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sealieRating: Slash
Word count: ~2,400
Warning: skip the stress continues....
Advisory: emotional rollercoaster; potty mouth; IT’S A WIP.
Disclaimer: writing for fun not for profit.
Comments: British English spelling
Spoilers: none, it’s an AU.
Betas: Springwoof – she's a brill good mate.
The first part is here,
The Co-operative.
By Sealie
“Joe, why?” Steve wasn’t to be dissuaded from his questions even in the face of guns and his mysterious nemesis, Wo Fat. “Why?”
“It was an accident. I never meant for it to go down like it did,” White said, in an unexpected non sequitur. “I never meant for Doris and John to die.”
Danny truly experienced stunned -- Joe White had just admitted to killing Steve’s parents. He had been Doris’ handler; he was Steve’s mentor; he could have been the orphaned Steve and Mary’s guardian; he had been their parents’ friend -- the betrayal was stark like a cutting knife.
“I don’t believe you.” Jerking backwards, the colour drained from Steve’s face. “My parents trusted--”
“As entertaining as this is.” The stain of a smile that graced Wo Fat’s face spoke of nothing even remotely close to amusement. “I would prefer to retrieve the items that your mother stole from my father.”
“Oh, Geez,” Danny said, shock segueing into frustration beyond belief. “We don’t know where they are!”
The snake turned his attention on Danny. It was an altogether disturbing place to be under the terrorist’s eye.
“I find that hard to believe,” Wo Fat said. “Why are you in this room?”
Why were they in this room? They were following a mismatched extrapolation of incomplete clues trying to figure out where a CIA agent had hidden a stash. Why, because, Doris had been between a rock and a hard place because of this man’s father, and probably the machinations of one Joe White.
“Go to Hell,” Steve said.
“Steven--” White began.
Wo Fat shot a quelling glare at White, who subsided with an equally dark look back at the man.
“Answer the question, Mr. Williams,” Wo Fat directed.
“Why do two adults come to a bedroom when the sun is up?” Danny snorted, because he wasn’t going to answer the question. “If you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you.”
“Shut up,” White snapped -- evidently, he could only be quelled for a heartbeat. He exhaled harshly through his nose. “Put your hands on your head, Steve. If you try anything Wo Fat will shoot Danny.”
Teeth audibly grating, Steve planted his hands on his head, and glared at White as he was patted down. White divested him of his BlackBerry and a blade tucked in his sheaf strapped to his calf, and tossed both onto their crisply made bed.
“Mr. Williams, next,” Wo Fat said.
“We’re not finished yet. Give me your wrist, Steve. Your left wrist.”
It was impressive that White hadn’t spontaneously combusted into a pile of ash under Steve’s volcanic glare. White unfastened Steve’s watch and tossed it after the weapons. The GPS signalling device, Danny remembered.
“Ah ah ha.” Wo Fat waved his gun, and Danny didn’t press the button on his own Navy-issued watch.
Danny added a pile of slime over the imaginary hissing pile of ash as White patted him down -- which was an altogether creepy, shivery abuse to endure -- and divested him of his watch and phone.
“So now you’ve got us, now what?” Steve demanded.
“You were going out on the roof, Steve,” White said. “I overheard you on the staircase. You think the package is on the roof. “
“No,” Danny said. No one on the planet could make him shut up. “It could be on the roof.”
“Go on.” White waved in the direction of the open window with his handgun.
“Joe,” Steve protested.
“Look, I’ll go!” Danny volunteered urgently.
“D!”
“Joe--” Danny turned his full attention to the turncoat, beseechingly, “--Steve can’t climb out there.”
“I think that Commander McGarrett climbing up on the roof sounds like an excellent idea,” Wo Fat said. He jabbed his gun in Danny’s direction, the threat plain. “Go retrieve my father’s bankbook.”
“Danny, I can’t,” Steve said nonsensically -- I can’t risk you. I can’t let you do it? -- and he slipped through the window onto the gently sloping roof that skirted around the base of the lighthouse.
“White,” Danny growled.
“Steve, you can do this,” White said with a caring, avuncular tone that was horrible to hear.
“At least let him change his shoes,” Danny beseeched. The highly polished lace up Oxfords could not be the correct shoes to climb in by any stretch of the imagination.
“Climb, McGarrett,” Wo fat ordered. “White, keep an eye on McGarrett. Mr. Williams and I are going to watch from the balcony below. “
He gestured towards the spiral staircase, indicating for Danny to precede him.
Furious, Danny edged around the bastard, and contemplated the rim of the staircase. He could run.
“I’ll shoot you in the back.”
Teeth gritted, Danny started walking. It was insane; surely the surveillance team out back would be able to spot a bespoke black-suited Steven McGarrett scaling the side of the lighthouse room? Unless White had dismissed them, or something more permanent?
Danny picked up speed, wanting to get to the balcony. If Steve fell, he needed to be there to catch him.
Wo fat didn’t protest, simply speeding up behind him. Danny ran across the living room and tipped open the semi-circular window.
“Slowly,” Wo Fat finally ordered.
Was the ladder still unfurled to the ground? Danny glanced briefly at the balcony wall, and yes, it was still in position. He wasn’t entirely sure how he could use it, but he made a mental note. He leaned out far over the balcony, looking around the arm of the hoist, to better see the open window above. The circular lighthouse room, which had housed the giant Fresnel lens however many years ago, jutted from the House -- the skirt of tiles merging with the House-roof proper.
Above Danny, Joe White straddled the windowsill, one foot on the sloping tiles. He leaned out, precariously, hand on the window frame, to map Steve’s progress.
Steve was scaling the drainpipe that funnelled rain from the guttering that encircled the domed roof of the lighthouse. The vent at the back of his suit jacket flapped in the light breeze. Thankfully, the window that opened fully wasn’t on the North facing side, otherwise there would be a long, unforgiving, unimpeded drop all the way to the hard ground.
“Be careful,” Danny breathed.
Steve hooked an arm over the gutter and grunting, swung a leg up.
“Jesus.” Danny held his breath.
If Steve fell, hopefully, he would fall down onto the skirting roof at the base of the tower and roll onto the House roof and the angle should then funnel him over the balcony. Danny mapped trajectories and knew that catching him would be close. Another grunt and Steve pulled himself up onto the iron work. Gingerly balancing on the guttering as if it was a tightrope, Steve set a hand on the curve of the domed roof.
Danny hoped that the ironwork wasn’t rusty. He flashed a scowl at Wo Fat by his shoulder. The terrorist smirked
“If he falls you won’t get your bankbook.” Danny couldn’t believe that this was all about a mere bankbook. “What are you going to do then?”
“How’s your head for heights?” Wo Fat returned.
“You can’t make me climb up there. If Steve falls, where’s your leverage?”
“I’m sure we’d find something, Mr. Williams,” Wo Fat said confidently.
Steve scaled the domed roof on hands and toes, body close to the tiles. He moved with surety, one shift of position at a time. Steve, Danny realised, was an accomplished climber. It was something about the way that he held himself. They were so lucky it wasn’t raining because that would have made the tiles horrendously slippery.
Danny unclenched his fists, so that his nails weren’t driving into his palms. He had to be ready to catch. How did height affect Steve’s vertigo? It seemed to be mostly triggered by flipping. Each step Steve made was agonisingly slow, until finally, he reached the little, mock white-painted house on the very tip of the roof. Despite the distance, Danny could see the white of his knuckles as he clutched the delicate cornicing.
“Jesus.”
Shimmying closer, Steve stood tall and grabbed the lightning rod sticking out from the pagoda-like roof of the dovecote. Secure, he flashed a triumphant grin down at Danny.
“Idiot,” Danny berated. He emphatically did not wish for his camera.
Steve flipped out his black knife -- White had missed that one -- and wiggled it into the gap between the dollhouse roof and wall. The crack of breaking wood made Danny jump. Steve levered open the roof and peered inside.
Danny held his breath.
“There’s nothing in here,” Steve shouted, staring levelly at Wo Fat leaning out beside Danny.
Danny didn’t know whether to believe him or not. Steve’s poker face was normally anything but -- however his expression was blank.
“I don’t believe you,” Wo Fat returned loudly.
“What?” Steve canted his head to the side, questioningly. The ass was pretending to misunderstand, Danny could tell.
“You’re lying,” Wo Fat shouted.
“You’re welcome to come up and look.” Steve raised an eyebrow.
Impasse -- because how could Steve prove that there wasn’t anything squirreled away in the dovecote?
“White,” Wo Fat called, “toss up his cell phone.”
Joe White blinked at the order, and then stared at Wo Fat for a long, considering moment before ducking back into the bedroom.
“There isn’t anything in here,” Steve repeated.
“Take a photo,” Wo Fat ordered.
It did take Steve a second to parse that instruction. He glanced automatically to Danny for clarification. Danny pretended to click the button on an imaginary camera. Steve’s expression was befuddled confusion as he perched, one hand wrapped around the lightning rod.
White was edging along the windowsill, stretching out to reach the drainpipe paralleling the frame.
Fall, Danny breathed. But White was as accomplished and as annoyingly confident as Steve. And he also had better shoes on. He shimmied up the drainpipe, to plant an elbow in the guttering.
Steve viewed his appearance over the edge of the roof, stoically.
“Catch,” White directed, and lobbed the phone at Steve.
Steve snatched it out of the air.
“Carefully. No phone calls,” Wo Fat shouted. And Danny felt a blunt point press against the bruise on his side.
With a flourish, Steve held up the BlackBerry, little fingers extended, aiming into the housing of the dovecote. He snapped off a picture with flair.
“What’s your number?” Steve yelled, almost conversationally.
“055 587--” Wo Fat automatically started to supply.
Steve grinned. Danny could only imagine what Navy Intelligence would do with Wo Fat’s personal phone number if Steve gave it to them, assuming, of course, that they got away from the terrorist.
“I can send it to Danny’s phone,” Steve said helpfully.
White swore and started back down the drainpipe. Steve started to ass-shuffle down the domed, inclining roof. White swung back through the window and out of sight to retrieve Danny’s phone.
This was fucking hilarious, Danny ground his teeth; it was like something out of the Keystone Cops. Danny had pictures of Grace, of his family and friends, on his phone. He loathed the thought of it in White’s hands. The Navy people had to get here soon. Simons was on his way. Any delay that Steve could eke out was in their favour.
“Wo Fat?” Directly above the drainpipe, Steve rested his heels on the iron work guttering, superlatively confident in his precarious perch, phone in his hand. “Hey, just catch my phone. You can look at the photo that way.”
“Throw it carefully,” Wo Fat directed, leaning out over the balcony.
The doofus was going to do something, Danny thought.
“Catch,” Steve said, and lobbed his phone.
As Wo Fat reached out, Steve launched himself off the roof like Tarzan.
“Jesu--”
One hand on the lighthouse drain pipe, Steve leaped, and somehow the plunging descent was all controlled energy. Hitting the skirt of tiles, he dropped into a crouch, thighs bunched like springs, and surfed down onto the House roof on his ridiculously boat-like shiny shoes.
Wo Fat jerked, aborting the catching motion, swinging his gun around to shoot at Steve. Danny pile-drove his elbow deep into the terrorist’s ribs as he simultaneously slapped Wo Fat’s gun away. Wo Fat pivoted on his heel, and suddenly Danny was facing off against a demon. Hand splayed blade-like, Wo Fat went straight for Danny’s eyes. Danny boxed; he punched the fucker square on the chin -- the snap of the hit reverberated up Danny’s entire arm. Blood gushed from Wo Fat’s mouth like a squished red strawberry and he dropped to his knees.
Whooping, Steve was in the air above Danny, swinging out on the hoist chain, way out over the balcony, suspended far over the unforgivingly hard ground far below.
“Holy Shit!” Danny couldn’t believe his idiot.
There was a crack of a shot.
“White, you bastard!” Danny yelled, as Steve continued his wide swinging circle.
“Behind you!” Steve warned.
Danny turned and only just avoided the jab of Wo Fat’s needle sharp stiletto.
Steve swung right over the top of the balcony balustrade, a wild grin on his face, as he boot-kicked Wo Fat firmly in the centre of his chest with both feet. Propelled backwards, the terrorist smacked into the propped open window frame. Glass shattered as the window dropped shut, and, Wo Fat fell, his fall broken by the black plastic wrapped bag of sheets. It exploded with a noisome, foul stench.
Momentum sent Steve across the balcony floor, half-sliding on his smooth soled shoes. Slapping his hands against the fractured frame, he managed not to end up face first into the remaining glass.
Shots spat as White tried and failed to hit them, stymied by the angle.
“Come on, Danny.” Steve knocked his elbow against a shard of glass that was still in the frame, clearing a passage. As he ducked through the opening, he caught Danny’s shoulder and pulled him into the living room.
“What are we doing?” Danny asked, avoiding another glass shard by a fraction of an inch.
“Running.” Steve glanced towards his office, frustrated, but pushed Danny towards the open doorway to the hairpin staircase and escape. “I don’t have a gun.”
Danny -- because at times his mind was a very strange place -- realised that it was unfortunate that Steve didn’t take handguns to funerals. Footsteps sounded loud above their heads.
White was in pursuit.
~*~
Tbc
Part one hundred and three
Word count: ~2,400
Warning: skip the stress continues....
Advisory: emotional rollercoaster; potty mouth; IT’S A WIP.
Disclaimer: writing for fun not for profit.
Comments: British English spelling
Spoilers: none, it’s an AU.
Betas: Springwoof – she's a brill good mate.
The first part is here,
The Co-operative.
By Sealie
“Joe, why?” Steve wasn’t to be dissuaded from his questions even in the face of guns and his mysterious nemesis, Wo Fat. “Why?”
“It was an accident. I never meant for it to go down like it did,” White said, in an unexpected non sequitur. “I never meant for Doris and John to die.”
Danny truly experienced stunned -- Joe White had just admitted to killing Steve’s parents. He had been Doris’ handler; he was Steve’s mentor; he could have been the orphaned Steve and Mary’s guardian; he had been their parents’ friend -- the betrayal was stark like a cutting knife.
“I don’t believe you.” Jerking backwards, the colour drained from Steve’s face. “My parents trusted--”
“As entertaining as this is.” The stain of a smile that graced Wo Fat’s face spoke of nothing even remotely close to amusement. “I would prefer to retrieve the items that your mother stole from my father.”
“Oh, Geez,” Danny said, shock segueing into frustration beyond belief. “We don’t know where they are!”
The snake turned his attention on Danny. It was an altogether disturbing place to be under the terrorist’s eye.
“I find that hard to believe,” Wo Fat said. “Why are you in this room?”
Why were they in this room? They were following a mismatched extrapolation of incomplete clues trying to figure out where a CIA agent had hidden a stash. Why, because, Doris had been between a rock and a hard place because of this man’s father, and probably the machinations of one Joe White.
“Go to Hell,” Steve said.
“Steven--” White began.
Wo Fat shot a quelling glare at White, who subsided with an equally dark look back at the man.
“Answer the question, Mr. Williams,” Wo Fat directed.
“Why do two adults come to a bedroom when the sun is up?” Danny snorted, because he wasn’t going to answer the question. “If you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you.”
“Shut up,” White snapped -- evidently, he could only be quelled for a heartbeat. He exhaled harshly through his nose. “Put your hands on your head, Steve. If you try anything Wo Fat will shoot Danny.”
Teeth audibly grating, Steve planted his hands on his head, and glared at White as he was patted down. White divested him of his BlackBerry and a blade tucked in his sheaf strapped to his calf, and tossed both onto their crisply made bed.
“Mr. Williams, next,” Wo Fat said.
“We’re not finished yet. Give me your wrist, Steve. Your left wrist.”
It was impressive that White hadn’t spontaneously combusted into a pile of ash under Steve’s volcanic glare. White unfastened Steve’s watch and tossed it after the weapons. The GPS signalling device, Danny remembered.
“Ah ah ha.” Wo Fat waved his gun, and Danny didn’t press the button on his own Navy-issued watch.
Danny added a pile of slime over the imaginary hissing pile of ash as White patted him down -- which was an altogether creepy, shivery abuse to endure -- and divested him of his watch and phone.
“So now you’ve got us, now what?” Steve demanded.
“You were going out on the roof, Steve,” White said. “I overheard you on the staircase. You think the package is on the roof. “
“No,” Danny said. No one on the planet could make him shut up. “It could be on the roof.”
“Go on.” White waved in the direction of the open window with his handgun.
“Joe,” Steve protested.
“Look, I’ll go!” Danny volunteered urgently.
“D!”
“Joe--” Danny turned his full attention to the turncoat, beseechingly, “--Steve can’t climb out there.”
“I think that Commander McGarrett climbing up on the roof sounds like an excellent idea,” Wo Fat said. He jabbed his gun in Danny’s direction, the threat plain. “Go retrieve my father’s bankbook.”
“Danny, I can’t,” Steve said nonsensically -- I can’t risk you. I can’t let you do it? -- and he slipped through the window onto the gently sloping roof that skirted around the base of the lighthouse.
“White,” Danny growled.
“Steve, you can do this,” White said with a caring, avuncular tone that was horrible to hear.
“At least let him change his shoes,” Danny beseeched. The highly polished lace up Oxfords could not be the correct shoes to climb in by any stretch of the imagination.
“Climb, McGarrett,” Wo fat ordered. “White, keep an eye on McGarrett. Mr. Williams and I are going to watch from the balcony below. “
He gestured towards the spiral staircase, indicating for Danny to precede him.
Furious, Danny edged around the bastard, and contemplated the rim of the staircase. He could run.
“I’ll shoot you in the back.”
Teeth gritted, Danny started walking. It was insane; surely the surveillance team out back would be able to spot a bespoke black-suited Steven McGarrett scaling the side of the lighthouse room? Unless White had dismissed them, or something more permanent?
Danny picked up speed, wanting to get to the balcony. If Steve fell, he needed to be there to catch him.
Wo fat didn’t protest, simply speeding up behind him. Danny ran across the living room and tipped open the semi-circular window.
“Slowly,” Wo Fat finally ordered.
Was the ladder still unfurled to the ground? Danny glanced briefly at the balcony wall, and yes, it was still in position. He wasn’t entirely sure how he could use it, but he made a mental note. He leaned out far over the balcony, looking around the arm of the hoist, to better see the open window above. The circular lighthouse room, which had housed the giant Fresnel lens however many years ago, jutted from the House -- the skirt of tiles merging with the House-roof proper.
Above Danny, Joe White straddled the windowsill, one foot on the sloping tiles. He leaned out, precariously, hand on the window frame, to map Steve’s progress.
Steve was scaling the drainpipe that funnelled rain from the guttering that encircled the domed roof of the lighthouse. The vent at the back of his suit jacket flapped in the light breeze. Thankfully, the window that opened fully wasn’t on the North facing side, otherwise there would be a long, unforgiving, unimpeded drop all the way to the hard ground.
“Be careful,” Danny breathed.
Steve hooked an arm over the gutter and grunting, swung a leg up.
“Jesus.” Danny held his breath.
If Steve fell, hopefully, he would fall down onto the skirting roof at the base of the tower and roll onto the House roof and the angle should then funnel him over the balcony. Danny mapped trajectories and knew that catching him would be close. Another grunt and Steve pulled himself up onto the iron work. Gingerly balancing on the guttering as if it was a tightrope, Steve set a hand on the curve of the domed roof.
Danny hoped that the ironwork wasn’t rusty. He flashed a scowl at Wo Fat by his shoulder. The terrorist smirked
“If he falls you won’t get your bankbook.” Danny couldn’t believe that this was all about a mere bankbook. “What are you going to do then?”
“How’s your head for heights?” Wo Fat returned.
“You can’t make me climb up there. If Steve falls, where’s your leverage?”
“I’m sure we’d find something, Mr. Williams,” Wo Fat said confidently.
Steve scaled the domed roof on hands and toes, body close to the tiles. He moved with surety, one shift of position at a time. Steve, Danny realised, was an accomplished climber. It was something about the way that he held himself. They were so lucky it wasn’t raining because that would have made the tiles horrendously slippery.
Danny unclenched his fists, so that his nails weren’t driving into his palms. He had to be ready to catch. How did height affect Steve’s vertigo? It seemed to be mostly triggered by flipping. Each step Steve made was agonisingly slow, until finally, he reached the little, mock white-painted house on the very tip of the roof. Despite the distance, Danny could see the white of his knuckles as he clutched the delicate cornicing.
“Jesus.”
Shimmying closer, Steve stood tall and grabbed the lightning rod sticking out from the pagoda-like roof of the dovecote. Secure, he flashed a triumphant grin down at Danny.
“Idiot,” Danny berated. He emphatically did not wish for his camera.
Steve flipped out his black knife -- White had missed that one -- and wiggled it into the gap between the dollhouse roof and wall. The crack of breaking wood made Danny jump. Steve levered open the roof and peered inside.
Danny held his breath.
“There’s nothing in here,” Steve shouted, staring levelly at Wo Fat leaning out beside Danny.
Danny didn’t know whether to believe him or not. Steve’s poker face was normally anything but -- however his expression was blank.
“I don’t believe you,” Wo Fat returned loudly.
“What?” Steve canted his head to the side, questioningly. The ass was pretending to misunderstand, Danny could tell.
“You’re lying,” Wo Fat shouted.
“You’re welcome to come up and look.” Steve raised an eyebrow.
Impasse -- because how could Steve prove that there wasn’t anything squirreled away in the dovecote?
“White,” Wo Fat called, “toss up his cell phone.”
Joe White blinked at the order, and then stared at Wo Fat for a long, considering moment before ducking back into the bedroom.
“There isn’t anything in here,” Steve repeated.
“Take a photo,” Wo Fat ordered.
It did take Steve a second to parse that instruction. He glanced automatically to Danny for clarification. Danny pretended to click the button on an imaginary camera. Steve’s expression was befuddled confusion as he perched, one hand wrapped around the lightning rod.
White was edging along the windowsill, stretching out to reach the drainpipe paralleling the frame.
Fall, Danny breathed. But White was as accomplished and as annoyingly confident as Steve. And he also had better shoes on. He shimmied up the drainpipe, to plant an elbow in the guttering.
Steve viewed his appearance over the edge of the roof, stoically.
“Catch,” White directed, and lobbed the phone at Steve.
Steve snatched it out of the air.
“Carefully. No phone calls,” Wo Fat shouted. And Danny felt a blunt point press against the bruise on his side.
With a flourish, Steve held up the BlackBerry, little fingers extended, aiming into the housing of the dovecote. He snapped off a picture with flair.
“What’s your number?” Steve yelled, almost conversationally.
“055 587--” Wo Fat automatically started to supply.
Steve grinned. Danny could only imagine what Navy Intelligence would do with Wo Fat’s personal phone number if Steve gave it to them, assuming, of course, that they got away from the terrorist.
“I can send it to Danny’s phone,” Steve said helpfully.
White swore and started back down the drainpipe. Steve started to ass-shuffle down the domed, inclining roof. White swung back through the window and out of sight to retrieve Danny’s phone.
This was fucking hilarious, Danny ground his teeth; it was like something out of the Keystone Cops. Danny had pictures of Grace, of his family and friends, on his phone. He loathed the thought of it in White’s hands. The Navy people had to get here soon. Simons was on his way. Any delay that Steve could eke out was in their favour.
“Wo Fat?” Directly above the drainpipe, Steve rested his heels on the iron work guttering, superlatively confident in his precarious perch, phone in his hand. “Hey, just catch my phone. You can look at the photo that way.”
“Throw it carefully,” Wo Fat directed, leaning out over the balcony.
The doofus was going to do something, Danny thought.
“Catch,” Steve said, and lobbed his phone.
As Wo Fat reached out, Steve launched himself off the roof like Tarzan.
“Jesu--”
One hand on the lighthouse drain pipe, Steve leaped, and somehow the plunging descent was all controlled energy. Hitting the skirt of tiles, he dropped into a crouch, thighs bunched like springs, and surfed down onto the House roof on his ridiculously boat-like shiny shoes.
Wo Fat jerked, aborting the catching motion, swinging his gun around to shoot at Steve. Danny pile-drove his elbow deep into the terrorist’s ribs as he simultaneously slapped Wo Fat’s gun away. Wo Fat pivoted on his heel, and suddenly Danny was facing off against a demon. Hand splayed blade-like, Wo Fat went straight for Danny’s eyes. Danny boxed; he punched the fucker square on the chin -- the snap of the hit reverberated up Danny’s entire arm. Blood gushed from Wo Fat’s mouth like a squished red strawberry and he dropped to his knees.
Whooping, Steve was in the air above Danny, swinging out on the hoist chain, way out over the balcony, suspended far over the unforgivingly hard ground far below.
“Holy Shit!” Danny couldn’t believe his idiot.
There was a crack of a shot.
“White, you bastard!” Danny yelled, as Steve continued his wide swinging circle.
“Behind you!” Steve warned.
Danny turned and only just avoided the jab of Wo Fat’s needle sharp stiletto.
Steve swung right over the top of the balcony balustrade, a wild grin on his face, as he boot-kicked Wo Fat firmly in the centre of his chest with both feet. Propelled backwards, the terrorist smacked into the propped open window frame. Glass shattered as the window dropped shut, and, Wo Fat fell, his fall broken by the black plastic wrapped bag of sheets. It exploded with a noisome, foul stench.
Momentum sent Steve across the balcony floor, half-sliding on his smooth soled shoes. Slapping his hands against the fractured frame, he managed not to end up face first into the remaining glass.
Shots spat as White tried and failed to hit them, stymied by the angle.
“Come on, Danny.” Steve knocked his elbow against a shard of glass that was still in the frame, clearing a passage. As he ducked through the opening, he caught Danny’s shoulder and pulled him into the living room.
“What are we doing?” Danny asked, avoiding another glass shard by a fraction of an inch.
“Running.” Steve glanced towards his office, frustrated, but pushed Danny towards the open doorway to the hairpin staircase and escape. “I don’t have a gun.”
Danny -- because at times his mind was a very strange place -- realised that it was unfortunate that Steve didn’t take handguns to funerals. Footsteps sounded loud above their heads.
White was in pursuit.
~*~
Tbc
Part one hundred and three
