Chapter Text
Medical come back miserable.
Owen is in the kitchen, plating out various types of rice into bowls and stirring a slapdash sauce of tomatoes and tuna and half the herb cupboard. It’s the end of the week, and the food delivery was delayed a day, so they’re clearing out old scraps and Paul got to have a field day with the pantry.
Fire’s been quiet, if he dares say. They’re nearing the latter half of a twenty-four-hour shift and mulling about the fire house like disinterested pigeons, barely any use for them in the city.
They got a housefire early on from a breakfast mishap, two minor car crashes in the late morning, and a kid stuck in a laundry shoot mid afternoon, but otherwise the crew has been milling about for the past day. It’s a nice break, but too little action starts to grate on first responder nerves and he only imagine the horrors a bored Marjan could conjure up.
Owen long caught up on paperwork and spent a rare hour just in the common area with his team. It’s been an almost relaxing shift, catching up on dropped chores and leaving films on the tv to play background noise. The most exciting moment was the half hour dedicated to an arm wrestling competition where Mateo washed the floor with a surprising majority of the shift, and only failing as he came up against Judd’s powerhouse of a bicep.
The day would be damn near perfect, if not for the distinct lack of ambulance in the bay for most of it.
He feels a little guilty enjoying it as he had, knowing that Tommy, Nancy and TK had been on a near constant call. They got their first call barely five minutes into the shift, and their luck had kept that way since. He’s missed them, though they’ve been on some calls together in the day, medical has spent most of it on the road pulled everyway by what seems like the entire population of Austin.
He’s aware they just barely got lunch, half way through a wrap before dropping it and rushing off to an allergies call. He’s kept a stream of messages with Tommy to check in, ensure that they got to a drive through at least or took a break out of the house, but as the evening drew near even those had come to a grinding halt.
He finishes his rice portions, and tucks the rest back into the pot, shoving it into a lowly heated oven to keep it warm. He’s hoping they’ll be back for dinner, long enough to be able to eat it at least.
His wishes are granted half an hour later whilst the rest of the crew tuck into their meal, and the sound of the ambulance bay opening up catches their attention. Chatter dies down, and they wait in sudden quiet for the three paramedics to come trudging in.
Owen eyes the ambulance as it parks, and watches Nancy tumble clumsily from the cabin.
Something’s wrong. Her hands are stained up to the cuffs of her shirt with dark muddy blood he can see even from a distance, and she sways where she stands. Tommy comes out next, rushing around from the passenger’s side, her hands too covered, and she settles a comforting arm around Nancy.
Owen sees the rest of the firehouse pause as TK emerges, drenched in blood and unnaturally pale in the fluorescent light. He stumbles around to his captain, and she settles another arm around him, and they sway in uncomfortable silence for a moment, before breaking apart. Tommy lets them go reluctantly, ushering Nancy away from the mess of the back of the vehicle and up towards the showers. They murmur in low voices, until eventually Nancy pulls firmly on TK’s wrist and the two ascend the stairs and disappear.
Owen takes that as his chance and stands. He lowers a hand to let the others know to leave it for a moment and makes his way over.
Tommy doesn’t look up as he comes, not until he’s practically breathing down her neck. Just a look inside the ambulance clues him in to the type of call. Blood is spilled across the floor, streaks where the gurney was rushed into the hospital. There are medical supplies littered across the floor, an oxygen mask swinging lazily where it hangs half off the bench. Blood is streaked across the walls and handles, and there’s a disturbing number of needles stacked haphazardly in the corner.
Tommy’s voice surprises him, and he realises he’s been staring.
‘It was a mugging.’ She says quietly. She’s tidying away the needles, disposing of them and noting down the dosages before she forgets. It’s usually Nancy’s job Owen thinks absently.
‘Bad?’
‘We lost both of them.’ Tommy fills in. ‘Mother and daughter. Mother was DOA.’
Owen winces, seeing the picture already.
‘The daughter?’ He asks, watching Tommy move away and fold an empty packet of gauze pointlessly before tossing it in a nearby bin.
‘Died at the hospital. Time of death 18:36.’ She recites, voice disturbingly steady. ‘She was eight.’
Owen’s heart drops, because he had stupidly not even thought of the daughter being so young. He feels a punch to the gut, imagining the three of them trying to keep the little heart alive. He presses his mouth shut against any more questions, unwilling to bring up the blood.
Tommy moves to clear up another empty packet, and he pulls her away by the forearms. Blood flakes off into his palms and he ignores it, pulling her to the stairs. ‘Go shower.’ He says gently.
‘I need to clean up.’ She speaks. She’s stoic, and Owen usually never questions her. She’s the finest Captain he’s had the pleasure of working with and has a better head on her shoulders than him, but he also knows her girls are around that age, and he knows the horror of having a victim die under your watch, no matter what you do to save them.
One would be a concern. Two is an intervention. The medic team is exhausted, on their feet the past ten hours and he’s taking charge of this before it gets out of hand. ‘I’m taking you offline for an hour.’ He tells her gently.
It’s a testament to her exhaustion that she doesn’t reprimand him for overstepping.
‘TK did CPR.’ She says absently. ‘I should check on him.’
‘Nancy has him. Sleep.’ He tells her instead, because that’s a whole thing he’s not going to touch yet either. He’s no doubt Nancy and TK haven’t even touched the showers yet, all too familiar with the sight of medical huddled on a bench after a rough call. ‘Shower and sleep. Get in a nap now and we’ll keep your food warm. I’ll let dispatch know.’
‘Owen.’ She mutters. ‘Tell the others but keep the details please. Two patient deaths, nothing else.’
‘Of course.’ He assures. ‘Now go, clean up.’
She goes quietly, and Owen hopes this is the climax of the shift, and the next fourteen hours go by in the same calm quiet as the firefighter’s shift.
He takes the ambulance offline quickly, messages Carlos after a long debate with himself.
OWEN: TK had a bad call, you know about it?
CARLOS: The mugging?
Another officer was in charge, but they’ve let me know about it, thanks.
I’m off shift in a couple hours, I’ll drop by the firehouse with donuts.
OWEN: Alright, just thought you should know.
He leaves it there. It always feels odd texting his son’s boyfriend. He knows he and Carlos don’t see eye to eye about a lot of things, and TK expressed his issues with privacy just last week, but Owen worries.
Shoving his phone back into his pocket he heads back into the kitchen and finds his crew’s eyes all settled on him. Paul has the three plates filled and ready, standing besides them like a guard dog.
He sighs, easing back on the countertop behind him and clearing his throat. ‘Medical had a bad call. One patient DOA, another died at the hospital.’
There’s murmurs and gasps. Mateo looks ill, pushing his plate away with a frown and Judd brushes a thumb to and fro against his palm, brow pressed in sympathy.
Marjan creeps up in her chair, looking ready to rush upstairs already, and Owen waves her down. ‘There’s nothing we can do to help them right now. They’ve gone to shower, and I’ve exiled them to the bunk rooms. I’ve taken them offline.’ He adds at Marjan’s growing defence. ‘Paul, get a cover on those plates please, the rest of you finish up and get the cleaning supplies. The ambulance is a mess and I want it at the very least washed and cleaned for when they go back out.’
‘How bad?’ Judd asks as the others hurry to take their last bites and raid the cleaning cupboard. Paul stays back in the kitchen, gathering up dirty plates and pressing his lips into a thin line at Judd’s question.
Owen swallows his own bite. ‘Bad.’ He says simply. ‘Really bad.’
‘Lord.’ Judd breathes. ‘After the day they’ve had too.’
‘I always thought medical had it simpler.’ Paul observes. ‘Never really thought about when they lose people, not until TK switched over I guess.’
‘Ain’t no one here got it easier.’ Judd says, not unkindly. Paul isn’t being stupid Owen knows, but it’s hard sometimes to see outside your own job as a first responder. Losing someone on the job is horrific, but as a firefighter they’ve been taught to tag and move on. To help the paramedics but stand back when told, to do everything they can but let the professionals take over when it’s time. Very rarely does a firefighter go beyond the ambulance doors unless absolutely necessary.
It's different when it’s your hands pressing down on a wound, when it’s your voice calling the shots and your knowledge the only thing between life and death for the patient.
Owen supposes it’s different again when your hand dwarfs the chest of a little girl as blood wells up around it. Losing victims is heart breaking. Losing children feels so much worse.
Judd sighs, pushing at the last of his rice with a frown. ‘We’re all handling lives.’ He says, slow. ‘Just that they gotta get up close and personal with them. Ain’t fair though.’
Paul whistles out a low breath, and the tap springs to life with a clean shower. ‘Never is.’ He echoes, and that’s the end of that.
Owen assigns Lowe to supervise the ambulance clean, already nervous about having both Marjan and Mateo the men behind should an alarm go. They geared themselves with disposable cloths and sprays and got to work before he could argue.
When no calls come in for another half hour, he chances a trip up to the bunkrooms. Creaking the door open, he finds the three beds farthest from the door occupied, Buttercup dwarfing TK’s body with his own. The dog perks up when the hall light slithers in, but Owen gives him a soft shake of the head and he settles back down, his head firmly on TK’s rising chest.
It’s a relief to see them all asleep, concerned they’d be kept up with the stress. But endless calls lead to endless exhaustion he supposes, physical and mental.
He watches his son’s breath rise and fall. Barely notices when Judd comes up behind him, settling on the wall opposite with a soft sigh.
‘You gonna talk to him?’ Judd asks.
Owen pauses, because he wants the answer to be yes. He wants to say he’ll bring it up tomorrow, that he’ll get his son to spill, that he’ll sort it out and they’ll be back to normal next shift.
But he knows it’s a lie, and Judd does too. Because TK won’t tell him anything anymore, not since the arsonist, not since Owen hid in the mountains whilst he fought to keep any paramedic job he could.
Not since he and Carlos finally moved in together and TK found out his dad walked out the hospital whilst he was still in a coma. Owen tried to explain it, tried to explain he needed to, but TK had drawn a clear and stubborn line between them, and Owen had been burnt crossing it already in the form of an irate and overtly polite Carlos sending him a voicemail from TK’s phone.
‘I messaged Carlos.’ He says instead, as if that’s good enough. ‘And Nancy and TK help each other with this sort of stuff.’
‘They haven’t had something like this for a while now.’ Judd observes. He nudges to bunk room door open, seeing what Owen just saw, the trio dead asleep with the lights turned down low. He shuts the door with a soft click, turning fully to Owen. ‘We should do something more. Feels like not enough.’
‘We’ve cleaned the ambulance.’ Owen reasons. ‘And Carlos is bringing donuts.’
Judd hums. ‘They shouldn’t even be on shift anymore. They’re exhausted, and it isn’t even halfway done. Y’know Tommy took a weekend shift too, saving up for the girl’s birthday.’
‘I don’t have any authority over that.’ Owen reasons. ‘And I suspect if I tried to take them off, Tommy would have my head.’
Judd whistles, a quirk of a smile on his face and he starts back downstairs. ‘Fair enough. Give them another half hour? Then we can serve them up Paul’s culinary genius.’
‘You think anyone wants the honours of waking them up?’ Owen asks, dreading the thought himself.
Judd laughs, ‘I’m sure there will be takers. Marjan’s got a water pistol somewhere.’
Owen stops at the top of the stairs. ‘She does not.’
Judd doesn’t get a chance to answer as someone yells below them, streaked with startled fear.
‘Paul!’
‘Firefighters!’ a voice calls out over the top of the cry, strong and unfamiliar. ‘Good evening!’
Judd catches Owen’s eye as the other man’s foot trips down the next step, and the two descend the stairs in step.
Between the ladder and the ambulance stands an unfamiliar group of several men with guns on display in their hands and a brutal eagerness in their eyes. At the front stands a short man, arms spread and face a picture of eery joy.
And next to him a mammoth of a man, with Paul flush against him, a gun pressed into the soft curve of his cheek. Across from them Mateo is stood with a cloth in hand, frozen mid step and a gun pointed directly at his chest by another of the group.
The man, leader is seems, clears his throat again, his eye catching Owen’s and holding it. A smile twists sharply through his mouth. ‘Captain.’ He greets, like they’re at an event, ‘come down and join us.’
‘Let my firefighter go.’ Owen says steadily. ‘And we can talk.’
‘Oh,’ The man says, ‘we aren’t here to talk.’
He nods at the other man and the gun rams further into Paul’s cheek and a frustrated groan escaping. His arms twitch as if to fight, but the firm grip the man has on him keeps him still.
‘Let me rephrase. Come down,’ he smiles again, impossible wider, ‘and we won’t kill them.’
Every step to the main floor echoes in the silent house. Owen can feel Judd breathing down his neck, feel the tension radiating off the man. The minute his heel touches the concrete below hands are on him, and he’s manhandled to the middle of the room.
He sees a flash of Judd being hauled towards the main group, where the majority of his firefighters have been hearded up and kept with the threat of bullets. Judd makes no sound, but the thumping noise of his boots scuffing the floor says that it’s not a kind movement.
Owen is pulled to a stop in front of the leader, unable to take his eyes off of Paul. There’s a trickle of blood from behind his ear that stains his collar, but otherwise he seems coherent. Pissed off if nothing else, and he eye’s Owen with all too much trust.
Closer, Owen can see the way Paul’s collar is hooked in another man’s hand, straining his neck back uncomfortably to stand on his toes. The man holding him is at least 6 foot, with broad shoulders and a checked shirt layered primly over a vest. He looks almost friendly, clean shaven with smile lines creased into his cheeks, except for the bruise blossomed on his jawline and the hand keeping one of Owen’s team hostage.
Paul grunts as the man lifts him to his limit, and his feet kick out as his balance goes. Owen rushes forward, stopped by two arms suddenly in his chest, and he yells out a firm, ‘Let him go.’
The man shrugs, like Owen’s heckling him on a stage, and does nothing to let Paul down.
Something cold strokes down Owen’s neck and he whips around only to have it press firm under his chin. His brain plays catch up as the glint of metal in the hand below him flashes in the evening light and he realises it’s a gun.
He swallows hard, the bob of his throat pressing against the cool metal barrel. Behind him he hears Mateo gasp, and Judd and Marjan scuffle with whoever has them on lockdown.
He blinks, and the face in front of him comes into vision, the man a head shorter than him, with dark eyes and a head of bright bleach blonde hair. It’s greasy and flakes of dandruff spill over the leather of his jacket. His skin is dry, bitten red and raw around his lips and Owen gets the distinct impression he’s not a big fan of the invention of the deodorant.
When he smiles his teeth are a shining white though, and he says with a deep languid drawl, ‘You best shut up your heroes, Captain.’
He spits it out, like the word is poison. Spit flecks across Owen’s cheek and he winces as the gun presses deeper.
He raises his hands slowly, slowly. Behind him the foot falls stop, and he swallows hard. ‘Stand down.’ He orders, and it echoes in the suddenly silent room.
Owen presses his lips into a thin line. He’s had guns pointed at him before, both in and out of uniform, though none so close that he’s felt the dip of the barrel on his bone. He worked in New York, he’s done his fair share of gun encounters, and tries his best to remember training.
Except they’ve all been in the field. They’ve been in reach of other first responders, in the public eye or with the NYPD on route. Never in his own firehouse, never with is family at risk behind him.
And never with his son vulnerable in the room above. For a moment he can hear the ghost of a gunshot, sharp and damning, and he flinches despite himself. He sees the ghost of TK’s body crumple beside him, shock written on his face and the dainty smattering of blood on a framed picture of someone else’s family.
He won't let his team be shot at again.
‘I’ll give you this one chance.’ The man opposite him crones, ‘to tell the truth, Captain.’
Owen keeps his mouth primly shut.
The man grins again, and it stinks. ‘This your whole shift?’
Owen nods minutely. He doesn’t trust his voice not to shake the barrel pressed against it.
The man grins impossibly wider. ‘I don’t much like liars, Captain.’
‘I don’t much like guns.’ Owen snaps.
Should have kept his damn mouth shut.
He hears the swoop of a jacket sleeve a second before he hears someone behind him gag and a body tumble onto the floor. The gun lets up and he turns sharply to see Paul folded in on himself, his knees tucked uncomfortably under him and his collar still held too high. The man holding him looks serene, shaking his fist out like he’s done nothing more than missed a punch in training, and Owen wants to see him dead.
Marjan yells. Owen’s eyes snaps to her and sees the rest of the shift has been forced onto their knees, hands up in surrender and their gazes torn between Paul separated as he is and Owen alone in front of them with the gun trained on him.
‘Let him go.’ Owen snaps again.
‘You wanna do that ‘Drew?’ the man behind him asks.
The guy holding Paul shrugs. He drops Paul and he gags again, falling onto all fours and heaving in air. Owen wants to tell him to lie back, to fold his hands behind his head and gulp in the air but he can’t do a thing but watch his friend, his family, struggle.
‘See now, Captain? See what that kind of behaviour gets you.’ His tone grinds at Owen’s pride, all condescension and power, a disgusting sort of arrogance that makes his blood boil. The gun caresses his shoulder, inching up back to his chin and he shuts his eyes briefly as it presses hard into his collarbone. ‘You’re an honest man I’m sure, so let’s stay civil. Now tell me, is this everyone.’
‘Yes.’ He bites out. Hopes that no one questions it.
The slamming of doors brings him back, and he realises one of the group has gone to search the rooms for stragglers. He watches him carefully, keeping firmly on the man and not on the bunk room doors above them where their paramedics are sleeping.
He sends up a prayer. Jumbled and disbelieving and clinging to the faith of the others in this firehouse that they don’t find medical.
‘Now, I don’t see no paramedics here.’ The man observes. ‘But there’s an ambulance, so there’s gotta be.’
Owen breaths steady through his nose and presses down every poker tell Judd has ever caught him out on. ‘They went out for dinner.’
‘Ain’t that convenient.’ The man damn near sings.
Owen says nothing.
The gun lifts from under his chin.
Owen says nothing.
Doors slam. Something shatters on the ground and he prays it’s nothing important. And then feels stupid thinking anything is worth much besides the three lives hidden away upstairs.
‘What’s your name?’ he says slowly, as the man’s gaze drifts from him. He wants it back, wants it gone from his crew. ‘What do you want.’
‘Charles.’ The man says, and it’s so oddly mundane Owen wants to laugh. ‘You remember me, Captain?’
Owen says nothing.
‘Oh well I guess you wouldn’t.’ Charles lets his gun drop to his side, and Owen notices for the first time the safety was never on. ‘You never even looked at me.’
‘What do you want?’ He asks again, pressing forward against hands that have griped at his elbows, keeping him pulled straight and away from his crew. From Paul who has gone quiet still sprawled on the floor. He spares him a glance, pleased to see he’s sat back on his heels, the hand previously around his collar sat like a warning on his shoulder instead. ‘There’s drugs in the ambulance bay, the charity box is in my office.’
Charles laughs, like Owen’s made some barbeque joke, like old friends sharing a beer. ‘Oh that’s handy to know. But we’re not here for your firehouse Captain. No, we want something else. Only they aren’t here it seems.’
Owen’s stomach drops as the words process.
This man is after the paramedic crew.
This man is after his son.
‘What do you want with our medical.’ He bites out, smothering a flinch as another door slams upstairs, the sound of lockers being broken and flung open suddenly accenting the silence.
‘If you remember,’ Charles starts, looking all too pleased with himself, ‘I’ll let you know.’
His eyes drift lazily, picking out Owen’s family from a line up, looking them up and down and sneering when he sees something he doesn’t like. Owen holds his breath, unable to see the firefighters in his peripheral.
Then he hears struggling, the sharp sudden sound of a body hitting the floor upstairs and knows they’ve found the paramedics tucked into the bunk room. Buttercup barks, the sudden noise shaking Owen’s nerves, and the men upstairs swear. A door slams, and the barks are muffled, butt he voices don’t stop rumbling.
He wants to yell at them, anything to make them run but he holds his tongue, all too aware that the wrong word could set off the guns levelled at their heads. The attentive perk of Charles’ smile fills his empty stomach with cement, and he realises all too quickly that the man never bought his lie about the missing trio.
They were here to find the paramedics. And they weren’t leaving without them it seems.
There are footsteps heading back their way, sharp in the sudden silence fallen over the firehouse. Steady thuds of boots are accented with the quieter stumble of socked feet, with the squeak of bare feet skidding on the linoleum floors. Voices carry down to them, confused cries and rasping questions.
He gets a glimpse as they yank Nancy down the stairs, her hair damp and her eyes blown wide and confused. She jerks back - in shock or in pure confusion at the sight beneath her - when they reach the bottom, taking in the round up of the firefighters, and the four men with guns making for a lousy greeting. She’s shoved off the final step, and her bare feet slap on the concrete floor. He strains to see the others, but his body is turned sharply away as he catches Tommy’s face and TK is disturbingly silent.
‘This everyone?’ Someone asks, and there’s a pause before Paul grits out a rough ‘yes’
‘Didn’t take you for a liar, Captain.’ Charles trills, trailing a finger around the barrel of his gun lazily like a child with a dandelion. ‘But lookie here, all rounded up nice in their pyjamas. How convenient.’
‘Leave them alone.’ He can’t help the shake to his voice, and with it all his authority evaporates. ‘They’ve done nothing to you.’
‘Oh,’ Charles snipes, and suddenly it’s low and deep and angry. ‘I’m all too aware of how little they’ve done to me, Captain. On their knees.’ He orders.
The men march the medics into the big empty space between Owen and his firefighters.
He cranes his neck to catch their eyes. Tries to find TK’s in the chaos, but instead he settles on Tommy’s, a picture of stoicism. Whose lips are pressed so tightly together they’re practically white as she blinks owlishly at Owen, brows raised in question.
Owen nods his head best he can, trying to get some semblance of comfort across. It doesn’t work by the wince that twists Tommy’s face as she’s shoved down. Their knees crack in tandem, harsh on the concrete. They’ll have bruises he thinks distantly.
‘Captain.’ Charles says, suddenly too close. Owen whips his head back to him, surprised to find him crouched right up in his personal space. He isn’t looking at Owen, but instead had his gaze settled behind him
‘That your boy?’ the man asks, and it sounds like a decision.
Owen is spun in the grip of the two others, scared to follow fully Charles’ gaze. He wishes for once that the firehouse didn’t slap a name on everything it could. That he hadn’t been so enthusiastic to issue sleep wear for everyone, that for once TK had ignored him and dressed in sweats that faded into the line-up and left him undistinguished and safe.
Instead, he sees his son, bleary and unfocused despite the situation, exhaustion carved deep under his eyes and wearing his old NYFD hoodie, with his name printed in dull blues across the back.
And he sees the man’s eyes settled heavy on his son’s name, a lazy glance between Owen’s name emblazoned on his shirt pocket, and the hoodie. Not for the first time Owen hates that he was so stubborn to ensure TK used his last name professionally and not his mother’s.
Morgan would have been just any other paramedic. Morgan would have been safe and distant. Morgan would not be Strand but it is and it matches the name emblazoned in bright yellow on the hem of his turncoat.
Morgan would have been safe.
Strand is a death sentence.
‘Get him.’ The man says, clipped and firm and Owen can’t do anything but forget to breath in.
‘No!’ Owen yanks his arm hard, pulling away from the two men’s grip. He gets half a foot away before he’s being yanked down and forced to kneel, his head pulled back far enough to see the flash of anger brighten TK’s sleep weary face.
He begs every god he can that TK won’t do something stupid.
TK is pulled harshly forward on his knees, scrambling for a hold on the hand in his hair. Nancy and Tommy shout out in protest but it makes no difference. TK is singled out already by Charles.
Owen is struck with a sudden fear that none of the firehouse is living after this. His crew are lined up like a firing line, the paramedics parked in front in an off centre triangle, sleep rumpled and disturbingly vulnerable in a way Owen doesn’t ever want to see again.
From one breath to the next Charles swings his gun from right out to TK’s head, the echo of a bang following. For a moment Owen’s entire world is gone.
Until he realises the gun is still cold, and TK is still alive, shaking where he kneels.
Charles had made the noise himself.
Owen’s blood rumbles, hot and thick in his veins and he feels his heart start to heave as anger washes over the fear. This man was having fun, playing with his crew and his son, making light of murder and yanking hard on Owen’s instincts like a kid with a brand new puppet.
TK blinks as Charles leans in, and behind him Owen sees Nancy suck in a sob. Her eyes shine bright under the light and he feels a wash of guilt about only seeing his son in the fray. Nancy and Tommy are equally in danger, the trio a matching set of what Charles wants.
‘It’s my lucky day.’ Charles announces, right in TK’s face. ‘Man is this convenient.’
Owen is really starting to hate that word.
‘This the right lot?’ one of the men holding him asks, his voice gruff with age.
Charles nods. ‘This is them. Hey Don, bring the van around would you?’
The men shuffle around, and one of the two aiming guns at the firefighters shuffles out the firehouse. Owen hears the kick of an engine starting, and his heart skips several beats. ‘What do you want?’ he tries again and is ignored.
‘Boots off.’ Charles announces to them. ‘Nothing funny, or I blow the kid’s brains out.’
Any fight that might have been had from Marjan or Judd is stamped out immediately as Charles presses his gun a little too eagerly against TK. Boots are removed swiftly.
Owen is let go, only one man keeping him there now, but he gets the message. Boots go, or his son dies. He kicks his off quickly, not taking his eyes off of TK’s closed ones.
Charles nods over to Drew and Paul. ‘Make yourself useful,’ he drawls, ‘and tie them up.’
It takes a moment for Owen to clock that he means Paul, as Drew pulls out a thick bunch of zip ties and yanks Paul back to standing.
Paul spares a glance at Owen, a usually steady face wavering as the situation makes no attempts at getting better.
Owen nods minutely at him. Listen. Do what they say. Don’t get yourself killed.
And Paul does. Drew follows him with his gun pressed between the shorter man’s shoulder blades, as Paul methodically wraps and tightens zipties over everyone’s wrists. There’s muttering, and the threat of the gun pressed into his head and Owen watches Paul cinch them tighter until everyone is locked.
And then Paul is corralled over to him, and Owen feels the rigid plastic wrap around his own wrists tightening, closing them together at the front.
‘I’m sorry.’ Paul whispers.
Owen risks looking away from Charles. ‘Don’t you dare be.’ He says.
Paul moves away without a word, and Drew takes the remaining zip ties and shoves him over to the others, settling him kneeling besides a steaming Judd and tying him up tightly too. It leaves the paramedics the only untied people in the room, which serves only to make Owen more concerned over them.
Charles leers at TK again. ‘Tell me, you always worked for your daddy?’
TK’s cheeks puff out in frustration, lips firmly shut.
Charles titters, and suddenly TK is on the floor, the butt of the gun leaving a gash on the side of his cheek welling with blood. Owen jerks towards him, sees Tommy do the same, but Charles is still waving his gun.
‘Uh uh uh,’ he tuts, ‘I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to this one. Strand, is it? Answer the question.’
TK groans.
‘Nine years.’ Owen calls, desperate to get Charles’ attention again. ‘Nine years in April.’
Charles doesn’t take the bait, just crouches lower, using the tip of his gun to prompt TK back into kneeling. His head wound ebbs blood around the curve of his jaw, but his eyes are bright and aware. ‘Nine years.’ He spits finally. ‘In April.’
‘See, was that so hard.’
TK spits as blood pools in the corner of his lip. 'What do you want?’
Charles shakes his head again, shoving TK lightly as he stands back up. He cranes his head back, a smile forming as he looks out to the parking lot. Owen watches a bright clean silver van rumble into view. One of the guys inside hops out and pulls the back doors open.
There’s such a lack of urgency. It strikes Owen the confidence of the men, this was something well planned. They knew how to subdue the whole firehouse. They knew exactly who they wanted. They’ve got themselves a get-away van.
It makes his skin itch, his fists ache to knock against Charles’ perfectly white teeth.
Charles whistles, and Drew ambles over with the last few zip ties. He does Nancy’s hands first, tying them behind her back instead of in front like the others. Owen hates to see the young woman flinch away from what must be her third hostage situation since he’s known her.
Tommy goes next, and sits perfectly still as he hands are twisted behind her back, fierce gaze never leaving Charles’ face. Charles doesn’t seem to care for her, his mistake. An angry Vega is a dangerous Vega.
TK is last, and Drew hands the zip ties to Charles without a word. He’s helpless to watch as Charles whispers something in his son’s ear that makes him tense up, then cinches his wrists so tightly he groans again, bucking against the pressure. Charles takes his hair in his fingers, tangling it up uncomfortably. ‘You make a fuss,’ he hisses, loud still in the tense room, ‘we kill the women right here, right now.’
TK goes still, eyes shut as the pull makes his gash dribble more blood down his jaw.
Charles pats him with his gun, hauling him to his feet.
Turning to Owen, he smiles again. ‘You remember me yet, Captain?’
‘Please,’ Owen begs, all too aware of the other men beginning to get ready to make a swift exit, the other man from the truck taking a hold of Tommy whilst Drew pulls Nancy upright, ‘don’t do this. They’re innocent, they’re good people. Good paramedics.’
The smile goes sharp, the switch up so fast it gives him whiplash. Charles’ easy demeanour tenses, and the arm holding TK awkwardly upright yanks him down so his head has to rest on Charles’ shoulder to keep the balance.
‘Not good enough.’ He snarls right in TK’s ear.
And then they’re moving. Tommy and Nancy buck at their captors, TK stumbles, feet dragging. Owen can’t stop the roar of protest from the firefighters, but the other men have their guns trained on them still. The man behind Owen shifts away.
But all Owen can see is his son being thrown into the back of the truck. All he can see is the 126 EMTs being screwed over once again, slipping away from him step by step. Marjan is yelling, Judd’s voice is a rumble under the din, but their bound hands and threats of gunshot leave the whole firehouse helpless.
Charles disappears in the back too, leaving only three gunmen still out the vehicle.
It’s as the wheels squeal, and the last of the men shift their guns to jump into the back too, that Owen takes his chances and jumps. His legs ache from the sudden change, but it doesn’t stop him barrelling hard into the nearest man and knocking him flat onto the concrete. The gun goes flying, and the yelling crescendos as the other two men flinch away and jump into the front of the van carelessly.
‘Owen!’
‘Get in the trucks!’ Owen yells, scrambling up as the man he’d taken down scitters away. ‘Don’t let them go!’
His arms are useless, but he can still kick out at the legs of his former captor, aiming to ram him into one of the columns on the side of the garage doors. He misses by a hairsbreadth, but the collision drives them both to the floor again.
He lands hard on top, and doesn’t miss the sudden crack of the other man’s head on the ground. Scrambling upright he finds a thin pool of blood seeping out from under the hairline, slack features still twisted in a snarl. The man is young, can’t be any older than Mateo.
Before he can war with his morals, someone else comes running into view. Firefighter Cavendish skids across the floor, kneeling at the man’s head and propping it back to take a look underneath.
Owen barely opens his mouth when Anya, one of their floaters, rushes up too and hauls him to his feet. None too carefully she shimmies a penknife between his wrists and snaps the band. She shoves him towards the trucks, their engines sputtering to life. ‘Go! We’ve got this one.’
Owen just about nods his thanks before he’s throwing himself into the closest vehicle, the ladder truck with its sirens already blaring. It’s moving well before they’re strapped in, Judd at the wheel as Marjan and Mateo scrabble into place behind. They're moving before the doors are even shut, sirens wailing as they chase after the dot of silver turning the corner. It's a long few seconds before Owen clocks that none of them have stopped to put their boots on.
‘Paul took the emergency truck,' Marjan relays, 'he’s got eyes on the van.’
‘You gotta call dispatch.’ Judd says firmly, and Owen appreciates the facade of calm that’s blanketing the flickering rage in his face. ‘Let em know we’re chasing them with or without permission.’
Owen scrambles with the radio in the truck, unable to take his eyes off the speck of silver in the distance. The one chance they have to get their crew back.
The channels whirs to life, someone’s voice droning in. ‘Dispatch to Ladder 126? What’s going on, you’re not meant to be on call.’
‘Station 126 was just stormed, our EMTs have been kidnapped. We are in pursuit.’
There’s a pause, and the Ladder truck swings a hard right. Owen can see the emergency truck just ahead, much closer to the speeding van then them. The mid evening traffic is low thankfully, but even then Judd wails on the horn more than he should be, and cars swerve desperately out of the way.
‘Sorry Ladder 126? Did you say kidnapped?’
‘A group of armed men have kidnapped Paramedics Vega, Gillian and Strand. Silver van, six or seven offenders. Leader's name is Charles. He--He's threatened to kill them.’ His voice chokes on the reminder, and he feels Marjan press her knee into his. ‘We are in pursuit of the van, we need back up. As much as you can. More.’
‘Officers are on route.’ The dispatcher says. ‘126, we advise you pull back for your safety. Let the officers take charge of the chase. You say they were armed?’
Judd rattles of the gun makes, tells dispatch there’s a casualty back at the station. To dispatch ambulances alongside police because ‘paramedic Strand has a head wound’ and everything in Owen narrows down the silver dot getting further and further away in the windscreen.
‘Can we go any faster?’ Mateo urges. He’s not even strapped in, hanging over the space between the front seats, under Owen’s tunnel vision. ‘Judd, we’re losing them.’
Judd mutters, twisting the wheel to avoid a stack of cars parked on double yellow lines with a swear. Marjan yanks Mateo back again to stop him tumbling out the front.
‘Ladder 126.’ The dispatcher begins again, voice firm. ‘Pull back, do not engage. Let the officers handle this.’
Owen clicks the radio off.
The van is gone anyway.
Their paramedics are gone.