A/N

I haven't posted anything to this site in a long time. I thought it'd be fun for nostalgia. Thank you so much to Gaelicspirit for the beta and suggestions.

This was a gift-fic. I like to think of this one as a 'popcorn thrill ride'. So, grab a snack and enjoy.

Steve opened up his eyes and realized he had no idea where he was. What the hell? Panic made his pulse race. The world was spinning; he was lying in a ditch surrounded by dirt and leaves. Pushing slowly up with his hands, Steve hung his head between his knees, breathing rapid and shallow. In and out. Forcing his body's physical reactions to calm.

Blood dripped into his eye and he wiped at with his elbow, grunting against the stinging pain at his temple. Steve did a quick body check, he didn't have any broken bones, but the skin underneath both his arms were burned and peppered with tiny pieces of shrapnel.

Had he been in an explosion?

He staggered to his feet and it felt like something stabbed him in the kidney. Gasping, Steve pressed a hand to the lower part of his back, his fingers coming away tacky with blood. Damn it, not good. Probing the area with his fingers, he grimaced in pain, finding a small hole in the lower right quadrant. He yanked up the front of his t-shirt, but there wasn't a matching wound in his stomach or abdomen.

He'd been shot in the back and the bullet was still inside.

A sound in the distance stole his attention: car engines.

Run.

Steve started to run but the grounded pitched beneath his feet and he stumbled into a tree. He clung to the trunk, heart thumping against his breastbone; head feeling like it was ready to split in two. Nausea came in waves and he swallowed against the bile inside his throat. He had to find a place to lie low, assess his situation, and call for an extraction.

Squinting again the too bright sun, Steve stared out at the lush underbrush and glanced at the koa tree providing him with shade.

"I'm on Oahu," he mumbled.

Right, I should have known that.

Steve blinked against the brilliance of the day and slammed his eyes shut against the stabbing pain in his head. He definitely had a concussion, but his gut screamed at him to keep moving and figure out the rest later. Steve focused on his breathing again, relaxing his thoughts, giving himself the seconds needed to begin moving again.

Standing fully upright caused a radiating pain through his back, so he hunched over a little while he walked, still managing to keep to the trees for cover. There was a building up ahead. Was this my intended target? Steve headed toward it, having a goal in sight motivating him to put one foot in front of the other.

Time was elusive.

Steve glanced at his watch; the numbers fuzzed in and out, making his stomach churn. It was difficult knowing how long it had taken him to reach his goal. The front of the building was derelict with no obvious signage, the metal doors unlocked. He pushed his way inside and was immediately hit by the smell of mold and rusting metal.

He rested his hand on the aging concrete wall, using it as support until his eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness. The sun filtered through a few of the decaying holes in the giant ceiling, providing the only light. The cement floor was covered by detritus and giant metal support beams lined the inside every ten feet. It was difficult to judge the building's size; the place was massive, familiar, but Steve couldn't place it while feeling so dizzy.

He patted down his pockets, realizing he hadn't figured out his supply situation. Stupid. You're not thinking straight, McGarrett. This should have been the first thing you did.

He pulled out his Sig and realized it was empty, there was nothing in the chamber, and fuck, his backup clips were missing which meant he'd been in a pretty heavy firefight. He had his knife that he'd always carried. But the item he'd really hoped to find, his cell phone, was missing.

There were several competing problems that needed to be addressed. Patching himself up was first on the agenda.

The adrenaline pumping through his veins began tampering off with every step, and he faltered, grabbing the wall for a second. Giving into the pain was unacceptable.

He went further into the depths of the building and bit his lip in contemplation. Right or left? Giving it a second's thought, he took a right down a small corridor, following it into a small room. It was darker than the hallway, light streaming through one of the windows.

There were rows of metal lockers with green peeling paint. Bingo. Instinct kicked in and he quickly searched a few for anything useful. Most of them were empty except for a few notebooks, an old shoe, and a smashed soda can. Steve moved to the back of the room and discovered several bathroom stalls. He made a beeline for the sinks. Damn, bending down hurt like hell, but he searched the cabinets underneath, only finding a half bottle of drain cleaner. Years of training made him stuff it into his pants pocket although part of him knew discovering some bleach or ammonia also would have been useful.

There was zilch for medical supplies except for a balled-up dirty rag that he found by the empty paper towel dispenser. Steve wiped it on his pants, frustrated with his lack of first aid options. There wasn't much of a choice since he'd been feeling a wetness run down his back since he'd begun walking.

Steve turned his head so he could see his flank in the mirror and took a deep breath when he noticed a tube on the far end of the countertop. What was that? He reached over and grabbed the container, scanning the label. It was adhesive caulking for bathrooms, okay, he could work this. The silicone glue used to seal cracks around sinks was similar enough to some of the emergency supplies carried by corpsman.

Steve dropped the rag and quickly unscrewed the cap, mentally going over what he'd have to do, swallowing hard. Battlefield triage was never pretty.

He stood with his back to the mirror, craned his head so he could see, and pulled up on his shirt to reveal the bullet hole. It was smaller than a size of a quarter, slowly oozing blood, staining the skin over his hips. Gritting his teeth in anticipation of the pain, Steve applied the tip of the tube at the edge of wound. Fuck that hurt. But he couldn't think about what he was doing as he squeezed the acrylic inside. He grunted, eyes watering, his hand shaking as he forced himself to remain still. It was like pouring hot lava into the wound and he dropped the container the second after he was done, panting from the pain.

Turning around, Steve leaned against the counter with both hands to catch his breath. He looked up and caught his reflection staring back at him, his face sweaty and grey. The head wound to his temple was covered with dried blood. At least that had stopped. He swallowed to keep from throwing up. Desperate, he tried the knobs to the facet, but the pipes were long since dry.

He licked his lips, ignoring his thirst, and tried to gain his bearings so he could figure out his next move. His gut had always served him well. He walked out of the locker room and into the corridor, freezing at the sound of the door he'd come through earlier slamming open and closed.

Steve listened hard, making out muddled voices in the distance. There were two, no three or four? Who were they? He hadn't been able to contact his team and there was no way they could have tracked him – it had to be the people who'd attacked him.

He followed the hallway further into a massive room filled with machinery tinged aquamarine, reminding Steve of the barnacled mechanisms of a sunken ship. Sound traveled in a vast factory like this … factory. Damn it, he was in a factory. Thinking was like crawling through mud. He could hear the sound of his pursuers getting closer.

Moving toward a large rusted conveyor belt for cover, he squatted behind the large metal base.

"Damn it, this place is huge. It'll take us forever to search it." Guy One sounded like an islander.

"Then maybe you should focus," a Second Guy with a deeper voice responded. "We don't even know if he rabbited inside."

"And if he did, then you're broadcasting our position. Now shut up and spread out, we'll cover more ground."

The third voice came from a walkie talkie or a radio, which meant there were two people close by and an unknown number in another part of the building.

Steve was too exposed; he kept low and went as quietly as he could across the room to the other side. He found another corridor and followed it a short distance to a tiny alcove with a large sink. It must have been an emergency wash station. There were no nearby windows so it provided him with a dark place to hide and observe.

He craned his head around the corner and watched two men fan out across the large factory floor, one heading in Steve's direction. Steve flattened himself as much as he could against the wall.

Taking a deep breath, Steve closed his eyes and mentally tried to stop the way everything spun around him. After giving himself a few seconds, he pulled out a knife in his right hand and waited.

Four, three, two….

The goon rounded the corner and Steve stepped forward and jabbed the knife at an upward angle into the man's abdomen and twisted the blade, puncturing the aorta.

The man sputtered and gurgled, collapsing against Steve. It was difficult controlling the sudden weight, but Steve battled against his lightheadedness, lowering the man to the floor while he bled out.

Steve patted him down and took his Glock, searching him for anything useful. He found a cell phone and grabbed the man's radio, ear piece, and a battered plastic water bottle.

Steve unscrewed the cap of the water bottle and quickly downed the little bit of water left, the few swallows doing little to relieve his horribly dry throat. He didn't have time to dwell on the underlying meaning of his dehydration and stay alive. He stuck in the earpiece and listened for chatter.

"Marcus, report!"

"Paulo, do you have eyes on Marcus?"

"Negative, headed to his last location."

Steve heard heavy footsteps echo loudly as they raced over. With only seconds to react, he leaned his shoulder against the wall and stuffed the muzzle of the Glock into the water bottle nozzle.

He waited as a figure came around the same corner, aiming his rifle in Steve's direction. But Steve was ready and he squeezed the trigger, the plastic muffling the gun shots as he fired center mass.

The second target went down and Steve searched him for weapons. He found an empty Berretta and when he checked the magazine of the M16, there were was only four bullets left. It took two tries to shoulder the rifle strap so the weapon rested along the back of his shoulder. The M16 felt so oddly heavy.

Steve wiped at the sweat beading in his hair line, trying to focus. The ambush must have been a hell of a gunfight to have used up so many rounds. Had the Camaro been involved? Fuck. Where was Danny? Were Kono, Chin, and Lou safe?

Steve's heart rated doubled. His thoughts were so scrambled; he had to contact his partner.

He followed the hallway out of the wash room and deeper into the complex. Damn, the place was unnervingly immense; it felt like being in the belly of the whale. Steve ducked into a storage room and pulled out the confiscated cell phone, dialing the familiar number.

The ringing sound sent a bolt of pain through his aching head and Steve pulled it away from his ear, fumbling with the controls until it was quieter.

"Detective Williams."

Relief flooded Steve's veins. "Danny."

"Steve!" Danny's angry voice responded. "Where the hell have you been? I've been –"

"Danny," Steve breathed again into the phone.

"What's wrong?" Danny's tone of voice changed immediately.

"I don't know where I am."

He heard Danny in the background shouting at someone to trace the call. "Are you injured?"

"Yeah, but…Danny, I can't talk. I've got people after me."

There was the sound of deep breathing. "Okay, describe your surroundings. Are you in your truck?"

"No. I'm in some factory."

"Do you know which one?"

"I –" Steve paused when he heard a frantic voice over the radio.

"Marcus, Paulo report!" When neither man replied, the voice cursed. "Langley, Greer, Andrews, we need to regroup. We're going to hunt down this bastard and put a bullet in his skull."

Okay, that meant there were still four targets remaining from a six-man team. This had been a professional hit. His odds were stacking against him.

"Danny, I've got to go."

"I heard. Listen, go find a good hiding spot and wait for us, we've almost got your position located."

"Roger that."

"Steve…I know you want to go all Rambo, but please–"

"I'll do whatever it takes to stay alive. Promise."

Steve stuffed the phone away, leaving it on so they could trace his signal. He made his way down the corridor into another room. He paused long enough to take in a giant machine with a long apparatus that came out of a wall at a ninety degree angle, feeding into a large industrial centrifuge. As he walked inside, he realized some of the floor was coated with shallow puddles of tar with the consistency of dried glue.

Then it hit Steve. The device was used to filter out leaves from sugarcane; the sticky floor was from raw sugar. This was the abandoned Domino processing and refinery plant. He started to pull out his phone to tell Danny when he heard a heavy set of footfalls, the vast space like a radar echo-chamber.

There was a ton of light coming in through the windows of the eastern wall, forcing him to crouch in front of the round centrifuge. He swallowed against making any sounds of agony and pressed a hand to his ribs as the pain in his back shifted to his side. Not now. Can't give into injury.

A bullnecked man came out of the northern corridor with an M-16 in his hands. He was about six foot two and a two hundred pounds, a hefty dude.

Steve carefully laid his stolen rifle down to the floor, knowing firing it would give away his position. He pulled out his knife and remained behind the centrifuge, moving to the right with every step the man came further into the room, keeping the same pace to stay out of point of sight. The man walked deliberately, weapon at the ready, and Steve waited until he was in the middle of the room before ducking under the long feeder and walking around the centrifuge to get behind him.

Grabbing a quarter from his pocket, Steve gave it a quick flick toward the opposite corner of the room, the coin bouncing loudly on the cement. Bullneck swung his weapon toward the sound. Steve came up from behind and kicked the man in the right knee, causing him to stumble and lose his balance. Steve wrapped his left arm around Bullneck's chest to hold him still and reached around with his right hand to cut his throat. But Bullneck raised his right forearm blocking the knife and wrapped his beefy fingers around Steve's wrist, struggling to control the blade. The guy was all muscle and he lunged his weight backward, driving Steve into centrifuge.

Steve's spine connected with the metal, knocking him breathless and sending a horrible pain coursing through him. The knife fell out of his grasp, but Steve still held onto the other man. Using all his energy, Steve wrapped both arms around Bullneck's throat, putting him a chokehold, applying pressure to the side of both carotid arteries.

Bullneck flailed, digging his fingers into Steve's arms, bucking wildly. It only took seconds to render another person unconscious, Steve knew. He just had to hang on. Bullneck's body slowly slackened and Steve waited another ten seconds before letting the man's body fall to the ground.

Then Steve dropped to his knees beside the man and heaved his guts onto the floor. Tears poured from his eyes, and he wheezed, sucking in puffs of air when his stomach was done seizing. All he wanted to do was curl in a ball on the floor from the pain and nausea.

A voice in his head urged him to get up and run. Go! And when the dizziness passed and he could finally breathe, Steve heard someone franticly calling out his name. Confused, he realized it was coming from his pants pocket and he struggled to pull out his cell phone, his hands shaking with the effort.

"Steve answer me!"

Spitting out the foul taste in his mouth, Steve held the phone away from his ear, almost dropping it when his fingers shook. "Danny," he said, sounding terrible to his own ears.

"Thank God. Are you all right? It sounded like –"

"There's three targets still after me. " Steve coughed, wetting his lips, heart racing when he remembered his location. "Danny. I'm at the old Domino–"

"Sugar factory. Yeah, we know. We're ten minutes out. You hear me? We're almost there."

Steve nodded even though Danny couldn't see it. He wasn't physically capable of more hand-to-hand; he recognized the signs of shock. His hands were still trembling; his lips were getting that fat numb feeling. He'd been shot, slowly bleeding internally, suffering from a concussion.

"Steven!"

Steve blinked, wiping the sweat from his eyes. He wasn't sure how long Danny had been calling out his name. "Danny." It was all his brain could come up with.

"Cover and concealment. I know you have a difficult time understanding those two simple concepts, but you're a Navy SEAL. Be resourceful."

Steve actually smiled at Danny's worried gruffness. "Copy that, partner."

If he'd been in a jungle or in the woods, Steve would have found a spot by a tree and dug a shallow hole and buried himself under dirt and leaves. Instead, he was inside some colossal metal beast.

Cover and conceal…cover and conceal…too bad there isn't any power in this place…could've turned on all of these damn machines…hide in the sound….

Steve needed to find somewhere until his team found him; the GPS signal could lead them to his exact location. His training was muscle memory at this point, but he found he had to focus his thoughts, force himself to mentally process possibilities. His body screamed to give in, rest. His feet were sluggish, his vision blurring around the edges and threatening to send him careening sideways into the machinery if he didn't maintain control.

He followed a long hallway down, using his hand against the wall for guidance and support, the path engulfed in darkness from the lack of windows. He squinted, trying to stop the way shapes distorted in and out. There - a door on the left.

Steve slowed down, gripping the handle of his knife. He listened closely but there were no sounds coming from the room and Steve slipped inside. Holding up his cell phone, he used the display as a light source, illuminating a couple of metal desks with missing drawers, a few chairs on wheels and a lot of file boxes and papers tossed all over the floor. Several of the ceiling tiles had fallen off, their lighting fixtures dangling from their wiring bundles.

It wasn't much of an office; it looked like it was hesitantly added to this section of the building. Great. There wasn't anything useful he could take with him and the room wasn't big enough for him to hide.

If he couldn't utilize this room, he needed more intel on the bad guys. Steve took a moment to fiddle with the confiscated radio. There hadn't been a single communication since the leader's order to re-group; meaning the whole crew was either together now or they were on radio silence because they knew Steve was eavesdropping.

Continue evasive maneuvers. Returning to the hallway, he continued following it, hoping for a loading dock or a large refinery room where he could disappear. Counting his steps, Steve made his way down the hall toward another source of light and hopefully a larger room.

He approached the next entrance cautiously, keeping to the wall. He crouched the best he could, peering around the corner and taking in the warehouse area. There was more green-tinged machinery with larger conveyer belts, filling and plastic sealing machines. This had to be where the refined sugar was packaged and wrapped in paper, the bags stacked onto pallets for shipping.

He scanned the mammoth room searching for an exit or a place to hide. It looked like a tornado had ripped through the place scattering the floor with garbage, pieces of the ceiling, hoses, and random metal parts. Steve made his way toward the back, hoping there were loading doors leading outside. He passed several work benches covered with debris, but froze when he heard the sound of movement.

Steve kept low, deciding whether he should retreat the way he'd just come in when he heard two voices.

"Are you sure he's in here?"

"Yes, now shut up."

Two voices, not three. And why did the leader sound so confident about Steve's position? His mind worked furiously. Self-preservation spiked his adrenalin, clearing the cobwebs for a moment.

Cover and conceal…evade and escape…how could they know where I am?

The stolen cell phone in his pocket pressed into his thigh as he stayed crouched, assessing his situation.

Dammit, of course. Fucking GPS.

If the shooters' phones were networked together, they could be using GPS in the phone he'd taken to locate him, just as Danny was.

Which means, they knew exactly where I was headed…. The third guy's probably circling around—

He cautiously peered around the edge of the machinery.

-waiting to cut me off from the hallway.

Think. He had a Beretta without ammo and a stolen assault rife with only four bullets. Not enough for a fire-fight and he still couldn't get too close and risk using hand-to-hand.

His eyes darted around, searching for anything to be used as a weapon. There was old air filter, a roll of duct tape. No and no. Steve noticed a large metal bucket on the floor filled with various nails and screws and his thoughts centered on it. He looked at the nearby work desk, eyes landing on the can of spray paint, not useful, then on the bottle of WD-40, rust remover. Yes.

The crunching sound of boots grew closer, the littered contents of the floor giving him the bad guys' location.

Steve pulled out the bottle of drain remover from his pants pocket and grabbed the WD-40. The bucket was the size of a gallon and filled with potential shrapnel. He poured in the drain cleaner then unscrewed the cap to the WD-40, emptying the contents into the bucket, giving him a volatile low-grade mix of sulfuric acid and solvent. All I need is a detonator.

His two targets started walking around one of the larger packing machines. Steve adjusted the shoulder strap to his rifle until he gripped the weapon, he better make his bullets count.

Steve timed the footsteps approaching, any moment now -

He stood up, pointing his rifle at both men. "Freeze. HPD, drop your weapons."

Both men froze, looking surprised, but not overly concerned by Steve's sudden appearance. The first goon aimed his Glock in Steve's direction; the other readied his M16. Neither of them fired. They were probably very low on ammo given how little their buddies had when Steve killed them.

It took Steve every ounce of control to keep his arms from shaking. "I said drop your weapons."

"Why? Based on the way you look, I bet you'll be dropping yours first," Goon One said, stepping closer. "I winged you. I know I did. Question is, how bad?"

"If he didn't, I know one of us did. We shot your truck to pieces before blowing it up," Goon Two said. "There's no way you escaped unscathed."

They had blown up his truck? That would explain the concussion.

"And you started off with a five man team and now you're down to two." Steve didn't give away his hand about knowing there was a third team member. "I'd say you're both poor shots."

"Come on Doyle, let's just kill him and get it over with," the Second Goon growled, antsy.

Doyle had to be the one on the radio giving orders. He was the leader, older, with graying hair and well built—and looked none too pleased at having his name used. "This asshole took out three of ours and I want to know why we weren't informed we were after someone so resourceful," he growled, moving closer.

Steve moved two steps back, locking eyes with him. "You telling me you accepted a hit without any recon?"

Doyle walked a little closer, his cohort following. "We know you're the head of Five-O."

"You must be from out of town." Steve took three more steps back, putting more distance between him and the bucket. "Our team has a rep around here."

"We were well compensated for eliminating a high-level target. But I saw the way you took out Marcus and Paulo." The top of Doyle's eyebrow twitched. "That screams military training. I'll be sure to inform our client the error of such an omission."

Steve's arms were weakening and sweat poured down his face. He moved another few inches, unsure how much longer he'd remain on his feet. "You mind telling me who hired you?"

"Since you're going to die." Doyle shrugged, nonchalant. "Gabriel Waincroft."

Steve had a second to absorb that news when he caught movement out of his peripheral vision. The third shooter was moving in the hallway. Doyle gripped his Glock tighter and the guy with the M16 tensed. All three were going to shoot Steve at once.

He quelled his reflexes, keeping them on a fine wire; the third guy's outline slowly solidifying as he stepped out of the corridor –now! Steve aimed his rifle at the bucket and fired. The container exploded; it sounded like popping metal and firecrackers. Steve dived to the ground and landed hard on the cement floor, knocking the breath out of him. He could hear his attackers screaming in pain.

Gasping, desperate for air, all Steve could do was roll over onto his back. He fought against the bile that burned in the back of his throat and the explosion of pain in his head. The screaming around him turned to moaning and Steve struggled to find his side arm.

He still had the Berretta. Am I out of ammo? He couldn't remember.

His fingers didn't quite work and his hand bumped into his leg several times before he reached into his pocket and pulled out the weapon. Come on, come on. But the pistol fell out of his fragile grip and clattered to the ground next to him.

Cursing, he squeezed his eyes closed against sudden vertigo. The moaning around him became urgent voices and Steve tried pushing up into a sitting position to assess the situation.

"Hey, hey, take it easy." That was Danny's voice…but Danny wasn't here.

Then Steve felt a hand on his shoulder and Danny's worried face blurred in and out of view. "Hey, listen to me, are you listening?"

Steve blinked up at Danny and three blurry images became one. "Yeah," he said with a grunt.

"Good, because I need you to lie still a minute, okay? We brought a bus with us and the EMTs are waiting for the all clear before they enter the building."

"You're gonna need more than one," Steve muttered, laying his head on the ground, feeling wrung out and utterly exhausted.

"Yeah, I can see that," Danny said beside him. "But I need to know how you're doing. Come on talk to me."

"Concussion," Steve said, finding it harder to stay awake now, his adrenaline spent. "My back."

"Your back? Steve, come on buddy. Don't fall asleep on me." Danny's hands ghosted over Steve's shoulders, his stomach and sides, pausing when he reached Steve's knees. "What the hell? You've got …there's nails sticking out of your leg!"

"What?" Steve asked confused. He tried craning his neck to see, catching only a glimpse of torn fabric and blood. His head felt like a sinking anchor. "My IED must've caught me," he mumbled.

"Your what? Did you say IED?" Steve felt Danny's hands prodding along his calf. "Your leg's a mess."

Steve didn't feel the pain he should be experiencing; shock had taken hold. He tried unbuckling his belt to help with the bleeding to his leg.

"Hey, stop that. I've got it," Danny said, batting Steve's hands away and struggling to remove the belt.

"Hey, Danny. What's your status?" Steve heard Chin ask as he hurried over.

"Trying to stop this bleeding." Danny sounded tense, his voice tightly controlled. He finished pulling Steve's belt out and began lopping it around his leg just below the knee. "There we go; this should stop you from leaking all over the floor."

Steve thought Danny was speaking to him, but he was having a difficult time focusing, his eyelids drifting closed. He felt Danny rest a hand on his arm as he spoke over him. "What about our other guests?"

"Everyone's been disarmed and secured," Chin said his voice sounding far away. "Kono's keeping an eye on them."

Someone…no not someone, Danny was squeezing Steve's shoulder. "What about the EMTs? They coming?"

"They're on the way. All three suspects have various shrapnel wounds, some to the abdomen and lower extremities." Steve needed to tell Chin about…. His thoughts wandered, but he forced his eyes open, noticing Chin's jean as he crouched on Steve's other side, talking. "Lou's gone outside to lead the EMT's inside."

"Chin," Steve said, reaching out with his fingers, snagging denim. "Chin," he repeated.

"Steve, I'm right here."

Chin grabbed Steve's wrist and it took every ounce of effort for Steve to form sentences. "You've got to interrogate them. The shooters…."

"We will," Chin promised, gripping his wrist. "We'll find out who targeted you."

"No." Steve squeezed his eyes closed, trying to collect his thoughts.

"Come on, babe. Shhhhh." Danny rubbed a hand up and down Steve's arm before resting it on Steve's chest. Calm and grounding. "It's okay, you're okay."

"Danny…Chin," Steve struggled. "It was…it was Gabriel."

"The EMTs are here!"

That sounded like Lou's voice, but Steve couldn't find the energy to pay attention.

"Steve! What about Gabriel? Steve, did he have something to do with this?"

Steve felt heavy and tired. He wanted to tell Chin about Gabriel, but Chin wasn't there anymore and neither was Danny.

"Come on guys," someone said. "We need room to work."

Other people peered over Steve, asking him questions. Touching him.

"Commander McGarrett my name's Linda; could you tell me where you're injured? Commander, squeeze my hand if you can hear me."

Steve tried making his fingers work, even tried telling her about the GSW to his back, but he wasn't sure if he mumbled anything before a plastic mask was placed over his mouth and nose. The oxygen was blissful.

"He's tachy and hypotensive. Pulse 130, BP 65 over 40."

Words were said over his head and his body was being moved, but Steve couldn't keep up with it all anymore.

Awareness was like a light bulb, a dim shimmer slowly glowing brighter, little by little swallowing up the darkness. Steve's eyes were gritty and heavy, a pleasant warmth enveloping him, but his skin tingled and a small part of him didn't like this conflicting feeling of pinpricks and numbness. He tried concentrating beyond the fuzziness, on physical sensations, the feeling of something under him, the dryness of his mouth, the dull headache.

Steve's hand twitched, causing the pinpricks to sharpen along his arm, like when a limb falls asleep from being immobile too long. It was frustrating and he tried moving it again, chase the pinpricks away, force open his heavy eyelids.

"Hey, buddy. You waking up?"

Steve smacked his lips. "D'nny?"

"Steve, hey, come on, babe."

Danny's voice was nearby, heavy with worry. Steve grunted, finally opening his eyes, the dull headache spiking. "Danny."

Danny gave him a tight smile, looking worn to the bone. "Yeah, I'm here; in this horrible plastic chair designed for a petite woman or a teenager before they hit their growth spurt."

And Steve was in a hospital bed. He wanted to sit up, but his body was a giant weight, so he settled for craning his neck, looking down at himself. His brow furrowed as he tried to take stock. There was a BP cuff around his right arm, IV in his left, nasal cannula providing his oxygen. He was in a hospital gown; everything else was covered by a sheet.

"The docs pulled four nails out of your leg. It's wrapped up pretty tight."

Steve rested his head against his pillow; he remembered improvising something with chemicals. "Worked better than I thought it would."

"You mean that little household bomb? Yeah, it worked like a charm." Danny got out of his chair, looking antsy, gesturing as he spoke. "The surgeons also pulled out a few dozen nails and screws from your buddies. One of them won't be able to have kids, not that he'll ever see the light of day again."

Steve looked over at Danny confused by his irritated tone. "I was out of ammo and–"

"And you did your thing where you turned paperclips and tin cans into weapons," Danny waved his hand. "You were outnumbered and resourceful."

"Then why are you angry?

"I'm not angry. I'm loud because you failed to mention you'd been shot." Danny stopped pacing, staring at Steve in accusation.

But Steve knew how to read Danny in between the worry lines of his face. "I think because I have a concussion?"

Everything about the warehouse was one giant blur of moments; his headache flared.

"You have a concussion because they blew up your truck." Kono walked in, looking at Steve in relief. "During the ambush they used a bazooka."

Steve didn't remember any of that.

Danny clenched his jaw. "Sounds like these guys share your taste in going over-the-top."

"Well, they failed," Steve told him.

"They almost didn't." Danny folded his arms. "The bullet entered your back and bounced off a rib. You were on the table for five hours; your surgeon mentioned something about a couple of 'pesky' bleeders." He took a shaky breath. "You almost lost your spleen."

Steve knew the wound had been serious, but never allowed himself to give it much thought. He looked at Danny and noticed Chin standing in the doorway to his room.

Chin nodded and walked inside, grim-faced. He barely looked Steve in the eye when he spoke. "If you'd lost your spleen you would have been medically discharged from the navy."

"But I didn't lose it," Steve said, trying to infuse strength in his rough voice.

"Gabriel targeted you because of me," Chin said, anger and frustration darkening his expression.

"No," Steve growled. "He went after Five-O because we're going to bring him down."

"You know there's more to it."

Kono walked over and wrapped an arm around Chin's shoulders. "You need to stop blaming yourself."

Steve wanted to say more, force Chin to see beyond his misguided guilt. He tried sitting up, but his arms shook, and what felt like a dull spoon dug into his back.

"Hey, come on," Danny said, gently placing a hand on his chest and pushing lightly until Steve laid back. "Take it easy."

Danny waited, watching until Steve settled in bed and breathed through the discomfort. When Steve relaxed a bit, Danny removed his hand and looked over at Chin and Kono. "Gabriel went after Steve because he knows we're ohana."

"Just like when Victor Heese put you in that bomb collar," Steve said, locking eyes with Chin, because Chin had never once thought Steve responsible for becoming a target during that terrible day. Steve breathed deeply on his oxygen. "It's a chess game."

"And we're going to out-play him," Kono said to Chin her voice fierce. "He won't get away with what he's done to us."

Kono still carried invisible scars from Gabriel while Adam continued to pay the price. Steve wanted to offer comfort, but all he could do was promise justice. "We'll get him. Together."

The silence in the room gave way to nurse with braided hair as she walked through the door. She paused, giving Steve a perky grin. "Commander McGarrett, I see you're awake." Breezing inside, she went straight to one of the computer screens displaying his vitals, giving it a cursory exam before turning around. "All right, guys. I gotta examine the commander before Dr. Peterson comes in here to check out his handiwork."

Kono walked toward Steve's right side, touching his arm. "When you get better, you need to give me some pointers about improvised explosives."

Steve smiled and promised her a full lesson.

Chin grabbed Steve's hand in a firm grip, eyes filled with determination. "I'll come back later after I've had a nice chat with the guys who'll be using crutches for a long time."

"If you need any help with that, let me know."

"I'll keep that in mind," Chin said with a wan smile.

There was a loud clearing of the throat and Steve glanced over at the nurse who smiled back at him, but shot Danny a non-patient quirk of the eyebrow.

Danny held up his hands in surrender. "I'm just going to tell my boy to behave, because while he looks all vulnerable and innocent now, believe me; he's an irritable grump when he's injured." He glanced at her nametag then at Steve. "Should I tell Liz that you have a frequent patient card here? I need to check, but I think you've earned your own bobble head by now."

"Thanks for staying with me," Steve said, unable to hide a grin. He knew Danny had probably waited for all five hours after his surgery.

"Yeah, well, someone needed to hang around while everyone else worked. By the way, Lou's stopping by as soon as he's done with the labs. You um, left quite a mess behind."

"It's a talent."

"Right, you should win first prize for Most Creative First Aid."

"Detective," Liz said, hurrying him along.

Danny rested a hand on Steve's knee. "If you're good I'll bring you some books to read while you're stuck here."

Talking had wiped Steve out. Staying awake was becoming a challenge and he closed his eyes despite himself. Steve was sure falling asleep before getting examined would thrill Nurse Liz. "What kind of books?" he mumbled.

"Bedtime stories," he heard Danny say, patting his good leg. "And if you're a nice patient, maybe I'll even read one to you."

Steve nodded; he thought he could deal with that after today.

***
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