around his neck.

Danny was on his feet before the man got fully into the room.

“Doctor Craig Talon…” the man said, offering his hand.

Williams grabbed it, his grip a fraction too tight.

Talon turned and offered Lou the same.

“So, Commander McGarrett is stable,” the doctor began. “He’s in ICU for observation right now, but we’re hoping he’ll be moved within the next forty-eight hours.”

The word “stable” hit like a physical thing. Danny glanced at Lou; the deep creases that had carved themselves into the captain’s forehead eased, not gone, but softened.

“How’d he go with the surgery, doc?” Grover asked.

“The bullet that penetrated his upper torso caused a laceration to the spleen,” Talon said, his voice gentle but clinical. “We were able to repair the damage without having to perform a full or partial splenectomy. That’s a very good outcome. A person can live without a spleen, but it’s not ideal.”

He continued, “The bullet in the hip area has been removed. It caused some damage to the muscle and soft tissue, which we’ve repaired. We’ll need to watch closely for infection, but he’s on preventative antibiotics, and we’ll be monitoring.”

Danny managed a small nod, eyes fixed on the man’s face, searching for any hint of bad news he wasn’t saying.

“The injuries to his neck and thigh are mostly superficial,” Talon went on. “But one round damaged his scapula—his shoulder blade. It’s not the priority right now. We’ll get an orthopaedic surgeon to assess it in the next day or two. Further surgery may be required.”

He paused, studying both of them. “I know it sounds absurd, but… for that amount of ballistic trauma, he was incredibly lucky. This is about as good an outcome as we could hope for, especially considering the cardiac arrest on the way in.”

Danny’s jaw tightened. “Lucky” was not a word he was willing to apply to a man who had essentially died in the back seat of his own truck.

“The… uh… his heart…” Danny forced out.

Talon nodded. “We’re not seeing any obvious adverse effects. His vitals are stable. We’ll be running cardiac function tests over the next couple of days to be sure, but right now there’s nothing that’s alarming us.”

Danny exhaled slowly, some of the tension in his shoulders bleeding off. “When I was doing the CPR, uh, his ribs… I felt ribs…” he admitted, wincing at the memory.

“One cracked rib,” Talon confirmed. “I know people feel bad when that happens, but with proper CPR, it’s a common occurrence. It means you were doing what he needed.”

“Can we see him?” Danny blurted, the essential facts now lodged in his head. He didn’t need the rest of the medical jargon. Steve could have that explained to him when he was awake enough to argue with it.

Talon’s expression softened into a small smile.

“Yes. But ICU is busy, and he’s still very fragile, so if we could limit it to one person at a time while he’s in there, that would be best.”

“I’ll call Kono and Chin,” Lou said, already reaching for his phone.

*****

The journey from the waiting room to his partner’s bedside had been filled with unease. Danny’s stomach felt like it was knotted wire. He’d convinced himself that when he reached Steve, he would find him buried under a tangle of tubing and machines just to keep him stable—or even alive.

He let out a loud, shaky sigh of relief when the reality wasn’t as confronting as he’d imagined.

His gaze swept over Steve’s upper body before he moved to the chair and perched on the edge. Steve’s head was raised at about a forty-degree angle, a loosely fitted gown draped over his torso, his lower body hidden beneath a blanket. The only obvious sign of what he’d been through was the gauze taped over the wound at his neck. His colour was better than it had been in the truck—less grey, more human—but there was still room for improvement.

Leads snaked under the gown, a pulse-ox clip glowed faintly red on his finger, a nasal cannula sat under his nose, and an IV line ran from the back of his hand up to a pump. A monitor beside the bed traced out sharp green lines and displayed a steady column of numbers.

The doctor had warned him that the tail-end of the anaesthetic, plus moderate sedation and pain meds, would have Steve drowsy. He’d made it clear Danny shouldn’t expect much in the way of coherent conversation for at least twenty-four hours, possibly longer.

Danny didn’t care. Yes, he had questions. Yes, there was a rant of epic, hellfire proportions simmering in the back of his mind, waiting for Steve to be lucid enough to appreciate it. But the second he’d seen his partner on that gurney, body jerking under the defibrillator, all of that had fallen away.

He just wanted Steve to live. And here they were.

He could still feel the cool, clammy sensation of Steve’s skin from the scene—like frostbite imprinted on his own hands, a lingering freeze-burn that haunted his fingertips. That memory made him hesitate now. He was reluctant to reach for Steve’s hand, too afraid to test whether there’d actually be a difference. So he waited, sitting quietly, hands on his knees.

It ended up being a couple of hours before Steve’s arm twitched and his eyes cracked open.

“Hey…” Danny was on his feet immediately, leaning over the bed.

Steve’s eyes struggled to focus. His mouth felt dry and cotton-thick. His whole body was numb, heavy, like it belonged to someone else.

“You alright?” Danny asked.

The muscles in Steve’s cheeks twitched as he tried to form words. “’appened?” was all he managed.

“Ah, well…” Danny paused, trying for light and only half-getting there. “You went to a gunfight without Kevlar… got yourself shot… a couple of times,” he whispered.

“’Kay…” Steve breathed.

The corner of Danny’s mouth lifted into the ghost of a smile. On any other day he might’ve laughed. Only Steve would take that explanation on faith and just accept it, and Danny was fairly sure that wasn’t just the drugs talking. At least he wasn’t demanding updates on Natalya or the lunatic who’d done this.

But something was nagging at the edges of Steve’s fogged-up mind—something important he couldn’t quite catch. His heart rate ticked up causing an alarm to sound, sharp enough to put the fear of God straight back into Danny and to draw a nurse over to the bedside.

She glanced at the screen, then down at Steve. “Commander, you need to relax,” she said calmly. “We want to avoid your heart rate spiking.”

Steve tried to pull in a few deeper breaths through his nose and closed his eyes, forcing himself to follow the rhythm.

“Steve… just relax, okay?” Danny said, hovering uselessly at the side of the bed.

“French…” Steve mumbled.

Danny frowned, eyes narrowing. “What?”

“Di’n understan’…” Steve forced his eyes open a sliver, trying to lock onto Danny’s.

“That’s alright, it’s okay,” Danny said, finally mustering the courage to rest his hand on Steve’s now-warm forearm. He told himself Steve was just delirious, tripping over half-formed thoughts and pain meds. “We can work it out later…” he whispered, not grasping the weight of what Steve was trying to reach for, chalking it up to incoherent ramblings.

Steve let his eyes slide shut again.

Danny couldn’t tell if he’d dropped back under or was just digging through the fog in his head, but as the alarm settled and his breathing evened out, the nurse nodded and moved away.

Danny stayed where he was, hand still on Steve’s arm, and let himself breathe with him.

*****

Williams had been kicked out of the ICU around ten p.m., but he’d insisted on staying in the hospital, arguing that Steve was still a potential target. It was a flimsy excuse—Steve was in a restricted area, and this was a military hospital with its own added layer of security—but they’d accepted it. He’d been pointed to a small room with a couple of couches and told he could sleep there.

The next day was much the same. Steve surfaced several times, firing off stray words and fragments, but no substantial sentences. Still, Danny stayed at his side until he was given the same ultimatum: couch or home. He’d trudged back to the lounge without contest, too tired to argue and unwilling to go further than down the hall.

Forty-one hours after Steve had been admitted, the early morning light began to seep through the thin blinds. Danny had stubbornly dragged a blanket over his head and let himself drift back down—until someone gripped his bicep and shook him lightly.

He peeled the blanket down and squinted at the unfamiliar woman leaning over him.

“Detective… Commander McGarrett is awake, and he’s insisting he talk to you,” she said. Nurse, definitely.

He didn’t need more than that. He was on his feet and on his way within seconds, shoving his hair back and blinking sleep from his eyes as he followed her.

“He’s agitated,” the nurse added, hurrying alongside him.

By the time Danny reached the ICU, he could see two nurses trying unsuccessfully to stop Steve from pushing himself up. He had to admit, no disrespect—they were making a valiant effort, but against a determined, and even at a small advantage with a half-conscious McGarrett, they still had no hope.

“What are you doing?” Danny snapped at his best friend as he closed the distance, careful to place his hands only on the few patches of Steve’s torso that didn’t have a bandage or dressing. “Come on… you need to listen to these nice people and put your head back down.”

“Danny…” Steve gasped, urgent, his hand snaking out to clamp around Danny’s wrist. “I saw Natalya… okay… she… she told me something in French.”

“Okay…” Danny nodded, keeping his tone cautious but encouraging. This was clearly what Steve was tearing himself up to say. “What?”

“I…” Steve squeezed his eyes shut in frustration and let himself sag back against the pillows, breath hitching. “I’m trying to remember… but you need to go see her.”

“Ste—” Danny tried to cut in.

“It was important… about Rinski…” Steve insisted, forcing the words out. “I can’t work out why she’d speak in French though… she was at her house… you need to go over there and ask her what it was about.”

Danny dropped into the chair with a long exhale. “Buddy… what do you remember when you saw her? Other than that?” He paused, gentling his voice. “Maybe start at the beginning… when you got out of the truck…”

Steve’s eyes moved restlessly over Danny’s face. Something in his partner’s expression clearly worried him. He blinked rapidly and shook his head. “She told me something… I don’t know why she said it—”

“Okay… do you remember what happened before that? After?” Danny pressed.

The lost, unfocused look in Steve’s eyes was all the confirmation he needed. “I was there… at the house,” McGarrett whispered.

“Yeah,” Danny said quietly.

Steve shook his head and turned his face away, unable to catch hold of the memories.

“You went to her house… maybe you talked a little…” Danny prompted.

“She told me I had to leave and then she said something in French,” Steve snapped, impatience creeping in as he looped the same incomplete piece over and over.

Danny bowed his head, letting out a tight sigh. It was frustrating—the only thing that seemed to have stuck in Steve’s mind was this one moment, and yet he couldn’t remember what had actually been said. It sat there like an obstacle he couldn’t get past, cruel and tormenting.

“Okay… okay… then what?” Danny asked gently.

Steve frowned, reaching for something that wasn’t there. “Then I was here… now…” he finished, helpless.

The blonde swallowed hard. Steve didn’t remember the conversation they’d had the previous night, much less the minutes before and after Danny had dragged him out of the yard. “Listen to me… you were ambushed at the house,” he said gently. “There were two guys inside with Natalya. They shot you… remember?”

He watched the cogs turning behind Steve’s confused eyes.

“She slammed the door closed,” Steve whispered suddenly, his eyes widening. “Natalya… someone pulled her away from the door and she slammed it shut.”

Danny nodded. “Okay.”

“Was she… was she shot?” Steve asked.

Williams pressed his lips together. “Yeah. Yeah buddy, she was.”

“Is she alright?”

“She’s at Queens… she’s being taken care of…” Danny said, hoping the half-truth would be enough for now. Telling him more, in this state, would only give him a fresh wound to obsess over.

Steve’s eyes flickered with concern. “Did… did I do this?” he asked, the question small and raw.

“No… no,” Danny replied quickly but his tone filled with compassion. “We don’t even think Natalya sent you the message about coming to the house. That’s why it looks like an ambush.”

“Why?” Steve asked.

The thought of saying, We don’t know because they’re keeping us out of it lodged in Danny’s throat. Dumping that on Steve now would do nothing but light a fuse.

“We’re still trying to figure it out…” he said instead. “But I promise you, we’re gonna find out. Okay?” He lifted his hand and cupped it gently around the back of Steve’s head, hoping that reassurance would be enough for now.

*****

The team had found a quiet spot in the cafeteria later that day. Steve was having tests and was due to be moved out of ICU to a new room. Lou had seen it as an opportunity to peel Danny away so they could safely discuss updates.

Kono sighed as she stabbed a straw into her drink. “FBI are pushing to speak with both you and Steve.”

Danny raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. “They can speak to me and Steve as soon as they agree to put us back on the case.”

“Brah…” Chin leaned back in his chair. “They’ll just play the obstruction card. No one needs that.”

“This was our lead, Chin. Steve got ventilated for it, we’ve earned the right to have a seat at the table.” Danny growled, then forced himself to dial back his misdirected anger. “What about the shooter?”

“Oh, the FBI were happy to tell us that he ain’t saying nothin’,” Lou hissed. “And who could blame him? The guy knows if he does, he’s gonna be jumping at shadows for the rest of his incarcerated life.”

“And because of that, Steve could have died for nothing,” Kono whispered.

Danny tried to shake the vivid memories from his mind.

“But he didn’t,” Chin said firmly, eager to shut that line of thought down.

“Do we really believe Rinski ever was or could still be on the island?” Kono pressed. “It’s a risky play, no?”

“Guys like him always end up falling victim to their own hype,” Lou answered. “He’s been successfully dodging arrest for years, moving around with ease. It was only a matter of time before he got too comfortable and slipped up. He wanted to come for Natalya, and he couldn’t help himself.”

“Question is…” Chin added quietly, “was he coming for her because he needed her, or was it purely for revenge? Did he know she was talking?”

“If he just needed her, then he would’ve had her snatched up,” Danny said, nodding. “Revenge would explain why they called Steve up there.”

“But then why not send his people to handle it while he stayed hidden? Why risk being here on the island?” Kono countered. “It’s not like he was at the house to watch it go down.”

“I’m willing to bet FBI and DHS have an idea,” Danny sighed. “That’s why we need to get back in on the investigation.”

“How do we do that?” Chin asked, shrugging.

Danny chewed on his lip. “We take a page out of the McGarrett playbook. Cause disruption, force their hand.”

Lou leaned forward, forearms resting on the table. “You’re gonna have to be specific, Danny. That book is thick, and it has many, many chapters. Ranging from mildly annoying to certifiably insane.”

“Mildly annoying for now,” Danny said. “We make it clear we’re not backing down. We’ll keep working this with or without them.”

“That might be a threat if we knew where to start,” Chin argued. “We don’t have anything. And we’re forty-eight hours behind on intel.”

“We have Steve,” Danny countered. “And he knows something. Something to do with Natalya. He just can’t remember yet. But he will.”

Kono shifted in her seat, uneasy. “Did you tell him?”

Danny hesitated, then shook his head. “I mean… what am I gonna say? I couldn’t. He’s supposed to be in here for at least a couple more days. If he finds out she didn’t make it, or that we’re off the case, it’s gonna set him off. He’ll make it personal. He’s gonna be reaching for anything to get back in play. Injuries aside, he had a cardiac arrest… the importance of him doing what the doctors tell him right now is not something he should be dodging.”

Lou, Chin, and Kono could see how the decision to keep Steve out of the loop on vital information was tormenting him. Danny prided himself on being straight with Steve, and yet there were two major things he was forcing himself to hold back. It was deception—but necessary deception.

“Lou… I want you to call FBI. Try to change their mind,” Danny said.

“I’ll give it my best shot,” the captain nodded, already gearing up for the fight.

*****

Danny approved of the new room. It was light and airy, not claustrophobic like the ICU, but the change had done little to nothing to improve Steve’s preoccupied silence.

The detective had resorted to flicking through a two-year-old magazine just to avoid sitting there watching Steve push food around his plate.

Suddenly, the sharp clink of Steve’s fork dropping onto the porcelain made Danny look up.

“Shipping yard…” Steve said, eyes burning into his partner’s.

Danny let the magazine slide from his fingers to the chair and leaned forward.

“The port… au chantier naval.”

“The port…” Danny echoed, nodding. “The—babe, the port is a big place… I don’t suppose she gave you an address… a better location?”

“No!” Steve snapped. “No, that’s when she was pulled back inside. That’s all I got, Danny.”

“Alright…” the detective said softly. “Alright… that’s good. We can work with it.”

*****

Kono and Lou stood at the table, both frowning at the screen.

“I mean, I guess it’s a start, but it’s still looking for a needle in a haystack,” Kono said.

“I know… I know… but it’s something, right?” Danny answered, hope only half-hearted in his voice.

“Listen, Danny… I got nowhere with FBI or DHS,” Lou said. “They just gave me some patronizing BS that they would ‘involve us as the need arises.’”

“Yeah, when they need more people to be shot at,” Danny hissed.

Chin emerged from his office and walked quickly over.

“If we were gonna search the port, we’d need HPD’s help. Even then it’d take a long time and we’d be drawing attention,” Kono added, still focused on Steve’s intel.

“Just as well we caught a break, then.” Chin smirked and tapped the table. A picture of a deceased man popped up on the screen. “Meet Seth Duale. On paper, he was born in Atlanta, lives in Sacramento, works as a heavy machinery mechanic. No priors.”

“That’s the second shooter. Autopsy report? How’d you get this?” Kono asked, frowning.

“Max accidentally sent it to the wrong email address,” Chin said, with a knowing nod.

Kono grinned. “Bad Max.”

“Okay…” Lou straightened up and crossed his arms. “So Seth Duale from Sacramento has no priors, which means no mention of his side hustle as gun for hire.”

“No,” Chin replied, smirk widening. “But I ran him through facial rec; he came back on Interpol.”

“Now why would an innocent mechanic from Sacramento be on Interpol’s radar?” Lou asked.

“Well, he wasn’t. Not directly, anyway.” Chin zoomed in on the image. “He came up in an old investigation targeting Yuri Nobrevec, a once high‑level Russian politician. Nobrevec was arrested for a string of sexual assault allegations in London eight years ago. Scotland Yard pressed charges. He was released on bail but ordered to remain in the UK and had his passport seized. The Met ran heavy surveillance on him for three months, until the case collapsed when the women involved suddenly recanted their statements.”

Kono coughed bitterly and shook her head, shoulders dropping. “Recanted their statements” was just code for coerced, threatened, or paid off—especially when six women did it over a three‑hour window.

“It was during that surveillance they caught him with this man.” Chin brought up a shot of an older man exiting a high‑end London hotel with a younger, well‑built man in tow. “Look familiar?”

“I’m guessing it’s the mechanic from Sacramento?” Danny offered over the speaker.

“Yeah. But his real name is Ivan Peresvet. Born in Dubna, north of Moscow. Nobrevec’s nephew.”

“Please tell me you have a connection between Nobrevec and Rinski,” Lou said, his face lighting up.

“I do.” Chin nodded. “Nobrevec and Rinski had strong business ties. Different accounts on exactly what that ‘business’ was, but we can all agree it wasn’t above board. Nobrevec considered Rinski his protégé. They stayed close even after Nobrevec went political, but when Rinski was outed for illegal arms trafficking, they had a very public falling out.” He swiped to another document. “Natalya mentioned Nobrevec in her statements. He was one of the men Rinski would force her to be with—long after they’d supposedly cut ties.”

“Okay… this is nice, I like it, but how… how does this help us exactly?” Danny asked.

“Yeah, I’m not seeing a major break yet, cuz,” Kono said, shaking her head.

“Well, that’s just the connection,” Chin said. “The break came when I ran the names Seth Duale and Ivan Peresvet through TSA records. Seth landed at HNL a week ago… and he rented a car.”

Kono’s grin returned.

“I contacted the rental company and pulled the vehicle’s GPS history for the last seven days. Other than one stop for gas and one at a market, the car only went between an address in Waipahu and a warehouse on Mikole Street, Sand Island. And it hasn’t moved from that warehouse since the morning of the shooting.”

“Waipahu and Sand Island, huh?” Lou said dryly. “I mean, I get it—some of the island’s finest tourist hotspots.”

“If we have this information, then so would FBI… they’ve probably already been out there,” Kono said, her smile fading once more.

“Only if the other shooter’s ID points them there,” Chin countered. “Max only just realised his ‘mistake’ about ten minutes ago and sent the report to FBI. They’ll still be trying to string it all together—but it won’t take them long.”

“We need to get out to both the house and the port right now,” Lou said, nodding.

Danny sighed, clearly torn between chasing the lead and leaving Steve unsupervised. “Kono and Chin… you guys head out to Sand Island. Lou… I’ll meet you at the Waipahu address.”

“No.” Lou shook his head. “You stay there. I’ll get some guys from HPD to come with me.”

“He’s right, brah…” Chin added. “You shouldn’t leave Steve alone right now. He’s gonna be on edge, especially since he knows we’d be moving on the docks.”

“You know what? I honestly don’t know which option is worse…” Danny complained. “Potentially getting shot by an international arms dealer or pacifying an irritated Navy SEAL with control issues. He’s gonna be a nightmare.”

The cousins grinned at each other. They knew exactly where they’d rather be, and they were heading there. Risk of GSWs be damned.

“Don’t get it twisted, Danny. The latter is really what the governor pays you for,” Grover said.

“Doesn’t pay me nearly enough, Lou,” Danny grumbled.

“Godspeed,” Grover added, not sounding the least bit sympathetic, before ending the call.

*****

Steve’s eyes snapped open at the sound of Danny’s phone beeping.

“Stop. Would you stop?” Danny fired back, seeing his partner was two seconds away from bouncing out of the bed from nerves. It had taken exorbitant amounts of patience—and a ridiculous amount of time—to get Steve to stop fidgeting. He’d only been properly relaxed for about ten minutes, and of course one tiny but significant noise had him all riled up again.

Danny sighed, plucking his phone from his pocket and internally chastising himself for not putting it on silent. Still, he couldn’t help but grin; it was good to see a glimmer of his partner’s intolerable, impatient self. “It’s Grace. Oh and, typical… she only wants to know how you are.”

A faint smirk pulled at Steve’s lips.

“Should I send her a picture? Proof of life?” Danny raised the phone in Steve’s direction.

“Stop. You’re an idiot,” Steve growled, carefully turning his head away in protest.

Danny settled for replying with a short text, then dropped his shoulders, trying to relax as his gaze drifted around the room. “So, uhh… what was with the coded conversation you were having with the nurse when I came back in?”

“What?” Steve shook his head, confused.

“The, uhh, the nurse, earlier… the nice nurse that came in… she said she was sorry she was behind taking your obs. She just said, ‘four walking wounded from 3.’ You looked like you understood the meaning of that.” The detective shrugged.

“Oh… that.” Steve gave a feeble nod. “No… it’s, uh… they have some team guys here. Things can get all kinds of crazy in a place like this.”

“SEALs?”

Steve grinned—weak, but still a grin. “You think one confined SEAL is bad.”

“Yeah… yeah, I’d say one of you is pretty bad… well… especially you. How can it get worse?”

“It gets worse when we’re in packs.” Steve’s grin widened.

Danny hesitated, taking in the look of genuine amusement on his best friend’s face. It felt… misplaced. On the rare occasions Steve spoke about the Navy, it was never with real affection—hardly ever about good times, and certainly nothing that had ever stirred a smile like this.

“What do they do? Make you all take a course on being a pain in the ass?”

“If you liked laying back and enjoying the ride, you’d never make it through BUD/S.” Steve chuckled softly. “Joe always says ‘an idle SEAL is a dangerous SEAL’.” He shook his head. “None of us deal well with being still. Hospitals bring out the boredom. It’s not pretty… especially if we’re mobile.”

Danny grimaced, suddenly grateful there was only one lunatic under his inept management.

Steve indulged the happy thought for a few more seconds before his smile faded. “They should have called you by now, right?”

“Buddy, they’re searching a warehouse… you know that’s gonna take time.”

“But an update, they should ha—”

“Steve, relax. Do you see me worried? I’m not worried.”

As if by divine intervention, Danny’s cell phone vibrated. Leaving the room wasn’t even on the table—not under the hawkish, suspicious eyes of his partner. “It’s Chin…”

“Put him on speaker,” Steve growled impatiently.

“Chin, what’s up?” Danny answered, phone pressed to his ear, wearing a look of defiance for Steve’s benefit.

Steve rested his head back against the bed, nostrils flaring as he let out a long, frustrated exhale.

“Okay…” Danny said after a pause. “See you in a minute.”

“Did they get him?” Steve demanded.

“No, they didn’t. But they’re on their way up right now to tell us what they do have.”

“That’s great. That’s just great,” Steve hissed. “If I had just been able to pass on what Natalya said at the time, we could have gone in earlier. He’s long gone by now… we could have had him.”

“Stop. Okay.” Danny leaned forward. “First of all, we would’ve still been searching the entire area with the intel you had. It was the added information on the rental that gave us an exact location. We didn’t have that until a couple of hours ago. Second… when would you have had the time to pass on something like that, Steve? While you were being used as target practice? When your heart stopped? Or maybe when you were under the influence of post‑op drugs?”

McGarrett rolled his eyes.

“If he’s gone, he’s gone. Let him be someone else’s problem.”

“He tried to kill Natalya, Danny,” Steve growled. “I owe it to her to make sure she can live the rest of her life without fear of him coming back to finish the job.”

Danny’s stomach lurched, and he hoped he’d been quick enough to smother the flash of shame in his eyes. Thankfully, Steve was too distracted to notice.

“And what the hell are DHS and the FBI doing? They just sitting on their hands?” Steve snapped.

Williams sank back into his seat. Chin had mentioned they’d contacted FBI after going to the warehouse. Danny didn’t know exactly how that had gone down, but since this was about to become an open discussion in front of Steve, it was probably time to come clean about that particular omission.

“We don’t know what they’re doing,” he said softly, head bowed before he raised his eyes to wait for the inevitable.

Steve carefully turned his head toward him, mouth open. “What do you mean you don’t know?”

Danny winced. “They, uh… they’ve been keeping us out of the loop ever since you got shot.”

“They what?” Steve barked, trying to push his head and shoulders up, only to have his ribs, shoulder, and torso protest. He gritted his teeth through the pain.

“We’ve been trying to get back in, but… they’ve not exactly been receptive.”

“You should have told me, Danny,” Steve snapped.

“Again, I’ll go ahead and ask you when would have been the most appropriate time, Steve,” the detective sneered.

“Today. This morning would have been a good time.”

“Right!” Danny exploded, getting to his feet and waving his hands. “And what would you have done? You would have lost your mind and scaled down the side of the building to set them straight. Idle SEAL is a dangerous SEAL, right?”

“Wha’s up…” Lou cautiously stepped into the room, the cousins on his heels. “We can come back later if we’re interrupting?”

Steve and Danny glared at each other with equal parts fury.

“We’re gonna talk about this later,” Steve snarled, finally breaking eye contact.

“I literally cannot wait,” Danny shot back sarcastically. He waved a hand at Chin. “G’ahead.”

“I’m gonna assume you’re on the same page regarding our status,” Chin said carefully, looking at Steve.

“What gave it away?” Danny muttered.

“Yes, Chin…” Steve rubbed a hand over his face, then let it fall to cover his eyes. “And just let it be known, I hold you guys partially responsible for letting Danny Williams play grown‑ups.”

“You’re a jerk, you know that?” the detective hissed.

Steve pulled his hand away, mouth open, ready to fire back.

“Okay… time out,” Chin cut in diplomatically, both hands raised.

“What do you got?” Steve finally sighed.

“Alright. Well… no sign of Rinski at the port, but he was there—and he must have left in a hurry,” Chin said.

“We found empty weapons crates and travel documentation,” Kono added. “The paperwork only covered his arrival: a Chinese freighter that stopped at the Port of Los Angeles over two weeks ago and docked in Honolulu late last week. Nothing on how he might have gotten off the island.”

“How can we be sure he’s left?” Danny asked, shrugging.

“We can’t,” Lou replied. “But, I still firmly believe he was emboldened enough to come here, but even he wouldn’t be dumb enough to stick around now, not after what went down at that house. His best bet would’ve been to hightail it out the minute he knew things had gone sideways.”

“Thing is, five vessels departed the afternoon of the shooting,” Kono said softly. “Two were Chinese, but neither they or the others were heading back to the mainland.”

“Okay, so… that’s it.” Danny threw his hands up. “The ball is officially back in someone else’s court. Did you find anything at the house?”

“Matter of fact, I did…” Lou nodded. “A laptop. And no, we didn’t tell FBI, so it’s with CSU right now.”

“We’ve got a meeting with FBI in the morning,” Chin added. “Looks like they’ve had a change of heart since we managed to locate the warehouse. We’re hoping they might be a little more forthcoming now.”

“Chin… don’t give them anything until they give us the whole picture,” Steve said wearily.

“You got it,” Kelly nodded.

“Boss… you look tired. We should go,” Kono whispered.

Danny tilted his head, lips thinning. ‘Yeah, that’s right, just abandon me in a time of need,’ went unsaid.

“Try to get some sleep, brah,” Chin said, patting McGarrett gently on the foot.

As the door closed and the partners were left in silence, Danny braced for round two.

Instead, Steve exhaled loudly, eyes closing as his head sank back into the pillow. “I’m sorry, Danny.”

The detective’s head snapped up, stunned by the uncharacteristic, sudden apology.

“I shouldn’t have reacted like that,” Steve went on. “I know you’re doing your best, and it doesn’t make it easy when you feel like you’re torn between here and the team. I didn’t mean to be an asshole.”

“I know you didn’t.” Danny placed his hand over Steve’s. “You’re in pain, your mind’s still running a million miles an hour and you feel like you’re useless. I know that’s gotta be hard for you.”

“Still…”

“Steve, keeping things from you is not easy for me. I hate it,” Danny whispered. “But I only ever do it because of the circumstances. Lots of moving parts, lots of factors that need to be considered. I want you to always remember that.”

McGarrett’s eyes opened and settled on Danny’s.

For a moment, Danny could see he was weighing a rebuttal. Maybe he suspected there was more still being hidden. “I listened to you when you insisted they prioritise Natalya and the gunman. That was one of the toughest things I’ve ever done… but I did it. Now it’s time for you to let me make decisions, for you to listen to me, and for you to just trust the process.”

“Okay… Where do I start?”

Danny shook his head gently; he hadn’t been expecting this kind of capitulation and found himself scrambling. After a brief pause, he shrugged. “Just… just take the day to rest. We’re not gonna have anything until they talk to FBI tomorrow. And move forward accepting that Rinski has gone. Even if you were back at work, there’d be nothing any of us could do to catch him now.”

McGarrett’s gaze drifted away, a real battle raging inside him, but he knew Danny was right.

“Okay…” he whispered.

*****

Williams pushed through the doors of HQ to find the team clustered around the table, mid-briefing. The low murmur of voices dipped as they noticed him.

Steve had finally settled after their talk the night before, and they’d both been clear-headed enough by the end of it to agree: Danny should go home, get some real sleep, come back fresh.

He’d tried. A night in his own bed was supposed to reset him. Instead, he’d spent most of it staring at the ceiling, replaying every second in the back of Steve’s truck—Steve bleeding out, his grip on Danny’s wrist, the way his breathing had hitched and stuttered. By the time he’d slept at all, it was closer to dawn than midnight.

When he woke, a message from Lou was waiting: the meeting with FBI had already happened, and he should call when he got the chance. He’d figured he’d swing by HQ first, lay eyes on his people.

“Hey…” Kono was the first to look up, her brow knitting in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“Ah, they’re running some more tests.” Danny scrubbed a hand over his face, hearing the fatigue in his own voice. “Steve’s also meeting with the orthopaedic surgeon about his shoulder this morning. I figured I’d come in, get the update face to face, then head back.”

“I spoke to Steve on the way out to the field office,” Chin said. “He sounded better.”

Danny raised an eyebrow, giving a short, perfunctory nod. He didn’t have the energy to summon anything more encouraging, even if the comment deserved it. “Yeah? That’s… good.” His gaze shifted, searching for safer ground. “How’d it go with FBI?”

“Turns out our gunman was actually singing like a bird,” Lou said, leaning back in his chair. “Name’s Lance Mosori. He worked with Seth Duale on the mainland. Got priors for drugs, assault, armed robbery. I’m not sure he fully appreciates the implications of his candour. He’s gonna be on Rinski’s hit list now, no doubt.”

“So he came over with Rinski and Duale?” Danny asked.

“Yep.” Chin nodded. “And Mosori said the people he was trading weapons to would only deal with Rinski personally. That explains why he had to be here in the first place.”

“Where are the weapons now?” Danny shifted closer, bracing his forearms on the table as he bent down, needing the grounding feel of solid wood under his hands.

“On a ship to Manila,” Kelly replied. “FBI’s already giving the local authorities a heads up.”

“Fantastic,” Danny muttered. “So, Rinski could be on that ship?”

“No…” Kono shook her head. “That ship left the night before the shooting. Rinski was waiting for Duale and Mosori to grab Natalya before he headed back to the mainland. Mosori only knew they had to be back at the port by four p.m. for their exfil, but he was never told the specifics. Need-to-know basis.”

“Rinski not only knew that Natalya was on the island, but he knew Steve was her local contact,” Lou added, voice tightening, “and that he was trying to help her disappear for good. Working theory is he didn’t want Steve coming after them, so he figured it was the perfect opportunity to take him out.”

Danny straightened, rolling his tongue over his back teeth as he processed that. There was an ugly logic to it. “What’s their assessment that he’s off the island?”

“They rate it at ninety-eight percent in favor,” Kono said quietly.

“Of course they do,” Danny breathed.

“There were two ships that left that night, both heading back to the West Coast from Honolulu,” she continued. “Under normal circumstances, Coast Guard would meet them, search them before they’re allowed into port. But that’s at least five days away, travel time alone. However, the Navy’s got ships out in the Pacific on exercise. If FBI and DHS can get fast clearance, they can intercept, board at sea. The search can happen much sooner, and it’s a lot harder for Rinski to make a run for it hundreds of miles from land.”

“Time frame?” Danny asked on a tired sigh.

“If the cargo ships don’t deviate from their course, they expect to be able to board within the next forty-eight hours,” Chin said. “Infrared on the containers to pick up any heat signatures, and teams doing physical sweeps of crew-accessible areas. They’re estimating eight to twelve hours of investigation time per ship.”

Danny nodded slowly, doing the math, weighing risk against distance. “Okay, well… Steve’s in the best place as far as security goes.” He exhaled through his nose. “I’ll give Tripler the heads up anyway, just in case we’re sitting in that two percent.”

Two percent. Who came up with these numbers, anyway? It always felt like a convenient cushion—high enough to reassure everyone, low enough to leave an escape hatch when they were wrong.

Lou’s phone chimed, cutting into his thoughts. “Grover,” he answered. His expression shifted as he listened. “Really? And that’s been signed off?” He flicked a glance at Danny. “Okay, I’ll let Detective Williams know.”

Danny’s eyes narrowed as Lou slid the phone back into his pocket. “What?” he demanded. “What was that?”

“Where’s your cell?” Lou asked.

Danny patted his pockets, fishing around uselessly. “Must be in the car,” he muttered.

“Okay, well… that was the hospital,” Lou said.

Danny’s jaw locked. “What the hell has he done?”

“Apparently, Steve is being discharged tomorrow afternoon.”

Danny stared at him. “Wait… hold on. I thought he was supposed to stay in there for another couple of days at least.”

“The doctor’s signed off on it,” Lou said with a helpless shrug, “with conditions.”

Chin’s mouth curved into a knowing smirk. “When you say conditions, do you mean options? Because Steve doesn’t do well with conditions.”

Danny closed his eyes for a moment, his expression flickering through worry into anger. He could already picture Steve bargaining his way out of a hospital bed like it was an arms deal. “Perfect,” he said flatly. “This is just perfect.”

Kono hurried to her office and reappeared moments later with a clear plastic bag in hand.

“Danny,” she said, coming around the table to him. “Steve’s things. The nurse gave them to me for safekeeping the first night. Can you make sure he gets them?”

Williams reached out and took the bag. Steve’s watch gleamed dully through the plastic, next to his cell phone and worn leather wallet. Symbols of normal life, tossed in a Ziploc like evidence.

“Only if I can use the bag to suffocate him,” Danny muttered, but his grip on it tightened, and he didn’t let go.

*****

The late afternoon drive from the hospital had passed in absolute silence. Not the easy, companionable kind they sometimes fell into on long drives, but the heavy, simmering sort that pressed against Steve’s ribs almost as much as his bandages did.

Danny hadn’t said a single word since he’d come back to the hospital the day before, not when he’d checked in on Steve, not when he’d arrived to collect him, and certainly not after they’d pulled out of the parking lot.

Steve didn’t have to look hard to see the anger sitting just behind his partner’s eyes, or that he was coiled tight and contained only by sheer will.

He noticed when Danny veered onto the early ramp off the H1, it was clear a decision had been made without his consultation and he would not be returning home yet. It was almost like Danny wanted the last word, and he was going to deliver it in silence.

But when they rolled into Danny’s driveway and Steve spotted the HPD unit idling at the curb, engine ticking and lights off, it became painfully clear the silent treatment was barely the opening act.

Steve had the passenger door open before the car had fully settled, just to prove a point of his own, pushing himself out with far less grace than he’d prefer. His leg screamed at him as he forced it to take more weight than it liked, and his shoulder ached hotly beneath the restrictive sling binding his arm to his chest. Crutches were out of the question; the orthopaedic surgeon had been very clear about that. Limited weight-bearing on the injured leg, no strain on the shoulder, controlled movement only.

Right now, controlled movement was a fantasy. Pride outran pain. He bit down on the groan that tried to escape, refusing to give Danny any ammunition for a “suck it the hell up” lecture. He might deserve Danny’s anger, but he wasn’t ready to sit through the accompanying commentary just yet.

By the time he’d got both feet on the driveway and found his balance, Danny was already at the front door. The detective unlocked it, disappeared inside, and left the door hanging half-open behind him. Steve hadn’t even managed a full step.

“Do you need some help, Commander?” a young HPD officer called from the open window of the squad car, voice edged with concern.

Steve glanced over. The kid couldn’t have been on the job long, face still soft, uniform almost too new. Steve summoned a faint, lopsided smile. “No, I’m good… thanks.”

Good was generous. Functional wasn’t even closer to the truth. But he made it to the door, crossing the threshold with a halting, uneven hobble, and nudged it shut behind him with his heel. The cool, familiar feel of Danny’s house wrapped around him.

The living room was empty. The couch, however, looked like a beacon.

He aimed for it.

Danny appeared from the hallway just as Steve reached it, footsteps deliberately heavy as he stalked past and into the kitchen. Each step clipped, too loud, said more than words could.

“Guest room’s good to go,” Danny announced, not bothering to look at him as he disappeared again and the sound of the fridge door being yanked open could be heard. “Extra blanket is on the bed.”

He’d offered no eye contact as he’d passed. No attempt at their usual sarcasm. Just logistics, delivered with venom in every overemphasized footfall.

Steve eased himself down onto the couch in slow, careful increments. The movement lit a line of fire across his chest, the pull on the stitches in his side clashing with the sharp, insistent ache of his cracked rib. The sling held his shoulder in an unforgiving angle; there was no such thing as a comfortable position. He hissed quietly through his teeth and let his head drop back against the cushion, eyes squeezing shut for a moment as he waited for the worst of the burn to pass.

The fridge door slammed and the footsteps started again.

“Danny…” he tried, voice rough.

No answer.

“Danny…” he said more firmly.

“I got a bottle of water,” Williams replied as he reversed his route, gripping the bottle so tight his knuckles had whitened. He didn’t slow, already angling back toward the hallway. “I’ll put it by the bed.”

“Danny!”

“What?” Danny snapped, spinning on his heel.

Steve had faced armed insurgents, hostile interrogations and more than his share of life-or-death stand-offs, but there was a particular look Danny got that could freeze him more effectively than a gun to his head. It was on him now: an expression that wasn’t just anger, but a jagged mix of things Steve had learned to recognize over the years—outrage, frustration, stress, bitterness, and something that skirted far too close to hurt.
It was hard to read because it was all of those things at once. Harder still because every one of them was directed at Steve.

“You could have taken me home,” Steve said quietly, the words coming out softer than he’d intended.

“My house is on one level.” Danny’s reply was precise, each word clipped and cold as ice. “And I’m four miles from the ocean, so that mitigates the risk of you giving into that particular temptation.”

The ocean. The pull it had on Steve—the pull to dive in, to push himself, to risk himself—was something they both knew too well. Danny was throwing it back at him like a weapon.

“I didn’t want to be your problem,” Steve said.

He meant it. He always had. He’d never wanted his damage, his pain, his enemies to land on Danny’s doorstep.

But sincerity didn’t soothe this time. If anything, it poured gasoline on the fire.

“Whose problem did you think you’d end up being, Steve?” Danny shot back, voice rising. “It’s not like you’ve got family waiting for you at home!”

The words landed like a punch.

Even as they left his mouth, Danny knew he’d gone too far. The ‘F’ word—family—was one of the few lines he’d drawn for himself when it came to arguing with Steve. There were things they ribbed each other about: driving, clothes, food, the Navy, Jersey versus Hawaii. That wasn’t one of them.

Family meant something complicated and fractured when it came to Steve. On one hand, it was the makeshift, chosen bond he’d built with the people who stood beside him now—Danny, Chin, Kono, Grover—love and loyalty not born of blood, but stronger than most ties that were. On the other, it was ghosts: a father murdered, a mother who vanished and returned in secrets, a sister out of reach more often than not. Betrayal. Abandonment. Heartache.

Danny knew all of that. Which made the shot even cheaper.

Steve’s eyes dropped to the floor. He told himself he shouldn’t let it in, that Danny was angry and exhausted and lashing out. But logic didn’t stand much chance against the raw spot Catherine had left behind when she chose to stay in Afghanistan. That wound was still fresh, still bleeding beneath everything else. The word family scraped right across it.

Alone again. The thought flickered through, uninvited and ugly. No one waiting at home. No one except the one person who had shown up, over and over, since the day they’d met—whether Steve allowed him to or not.

His early release from the hospital hadn’t been nearly as calculated as Danny clearly believed. The orthopaedic surgeon had come in that morning with what, objectively, was good news. The imaging looked promising; the fracture in his shoulder could heal without surgical intervention. That alone spared him another week under fluorescent lights.

Then Talon had weighed in, satisfied enough with the trend of Steve’s vitals and blood work to agree he could be taken off IV antibiotics and heavy IV pain meds, switched to oral tablets. The wounds were clean, no signs of internal bleeding, heart rhythm steady, lungs clear. On paper, he was stable.

Steve had made what he thought was a throwaway comment—just a tired man’s wishful thinking. No reason to stay in hospital if he could rest just as well at home, right?

He’d expected a firm no. Maybe a lecture. Maybe a compromise of “three more days and we’ll talk.” Instead, the doctor had gone quiet, eyes flicking between the chart and Steve’s face.

The conditions had been clear enough when he finally spoke: early discharge could be approved, but only if someone stayed with Steve round the clock for the first few days. Someone to monitor him, help him move, make sure he didn’t do anything… reckless.

At the time, Steve hadn’t really thought it through. The prospect of escaping the antiseptic walls and relentless beeping monitors had been too tempting. Freedom had its own kind of intoxicating smell, and it clouded his judgement. He’d agreed too quickly, telling himself he’d manage, that he didn’t really need anyone keeping an eye on him. That the condition was more a formality than something that would actually be enforced.

He’d been foolish to think that. Of course the hospital would pass that condition on. Of course they’d loop in Danny. Who else could they reasonably call?

Now, sitting in Danny’s living room, Steve felt the weight of that selfishness like another bruise. He hadn’t just become his partner’s responsibility—he’d also, unintentionally, turned Danny’s house into a potential target. The HPD unit outside was proof of that. Rinski might be ninety-eight percent off the island, but there was still that lingering two percent. Two percent was more than enough for Steve to feel like an X sitting in the middle of Danny’s home.

And this was the same home where Grace sometimes curled up on the couch, where her school projects littered the dining table, where her drawings were pinned on the fridge. The idea of bringing any threat into that space made his stomach twist.

“You know what?” Steve whispered, shame and defeat thick in his voice. He still couldn’t bring himself to look at Danny. “You’re right… I… I should go back.”

The words weren’t a tactic, not this time. Danny had seen Steve weaponize guilt before, watched him lean into self-sacrifice to get his way, to take the most dangerous piece of the plan for himself. He knew the signs of that kind of psychological warfare—where Steve nudged people into agreeing with him by making martyrdom sound like the only reasonable option.

But this wasn’t that.

Danny studied him. The fight had drained out of Steve’s posture; his shoulders weren’t just slumped from pain, but from a kind of weary acceptance. There was no stubborn glint in his eyes, no bracing for an argument, no challenge. Just a man who genuinely believed he was a burden and was, in this moment, fully prepared to haul himself back into a hospital bed to spare the people he cared about.

It hit Danny in a place none of his anger could quite touch.

He exhaled, something in his own stance loosening as the sharp edge of fury dulled into something heavier, more complicated. “You’re not going anywhere,” Danny said, his voice lower now, the earlier acid stripped out of it.

And for the first time since they’d left the hospital, the words sounded less like a sentence and more like a promise.

*****

The night had been good, at least on a relative scale. Neither of them had slept straight through—Steve woke to pain and the ghost of alarms, Danny to the echo of bullets snapping off a blood-soaked driveway—but they’d both slept, and that was something. By morning, they’d surfaced in marginally better moods, enough that the air between them felt less like a live wire and more like a low, steady current.

Danny had made breakfast: eggs, toast, and enough coffee to fuel them both and the HPD guys parked outside. Steve had made the painful migration from the spare room to the couch, each step measured and careful, his breathing shallow to appease his ribs. By the time he was settled, propped on pillows and encased in a fortress of blankets, Danny had queued up some old classic Road Runner cartoons.

They sat side by side, the familiar ACME logo filling the screen, desert oranges and yellows bleeding into each new frame. Every few minutes, Danny caught himself glancing over at his partner. Steve’s laughter, when it came, was small and partially guarded, but real. His lips twitched into a crooked grin whenever Wile E. Coyote’s latest over-engineered trap blew up in his own face.

There was something absurdly fitting about it. The coyote—the Jackal—spending all his time constructing one hairbrained scheme after another to catch his target, only to end up tumbling off cliffs, flattened by boulders, or swallowed by his own dynamite. No wonder Steve was entertained; he was essentially watching an illustrated version of his own life play out.

Danny sipped his coffee, eyes drifting back to the screen, but his mind wandered. He wondered, not for the first time, if this show had quietly rewired Steve’s brain as a kid. Here he’d been for years, pinning the blame for McGarrett’s idiotic, self-sacrificing conduct squarely on the Navy. Maybe ACME had a bigger share in that responsibility than he’d realized.

Still, the sight of Steve’s face—unhardened, unguarded in those small bursts—did something warm and unsettling in Danny’s chest. He’d always teased Steve for his juvenile behavior, but it was usually framed in the context of the reckless, bullet-dodging SEAL nonsense. Seeing him light up at something so harmless, so disconnected from life-or-death stakes, felt… new. Younger. Like getting a glimpse of the guy he might have been if his life hadn’t been defined by loss and violence.

Danny made a quiet promise to himself then. More moments like this. More stupid cartoons, more dumb movies, more nothing time. Times when Steve wasn’t riddled with holes and stitched together like a patchwork quilt.

Nice as it was, though, the morning didn’t wash away everything. The undercurrent of irritation and unfinished business still tugged at him, and it certainly didn’t erase the responsibilities Steve had so casually walked him into.

“I gotta change the bandages on your wounds,” Danny said eventually, breaking the silence.

Steve dragged his gaze from the TV in time to see Danny push up from the couch. There was weariness in the detective’s voice, the kind that came from more than lack of sleep. His eyes followed Danny as he moved into the kitchen, rummaging in the bag of medical supplies the hospital had sent home. Gauze, tape, antiseptic wipes, sterile pads—an impromptu field kit laid out on Danny’s counter.

When he came back, hands full, he dropped onto the cushion next to Steve with a soft grunt and set everything within easy reach.

Danny started with the wound at Steve’s neck, fingers working at the adhesive with a little more force than the situation really called for. The dried edge of the gauze tugged at tender skin, and Steve couldn’t quite keep the wince or the slight flinch out of his reaction.

“Yeah… well…” Danny muttered, tone low and edged. “If you wanted a tender bedside manner, then you should’ve stuck with the nurses.”

Cold. Controlled. It was a joke on the surface, but the temperature underneath hadn’t changed since yesterday.

Whatever lightness the cartoons had given Steve evaporated. Retorting felt wrong. Sarcasm felt wrong. He stayed quiet, jaw tightening slightly, eyes fixed somewhere over Danny’s shoulder.

The antiseptic burned as Danny dabbed it over the stitches. He hesitated, clearly weighing his words, gaze flicking between Steve’s face and the angry line of the laceration.

“Don’t ever do that to me again,” he said finally.

Steve’s brow creased. There were too many possible “thats” to choose from. The list, at this point, covered a disturbing amount of terrain.

“Don’t ever make me choose between you and the bad guy,” Danny clarified.

The room seemed to narrow around them just a little.

Steve studied his partner’s face. New lines had carved themselves into Danny’s expression since the shooting—deep grooves of strain and something darker. Guilt. Fear. It was all laid out there now, easy to read if Steve was willing to look.

“Danny—”

“Would you just shut up for a minute and listen to me?” Danny cut across him sharply. “I get what you were trying to do, okay? I get why you did it. But, Steve… that was way too close.”

Steve dropped his gaze, a ripple of discomfort twisting through him. The entire subject made him feel exposed in a way bullets and blood never did. Danny had tried to broach it at the hospital more than once, and every time Steve had redirected, shut it down, steered him back toward safer ground.

For Steve, the decision on that driveway had been clinical. Tactical. A call made in the space between heartbeats, weighed against training and probabilities rather than feelings. The calculus was done; he saw no reason to rework the math.

For Danny, it wasn’t a calculation. It was the worst kind of emotional landmine. He’d been there—hands on Steve’s body, listening to his breathing falter, watching the color drain from his face. He’d felt the consequences in a way no after-action report could capture. Steve knew it would be cold-hearted to deny him the space to say what he needed to say.

“You would have died,” Danny pressed, voice dropping to something rougher. “Right there on that driveway. The third ambulance would have never gotten there in time.”

Steve wanted to brush it off with a simple, “I know.” He wanted to downplay it, call it an “unfortunate scare,” pretend the outcome had been less precarious than it really was. But he couldn’t. Not when there were witnesses who’d watched him crash, not when there was a medical record that spelled out the minutes his heart had stopped.

Not when Danny had stood there and watched them shock him back.

“I’m not doing that again, Steve,” Danny said, glaring at him now as he reached for a fresh pad. His voice was harder, but his hands were gentler as he laid the new dressing over the wound on Steve’s neck. “Just so you know. I’m not choosing someone else over you like that.”

He smoothed the edges down more carefully this time.

“And just so you know,” he added, “if you don’t like it, you’re gonna have to get a new partner. Because next time, there will be no chance in hell.”

Steve swallowed, eyes flicking up. “So, what do you want me to do? You want me to make a promise? Is that what you’re asking me right now?”

“Yes.” Danny didn’t hesitate. “That’s exactly what I’m asking you. I want you to give me your word you’ll never make me do something like that again.” His tone was a growl now as he pushed up the leg of Steve’s shorts, exposing the bandage on his thigh. The gauze there was stained but dry; he began peeling it back, more cautious than he had been with the one at Steve’s neck.

“I can’t do that, Danny,” Steve answered, the honesty leaving no room for sugarcoating.

Danny’s jaw flexed. He paused for a heartbeat, then went in another way. “Do me a favor, would you? Put yourself back in that situation… only this time it’s me bleeding out and telling you to give the same order. Would you go through with it?”

Steve rolled his eyes and shook his head, the dismissal automatic, a practiced deflection. Hypotheticals were neat, clean, controllable. Real life was none of those things. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t thought about it. Like Danny, he’d dreaded the prospect more than once—Danny down, Danny fading, Danny telling him to go, to leave him, to save someone else.

Every time his mind had walked itself to that cliff, the answer came back the same: he couldn’t do it. Not if there was any other option. Not if there was even the smallest sliver of a chance.

“I would do what was right in the moment,” he said finally.

It was as close to a non-answer as he could manage. And they both knew it.

Danny huffed, frustration roughening his breath. “I don’t believe that for one second, Steve. I know you. Losing any one of us wouldn’t be acceptable to you. Not like that.”

He was right. Steve felt his shoulders sag, a small concession in his posture. The assessment was too precise to argue with. “It’s different for you, Danny. You’ve got—”

“Oh, that’s right.” Danny cut in, a bitter smirk twisting his mouth. “Lou and I are worth more than Kono, Chin and you because we got kids.”
The words came out harsher than he meant them to, but once they were there, hanging in the space between them, he couldn’t take them back.

“No,” Steve shot back, more sharply than he’d intended. The idea that he might be weighing their worth, placing them on some sort of moral scale, made his stomach turn. “No. That’s not what I meant.” He shook his head, eyes narrowing slightly as he forced himself to stay on track. “You carried out the order and you got me to the hospital in time. Can’t you just consider that a win?”

“Maybe…” Danny said, lifting his gaze for a second as though genuinely considering it. The movement of his head suggested agreement, but the simmer still burning behind his eyes told a different story. “It kinda didn’t feel like that when I was watching them restart your heart.”

The image dropped like a stone into the quiet between them.

Steve closed his eyes. For all his attempts to compartmentalize, to frame his choices in terms of tactics and outcomes, that one detail cut through his defenses. He truly did feel awful for what he’d put Danny through. For the sounds and sights he knew his best friend would be carrying around long after the wounds on Steve’s body had faded.

Even so, he couldn’t bring himself to make a promise he knew he might not be able to keep. Not honestly. Not in a life where chaos was the rule and certainty was a luxury they rarely had.

Silence settled over them, tense but less volatile than before. Danny focused on the wound at Steve’s thigh, cleaning it with quiet efficiency, then pressing a fresh dressing into place with steady, careful hands. He moved on to the next, lifting the edge of Steve’s T-shirt to reach the bandage taped over his ribs.

“I’d like to see Natalya today…” Steve murmured, breaking the quiet.

Danny’s eyes snapped up, meeting his for a brief moment. There was a flicker of something there—guilt, maybe, or reluctance—before he dropped his gaze again and began gathering the discarded packaging into his hand.

“You’re not supposed to be anywhere but this couch or bed,” he said. The words were matter-of-fact, but there was an undercurrent that admitted more. Steve knew the rules. Knew the doctor’s orders. Knew Danny would follow them to the letter, especially now. He also knew that was exactly why he’d asked.

It was a test, and Danny had finally, predictably, failed it.

“She’s dead, isn’t she?” Steve asked quietly.

Danny’s hand stilled over the bandage he was about to remove. He let out a slow, resigned sigh and peeled the gauze back from Steve’s ribs, revealing the bruised skin and angry red puncture beneath. He considered lying—again—but the directness of the question, and the weight in Steve’s voice, made it clear that wouldn’t fly this time.

“Yeah…” he said, nodding once as he reached for another antiseptic pad. He forced himself to meet Steve’s gaze. “Yeah, she is. There was nothing anyone could’ve done. I’m sorry.”

It shouldn’t have surprised him. Steve had seen enough gunshot wounds to the head to recognize the pattern, to know that “unlikely” was a generous description of Natalya’s chances. It would have taken a miracle to bring her back. Miracles had been in short supply lately.

Even so, hearing it confirmed cracked something open. Shock might not have been there, but grief was. Deep and unfiltered. It rose up in his chest like a tide: sorrow, regret, anger at a world that couldn’t give a woman like Natalya a clean break.

“All she wanted was to have a better life and to be free,” he said softly, eyes glistening as he looked at Danny.

Danny hesitated, then nodded, his own features softening. “Yeah…” he replied, just as quietly. “But… I dunno, Steve. Can a person who’s been through that kind of trauma ever really be free?”

The question hung there, heavy and familiar. Steve’s gaze drifted down, blinking away the moisture threatening to spill over. It was a question he’d hurled at himself more times than he could count. Nights when the past crawled under his skin, when the ocean couldn’t wash it off, when sleep was just a battlefield by another name.

“I do know,” Danny continued, his voice gentler now, “that if there is an afterlife… she’ll be in heaven and he’s going to hell. Maybe that’s her freedom now.”

He finished with the wound at Steve’s ribs, laid a clean dressing over it, then shifted to the last site at his hip. His touch was clinical but careful, pausing just long enough to judge whether he was causing more pain than necessary.

His phone chimed on the coffee table. Danny wiped his fingers on a clean cloth, then reached for it. He scanned the message, eyes flicking quickly across the screen.

“Navy have reached the first ship,” he said, glancing back at Steve. “They’re getting ready to board.”

Steve nodded, the movement small but deliberate. “Okay,” he murmured, the word carrying a weight of things unsaid—about justice, about closure, about what might finally happen to the man who had turned Natalya’s life, and theirs, into collateral damage.

*****

Danny had gone to bed earlier that night, not before giving the third degree about staying up too late, retreating with the kind of quiet insistence that told Steve there would be no arguing. Steve had stayed on the couch, propped up against a stack of cushions that did little to ease the throbbing in his side. His stubborn refusal to take anything stronger than an over-the-counter painkiller kept him awake, but so did his determination to hear the outcome of the Navy operation.

The first ship they’d reached had been cleared quickly—too quickly, almost. No weapons, no contraband, no passengers that matched the intel. Just steel corridors, empty cabins, and a lot of unanswered questions. The second vessel had taken longer to intercept, which meant a frustrating, five-hour lag before the team could finish their sweep and report back. Five hours of waiting, watching the clock, replaying every step that had led them here.

On top of that, thoughts of Natalya refused to leave him alone. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her again: the doorway, the brief widening of her eyes, the impossible fraction of a second before the shot. He kept asking himself the same questions on a loop. Had he made things worse by going to the house at all? Should he have anticipated a trap, gone in with different tactics, been better prepared?

He imagined it over and over—reaching for his gun faster when he’s seen her panic, ignoring the warmth of his own blood spreading under his shirt, pushing through the pain to return fire quicker. Had there been a window, however narrow, in which he could have taken down the threat sooner?

His instinct to dissect everything, to pick apart each decision until there was nothing left but blame, told him he could have done more. Maybe, if he were brutally honest with himself, there had been a chance in those first few seconds after the young woman opened the door. A sharper command, a different angle, one more ounce of caution.

But underneath the what-ifs lay the cold, immovable truth: he didn’t have a target and once that bullet found its mark, once it tore into her and sent her crumpling, Natalya’s fate had been sealed. No amount of skill or bravery, no perfect version of himself, could have rewound the clock. Accepting that felt like swallowing glass.

It was nudging one o’clock now. The house was quiet in that heavy, late-night way. The silence pressed in around him, almost as irritating as the sharp pulses of pain in his body and the restless churn of his thoughts. He let his head fall back against the couch, eyes drifting shut, and exhaled slowly. He doubted there would be any real rest for him tonight; at best, a series of shallow dozes between flashes of memory.

Time slipped strangely. Every so often he cracked an eye open to look at the clock and felt disoriented to find that twenty, thirty minutes had passed, though he didn’t recall ever actually falling asleep. He hovered in that grey space between wakefulness and unconsciousness, too wired to sleep, too worn down to get up.

Eventually, though, he knew staying on the couch would only make things worse—every joint ached from the awkward angle, and his side flared whenever he shifted. If Danny woke in the morning and found him here, it would just be one more argument, one more lecture about taking care of himself. With a low groan, he decided he’d had enough. It was time to call it a night, or whatever passed for one.

Bracing a hand against the arm of the couch, he pushed himself upright, moving carefully to avoid another jolt of pain. The room tilted for a second, then steadied. He drew in a slow breath and began the short walk down the hall, each step measured, his socked feet nearly soundless on the floorboards. As he reached the hallway, he stretched an arm back and flicked off the lamp, plunging the living room into shadow and leaving only the faint wash of ambient light filtering in from the street.

His hand settled on the bedroom doorknob. The metal felt cool and solid against his palm, an anchor in all the uncertainty of the night. He paused, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness, the outlines of furniture and doorframes gradually emerging from the dark.

That was when he saw it—a darker patch of shadow in his peripheral vision to the left, a shape that didn’t quite match the familiar lines of the hallway.

His body reacted before his mind fully caught up. Muscles tensed, breath hitching, his heart giving a sudden hard kick against his ribs. Instinct screamed at him: threat. His fingers tightened on the handle, adrenaline cutting through fatigue and pain in a bright, icy rush as he turned toward the dark form, every sense straining.

He turned his head and found himself staring straight down the barrel of a handgun fitted with a silencer, its matte-black muzzle hovering inches from his face. The weapon was rock-steady, not so much as a tremor betraying the person holding it. His gaze tracked the line of it automatically—along the rigid, white-knuckled grip of the hand, up a tense forearm and sleeve to the solid shape of a shoulder, then finally to the face above it.

Any other time, instinct would have driven him to strike—close the distance, knock the gun aside, take his chances in the chaos. But the sharp pull in his side and the weakness in his leg were a brutal reminder of how far from his usual self he was. His speed was compromised, his strength dulled; any attempt to disarm the intruder would be clumsy at best, suicidal at worst.

More than that, Danny was asleep in the room directly behind him. One wrong move, one wild shot, and the bullets wouldn’t care who they hit. There was no universe in which he was going to risk turning this hallway into a killing ground with Danny just a few metres away.

“You’re gonna come with me,” the man whispered, the words threaded with a thick accent that made the threat sound all the more intimate, all the more real.

McGarrett stayed where he was, his pulse jackhammering in his ears as he recalculated, weighing his already pitiful options. Any other night, he would have gambled on a sudden move, but not now—not with his body running at half capacity and a gun inches from his face.

“No?” The man’s tone cooled, a soft mockery curling around the word. “Perhaps I could get your partner to join you?”

“He’s not here… he’s working,” Steve answered automatically, the lie leaving his mouth before he’d fully thought it through. As soon as he said it, he knew how weak it sounded. If Rinski had been watching the house—and odds were good he had—he might already know Danny hadn’t gone anywhere. And even if he didn’t, Danny’s room was only a couple of steps away. All it would take was the man reaching past Steve and opening the door.

The man’s eyes narrowed, distrust hardening his features. For a tense second, Steve thought he might test the lie. Instead, the intruder shifted his grip on the gun and stepped in closer. “Then I’ll just take you,” he said flatly. His free hand shot out and clamped around Steve’s upper arm, fingers digging in with bruising force. “Now. Come on.”

The barrel of the silenced pistol stayed trained on Steve’s head as the man jerked him forward, dragging him away from the bedroom door and the person he most wanted to protect.

*****

Danny had heard a non-descript sound. Nothing alarming, just the kind of muted thud or shift that could mean Steve was up and restless again. He rolled onto his back, arms splayed across the bed, staring at the ceiling as he silently cursed his best friend one more time for not staying in the hospital where he belonged.

He lifted his head, eyes dropping to the gap under the door, looking for a wash of light. Nothing. Of course. He clicked his tongue in irritation, grabbed the quilt and flipped it off with more force than necessary.

“’Course you wouldn’t turn a light on… where’s the challenge in that?” he muttered, wrestling his head and arms angrily through a T-shirt. “Why make life easier when you can trip over and rip your stitches open?”

He swung the bedroom door open and stepped into the hallway, pausing, listening. He waited for a shuffle, a cough, the creak of the couch—anything that would give him a direction. The silence that met him was absolute.

Jaw tightening, he headed for the guest room.

“Steve…” He pushed the door open. Moonlight trickling through the window glass silvered the floor and the bed, making it easy to see the covers were still perfectly smooth, untouched. Of course they were. Even with multiple gunshot wounds and an arm that barely worked, Steve McGarrett would still make the bed like an officer could show up any second for a surprise room and kit inspection.

“Steve?” he called again, this time turning his head toward the end of the hall, out to the living room. He started in that direction. “Babe, I told you not to crash out—”

His words broke off as the realization hit: Steve wasn’t on the couch either. Option B was off the table.

Anger rose fast and hot, burning through the last of his drowsiness. He hurried back down the hall, flicking on lights as he went, not caring that it made the house look like a landing strip.

Bathroom—empty. Other bedroom—empty. Each vacant room only tightened the knot in his chest.
Back in the living area, he crossed straight into the kitchen. No Steve. The door to the yard was locked, the deadbolt set firmly in place. He stared at it, lips pressing together in a hard, aggravated line. If Steve had gone AWOL, he was going to lose his mind. And how the hell could he have slipped past HPD?

He strode back into the living room, heading for the front door, and saw it—slightly ajar. He scoffed under his breath. Maybe McGarrett had gone out to talk to the officers. Stupid, but not out of character. Between the security concerns and the strict instructions to limit his movement, even that would be a bad call—but at least it would be the better of several very bad options. Danny still planned to have some strong words about it.

He grabbed the handle and stepped outside, his bare feet landing heavy on the path. The night air was cooler than he expected, brushing over his skin and raising a faint chill. As he neared the back of the Camaro, his gaze went straight past it toward the cruiser parked at the curb.

The fact that he couldn’t see Steve didn’t immediately register. It was the car that grabbed his full attention.

The passenger-side window bloomed with a spiderweb of fractured glass, thin lines radiating out from two small, darkened points low on the pane. It looked like someone had taken a hammer to the glass, except he knew exactly what made damage like that. Danny stopped, every thought grinding to a halt while his brain caught up to the image.

His hand went automatically to his hip, instinct snapping into place before anything else. His fingers closed on cotton instead of leather. Just shorts and a T-shirt. No holster. No gun.

A curse died in his throat as the absence sank in. Weaponless, he edged toward the cruiser anyway, moving cautiously, eyes flicking briefly up and down the quiet street, ears straining for any sound that didn’t belong.

His heart skipped when he saw them—two officers slumped forward over the dash, their bodies unnaturally still. Blood tracked down from matching wounds at the hairline on the sides of their heads, trickling in thin, dark lines across their faces and uniforms.

Danny winced and dragged his gaze away, scanning the street again, the shadows between cars, the yards on either side. The scene was quiet, disturbingly clean. Two neat holes, two neat exits. No shattered casing scattered at his feet, no spent shells glinting on the pavement.

Whoever had done this knew exactly what they were doing.

This had to be Rinski. It fit too well—the methodical precision, the lack of mess, the way the officers had never even made it out of the car.
With a seemingly clean entry and exit, there would be no easy clues to work with. All Danny knew—cold and solid in his gut—was that Rinski had come to finish the job his men had started.
And Steve was nowhere to be seen.

*****

Danny sat sideways in the passenger seat of his car, bare feet planted on the driveway, elbows digging into his knees. His stomach rolled; he was pretty sure if he opened his mouth, he’d throw up. Red and blue lights strobed across his face, casting his quiet street in a jagged, unnatural glow that made everything feel wrong. It was a crime scene that he would normally be walking in to, not a part of.

Chin came down from the house, walking carefully like he wasn’t sure how close to get. He had a hoodie and a pair of shoes hooked in one hand.

“Anything?” Danny lifted his head, the movement slow, heavy. The question was pointless and he knew it. If they’d found anything, he’d have heard.

Chin shook his head once and held the clothes out.

“Rinski isn’t gonna waste time,” Danny muttered, snatching the hoodie and dragging it over his shoulders. The fabric felt cold, useless. He dropped the shoes, shoving his feet in without bothering to undo the laces. “He’s gonna kill him and then disappear.”

“We don’t even know if it’s him or someone he sent,” Chin said quietly, like volume might set Danny off.

“It doesn’t matter!” Danny snapped, louder than he meant to. “It doesn’t matter if it’s him or someone else, the outcome’s gonna be the same.”

Kono jogged down the steps from the open front door, Lou on her heels.

“Danny…” Kono’s voice was careful. “Steve’s watch… it’s not in there.”

“Okay…” Danny growled, rolling his shoulders like he could shake off the information. “So what? What does that—”

Kono winced, looking almost guilty. “When the nurse gave me Steve’s personal items… I might have let intrusive thoughts take over.” She cleared her throat, shifting her phone from one hand to the other. “I took the watch to CSU and asked them to put a tag inside the casing.” A beat. “A GPS tag.”

For a second nobody spoke. The night noise—radios crackling, distant sirens, an officer calling something to another—seemed to rush in and then fall away again. The three men just stared at her, mouths slightly open, like their brains were trying to triage which part of that confession to deal with first.

“Okay, stop.” Kono lifted a hand before any of them could find words. “First of all, don’t act like it never crossed your minds that Steve might take off at some point. Don’t you dare pretend I’m the only one with trust issues when it comes to the boss.”

Lou’s eyebrow twitched, but he stayed quiet.

“Secondly,” she went on, chin up, “we didn’t know Rinski’s status. I wasn’t willing to bet everything that he wouldn’t come for Steve. I know how much that watch means to him—his dad gave it to him for his thirtieth birthday. He never takes it off. So I figured…”

“No, cuz…” Chin shook his head slowly, though a flicker of reluctant admiration touched his face. “Trust issues I’ve got. It’s the sheer level of that kind of planning I lack.”

“Point is…” Kono said, thumbs already moving over her phone. “We might have a location.” She glared at the loading screen impatiently, jaw tight. “Come on… come on…”

Danny’s heart hammered so hard he could feel it in his throat. Every second that passed felt like something tightening around his chest.

Finally, she huffed out a disbelieving little laugh, a wary smile tugging at her mouth. “Got you,” she whispered, then turned the screen to Danny. A blinking dot pulsed on the map. “Base of Wa‘ahila Ridge Trail.”

“What’s that, like, five minutes away from here?” Lou breathed, already calculating the route.

“Less if you’re speeding,” Chin replied, voice hardening with purpose. “Let’s go.”

They broke for Lou’s SUV as one, the earlier hesitation burned away, replaced by the one thing they could still hold on to: action.

*****

Steve dabbed his fingertips against the fresh cut above his eyebrow, wincing as they came away tacky with blood. His head throbbed in time with his pulse. After Rinski had shoved him into the back of the car outside Danny’s, the man’s attention had snapped to the sudden flare of light inside the house. Steve’s stomach had twisted, dread coiling tight as he imagined exactly where that interest might lead.

He’d watched Rinski snatch up his gun and start back toward the front door with purpose in every stride. Desperation had driven Steve to act; he’d grabbed the handle and thrown his shoulder into the door, forcing it open. It was a pathetic attempt to escape, and he knew it, but he wasn’t aiming for freedom. All he needed was doubt. If Rinski believed Steve couldn’t be left alone—not yet—he might abandon the idea of going into the house and tying up more loose ends.

The ploy had worked, in its own brutal way. Rinski had immediately spun back to the car, slammed the door wide and crashed the butt of the gun into Steve’s head. Stars had exploded across Steve’s vision, followed by an encroaching darkness. By the time his senses cleared, the door was shut, the locks engaged, and Rinski was in the driver’s seat, roaring away from the house.

The trailhead hadn’t been far, but Rinski had spent more than forty minutes driving pointless circles through the surrounding streets. It was a paranoid, nervous kind of wandering, like he couldn’t bear to commit to a plan. During that time, Steve listened, forcing his brain to catalogue every word through the fog: two calls, one in rapid Russian, clipped and furious, the other in English, all logistics and times. Arrangements for a plane. Wheels up in two hours. Somewhere on the North Shore, a small airstrip was waiting to take Rinski off the island and off the grid.

If the man had been thinking clearly, he would have headed straight there, dumped Steve’s body along the way, and disappeared. Instead, ego or rage—or both—had kept him close. He stayed in the net he knew HPD would be throwing across the island, gambling that he could still have his revenge and make it out.

Eventually, the car rolled to a stop. The sudden stillness made Steve’s injuries scream. The door jerked open and a hand clamped around the back of his neck, fingers digging deliberately into torn skin. His vision tunneled again, the edges smearing to grey as Rinski dragged him from the seat. In the man’s other hand, the gun pressed hard into Steve’s ribs, the silencer cold and unyielding, jabbing every time he stumbled.

They moved off the road and onto the dirt. Roots and stones caught at Steve’s feet; his balance was shot, his body one long ache from the beating and the crash before it. He tripped twice, each time yanked upright by the cruel grip at his neck as they went deeper along the Wa‘ahila Ridge Trail, swallowed by darkness and trees.

They hadn’t gone far—maybe a couple hundred feet—before Rinski forced him down. Steve’s legs buckled and he crashed to his knees. Fire ripped up his side as his twisted, damaged shoulder protested the sudden movement. He cried out, unable to stop the sound, and planted his good hand hard into the dirt to keep himself from collapsing completely.

He stayed hunched there, head dangling, lungs dragging in ragged, burning breaths. Every inhale felt like knives slipping between his ribs.

Rinski stepped back, boots crunching on loose gravel. “Look at me,” he ordered, gun raised, eyes burning with vindictive satisfaction.

Steve’s answer was another harsh, hissing breath. He kept his gaze on the ground, trying to gather enough focus to stay upright.

“Look. At. Me.” The snarl was lower this time, more dangerous. Rinski closed the distance again and shoved the barrel against the back of Steve’s bowed head, forcing it forward.

Steve swallowed down a groan. Slowly, using the trembling strength of his one good arm, he eased some of his weight off his hand and straightened. The world tilted; black spots swam in front of him as his eyes crawled upward, finally locking onto his captor’s face.

Rinski’s expression split into a delighted, almost childlike grin. He backed up a few paces to admire the scene he’d engineered. “When I read that you are Navy SEAL, I worried that killing you might be difficult,” he said, his accent thickening around the words. “I thought my men had failed… but no. They just make it possible for me to do this face to face.”

Steve’s eyelids fluttered as another dizzy wave washed through him. He let them close, breathing slow and deep through his nose, forcing his body to stay still.

“You thought Natalya was yours to save,” Rinski went on coldly. “She wasn’t yours… she was mine.”

Steve didn’t open his eyes. “Natalya… didn’t belong to anyone,” he said quietly, each word carefully measured. “Least of all you.”

“My sister died because of you.”

A faint, humorless sound slipped from Steve’s throat—more exhale than laugh. He raised his head again, meeting Rinski’s gaze. “Keep telling yourself that,” he whispered. “But she’d still be alive… if you hadn’t come for her, and if your men hadn’t panicked.”

“You corrupted her mind,” Rinski spat, voice rising with every accusation. “Made her turn against her own flesh and blood. You were using her to find me.”

“There was nothing there to corrupt,” Steve replied, his breaths short and sharp. “And she didn’t know anything… that could have ever compromised you.” He swallowed, eyes never leaving Rinski’s. “She told us what kind of man you were. Your history. What you did to her. But she could never have helped anyone find you. As for why she turned…” His lip curled in contempt. “Look in the mirror.”

Rinski’s face twisted, fury tightening every line.

Steve allowed himself a small, defiant smile. “So you’ve risked… everything… for a threat that wasn’t even there.”

“I will still get away,” Rinski hissed, stepping in close again, the gun rock-steady in his hand. “And I will take comfort knowing that there will be one less person trying to catch me.”

The metal pressed against Steve’s forehead this time, a cold circle of inevitability. Instinct told him to flinch, to pull back, but he did the opposite. He leaned into the barrel, accepting the pressure, forcing himself to be still. His heart was racing, but his eyes stayed fixed on Rinski’s face, clear and unyielding.

If this was it, then he’d choose the terms he could. Not begging. Not broken. No fear.

The hint of a smirk tugged at Steve’s mouth, a final provocation.

It landed. Irritation flashed across Rinski’s features, souring his triumph. He adjusted his stance, feet planting more firmly as he lined up the shot. His finger curled around the trigger.

Before he could squeeze, white beams slashed through the darkness, cutting across the trees and over both men. The sudden wash of light made Rinski flinch, his body twisting instinctively toward the disturbance, gun jerking in the direction of the approaching torches.

Gunfire cracked through the night, sharp and immediate.

Steve felt a jolt ripple through him and pitched forward, his body sagging. His forearm slammed into the ground, stopping him from smashing face-first into the dirt. Pain roared through his ribs and shoulder, old wounds flaring like they were fresh. He lay there, braced on his elbow, waiting for the new pain that would mean a bullet had found him.

Nothing came.

He forced his head up, blinking through the dazzle of flashlight beams and the ringing in his ears. Rinski lay sprawled a few feet away, arms flung out, the gun loose in his hand. His eyes stared blankly at the canopy above, his chest unmoving.

“Steve!” Chin’s voice cut through the chaos, urgent and close, as shadows detached from the bright cones of light and rushed forward.

Kono veered straight for Rinski, boot skidding in the dirt then leaned over the lifeless body. She wrenched the gun from his unresisting fingers and tossed it away, then pressed two fingers hard against his neck, feeling for any sign of life.

Lou and Chin converged on Steve, but Danny hung back a step, caught in a strange limbo between relief and disbelief. Part of him still expected the moment to shatter, to find he’d imagined the GPS ping, the drive, the shots. That this time they would have been too late.

“You alright?” Chin asked, dropping down beside Steve and planting a steadying hand between his shoulder blades, careful of the bandages and the places he knew were already broken.

Steve’s fingers clawed into the dirt, knuckles white. His head drooped again and he fought to pull air into his lungs against the crushing tightness in his chest. “Yeah…” he rasped out eventually. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

Danny’s shoulders slumped, the breath leaving him in a long, shaky exhale.

“You hurt?” Lou asked, bracing an arm under Steve’s good side to help him straighten up onto his knees.

“Nothing new,” Steve managed, lips quirking faintly. It was technically a joke, but there was enough truth in it that nobody laughed.

“Can you get to your feet? We got EMTs waiting down on the road,” Chin said, already scanning Steve’s injuries, gauging how far they could push him.

“We should carry him out—” Kono started, glancing back from Rinski’s lifeless form.

“No.” Steve cut in, the word sharp despite the weakness in his voice. He sucked in another breath. “No, I can do it.”

He shifted, planting his good hand and pushing. His body shook with the effort as he forced himself upright. By the time he found his feet, his vision was swimming. He blinked hard until the trees and faces in front of him settled into something like focus.

His gaze caught on Danny’s, and for a moment, the trail, the blood, the dead man on the ground all faded. There was an expression on Williams’ face Steve knew too well—equal parts overwhelming relief and white-hot anger just waiting for an outlet. The “what the hell were you thinking” routine was already loading behind his eyes.

Steve offered a strained, crooked smile. “What?” he panted. “No comment about you being the king of timing and how I still suck?”

Danny snorted, some of the tension bleeding out of him. “Credit where credit is due, this timing has nothing to do with me,” he said. “I’d still be sitting in my driveway in my boxers. You can thank Kono for this one.”

Steve’s brow furrowed, curiosity briefly cutting through the pain as he glanced over at her.

“That’s a conversation for later, boss,” Kono said with a faint grin, rising from beside Rinski’s body and giving her phone a small, meaningful tap.

“Come on… let’s get you out of here,” Chin murmured, looping an arm gently around Steve’s good side and taking some of his weight.

Together, with Lou on his other flank and Danny shadowing close, they started back down the trail toward the waiting lights, sirens, and the thin promise of safety.

*****

Back in the Tripler ER waiting room for the second time in a week, Danny was starting to take it personally. At some point, he figured, the universe stopped dropping hints and just started yelling. Maybe “early retirement” wasn’t a joke so much as a suggestion written in neon.

It was different this time, though. The knot in his chest wasn’t quite so tight. Steve had walked in under his own power, stubbornly upright, and aside from the new cut on his head and the way every movement made him flinch, the EMTs had been clear: nothing looked immediately life‑threatening. Just “aggravation of existing injuries,” as if Steve were a house with some minor storm damage.

That reassurance was still settling in when the doctor appeared, barely thirty minutes after Steve had been taken through the double doors.

The whole group got to their feet, exhaustion pulling at their faces.

“He’s fine…” the familiar doctor of past visits said quickly, raising both hands, palms out, to stop the questions before they started. “He’s having an x-ray on the shoulder, and an ultrasound on his chest and abdomen just to rule out any bleeding—but there are no obvious signs of internal injury. Vitals are stable.”

Some invisible weight shifted off Danny’s shoulders. Kono closed her eyes for a second. Lou exhaled through his nose, a quiet, satisfied sound.

“So, if everything checks out, will he be released in the next couple of hours?” Danny asked, already thinking ahead: get him home, get him on the couch, make sure he doesn’t move for a week.

The doctor hesitated. “Yes, but… Commander McGarrett has asked to be admitted until he can be cleared to return to his own home by himself.” The man’s tone softened into something almost approving. “For me to sign off on that, I’d prefer him to stay at least another twenty‑four hours.”

Danny blinked. “Steve asked to do that? Voluntarily?”

The doctor nodded. “He was quite insistent. Said he didn’t want to leave until he could take care of himself. I don’t see any issue with honoring that request.”

Danny drew in a long breath and let it out in a heavy sigh.

“What?” Kono asked him, brow knitting.

He shook his head, a grimace tugging at his mouth. “No, it’s nothing. Just me and my big mouth again.”

Lou eyed him. “What’d you say to him?”

Danny scrubbed a hand over his face. “Earlier. At the house. I might’ve… implied that being his nursemaid was not high on my list of life goals. That maybe he should try not making his recovery someone else’s full‑time job next time.”

Understanding flickered over Kono’s face. “You think that’s why he asked to stay?”

“Guy hears what he wants to hear,” Danny muttered. “But yeah. That sounds exactly like something he’d do. I was frustrated and he understandably took it personally.” He looked back at the doctor. “Can we see him?”

“Once he’s back from imaging, I’ll have a nurse bring you in, two at a time,” the doctor said. “He’s a little banged up and a lot tired, but he’s lucid. You can discuss this then.”

“Yeah,” Danny replied, a wry edge to his voice. “I’ll fix it.”

*****

Steve was sitting on the edge of the bed, bare feet on cold tile, hospital bracelet loose around his wrist. The room hummed quietly with distant monitors and the occasional muffled voice from the corridor. He was staring at the floor when the chair beside him creaked under Danny’s weight.

Williams slumped down, elbows on his knees, a wide, almost goofy grin plastered across his face.

Steve’s eyes narrowed immediately. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked, wary. A cold ripple of instinct moved through him. This was a setup. It had all the hallmarks: the smile, the silence, the way Danny was clearly waiting for him to say the wrong thing.

He was being lulled into a false sense of security before the inevitable explosion.

Danny shrugged, grin somehow stretching wider. “I was just wondering if they fully investigated that head injury.”

Steve squinted at him. “What does that mean?”

“Well, there must be a reason for your sudden bout of responsibility,” Danny said. “Staying here. Voluntarily. Listening to doctors. It’s… unsettling.”

Steve snorted. “Nope. You were right, Danny. I’m not gonna make me your problem anymore.”

“Steve, you’re not a problem.” Danny shook his head, the smile fading as he dropped some of the usual sarcasm. For a moment, his voice was gentle, undressed of the usual barbs. “I mean, most of the time you’re a problem… a giant pain in the ass, but not right now.”

Steve rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

“At least I got my answer now,” Danny said, smugness drifting back in.

“Here we go,” Steve muttered under his breath.

“You could have called out when Rinski was in the house,” Danny continued. “You could have got my attention. Yelled. Banged on something. Whatever.”

“He would have shot me right there,” Steve replied, tone flat. Like it was simple math.

“No, he wouldn’t have, Steve. And you know that.” Danny scoffed, leaning back in the chair. “If he wanted to just kill you, then he would have. He had the shot ten times over. He wanted to make a production out of it. He wanted to take you somewhere and say his piece first.”

He paused, watching Steve carefully. “You didn’t call out because you wanted to get him away from me…”

Steve’s jaw flexed. He stared past Danny at the far wall, refusing to give him the satisfaction of eye contact. It was insanely annoying how often Williams managed to dig down to the root of something Steve wasn’t ready to admit.

“He asked you where I was,” Danny went on quietly. “And you told him I was out. You wanted to get Rinski away from the house, away from me. Because in your twisted little action-hero brain, you protecting me was more important than you getting out alive. Just like you distracted him when the lights came on.”

Okay, Steve decided, maybe Danny wasn’t as perceptive as he thought. Maybe he was just nosy. Thoroughly, relentlessly, aggravatingly nosy.

“Yeah… I just spoke to the HPD officers that took your statement,” Danny added, like that explained everything. And it did.

Steve’s gaze slid further away.

“Two opportunities to capture him or take him down,” Danny said. “Two chances before he got you in that car. You could’ve done any number of things. But that risk you weren’t willing to take.” His voice dropped. “You chose the option where he’d kill you and likely get away, just as long as he didn’t touch me.”

“Well, just like it did before… it worked out,” Steve said evenly, as if that settled it.

Danny exhaled, long and frustrated. Talking to Steve about self-preservation always felt like banging his head against a brick wall that stubbornly believed it was bulletproof. “One day it’s not gonna work out, Steve. People like Rinski run out of luck. People like you do too.”

Steve turned his head then, eyes tired. “Do you think we could just move on from this?”

“Sure…” Danny nodded slowly. “We can move on. I don’t need you to promise me anything. Don’t need your permission either.” His gaze hardened. “Like I said, I’m not putting others above you again. I’m serious.”

“I know you are,” Steve groaned, a note of resignation in his voice. He’d heard that tone before—when Danny had drawn a line in the sand and meant it.

Williams held his stare a second longer, letting the silence press the point home. His expression was firm, almost severe, leaving no room for argument. Steve held it for as long as he could and then, inevitably, the corners of his mouth curled in a small, crooked grin. It was his default defense, his way of releasing tension out of the room without having to say anything vulnerable out loud.

It worked with infuriating regularity.

Danny felt his own stern mask crack, the seriousness giving way as he huffed out a laugh. He shook his head. The SEAL managed to do this almost every damn time.

“Thanks, Danny…” Steve said quietly.

“Yeah, well… it’s all been a team effort,” Danny replied, nodding like that made it less personal.

Steve’s gaze dropped to his wrist. “What the hell was that about anyway? A tracker? Really?” he complained, giving the watch a wounded look, like it had betrayed him.

Danny laughed outright. “I know… it was genius.”

“I don’t even know how to get it out,” Steve grumbled, glaring at the timepiece like he might intimidate the tag right out of it.

“That’s good… because it’s staying,” Danny said. “It would make our life a lot easier. Fewer manhunts, fewer ulcers.” He pushed himself up out of the chair with a small groan. “Come on… grab your things.”

Steve blinked up at him, wide-eyed.

“I’m gonna take you home,” Danny added. “To your house.”

“I can’t be—” Steve started, shaking his head. “The doc said—”

“I spoke to the doctor,” Danny cut in. “And I’m gonna stay with you. My decision.” He held up a hand before Steve could protest. “I was wrong when I said you didn’t have family waiting for you there. You got us… you got me. We’re your family. Always.”

He reached out and set his hand firmly on Steve’s shoulder, careful of the injuries but unflinching in his grip. “Come on… let’s get outta here.”

Steve’s throat tightened. For a moment he couldn’t trust his voice. He smiled instead, blinking as tears burned at the corners of his eyes. He ducked his head, looking down at the floor in a weak attempt to hide the emotion.
“Okay…” he whispered.