A/N: I would like you all to know that this started out as a totally different animal. It was going to be a one-chapter whumpy fic with humor mixed in and a little comfort at the end. I somehow ended up with this... Sneaky little plot bunnies of doom... *glares*

Standard disclaimers apply. Also, thanks to frankiemcstein and dominatempore for being my sounding boards and beta readers.

Sticking some PTSD/POW-trauma trigger warnings on here, just to be safe.

(Magnum)

I want nothing more than a nice, long, hot shower and to fall into bed and not talk to anyone for at least twelve hours.

It's been a long past two days working a robbery case that led me to a guy who thought he was the new crime boss of the island—when, really, he was just a wanna-be criminal with a crew of lackeys and really high aspirations. Somehow, because I have all the luck sometimes, I ended up getting recruited into their ranks. I'm still not sure if I can call it good luck, exactly, but, after the sleepless night I put in to gather evidence, it had all worked out.

Well, it had worked out in that I managed to gather enough evidence and, with the help of Katsumoto, get the bad guys caught in the act. What hadn't worked out was one of the gang catching onto the fact that the new guy was double-crossing them. To top it all off, it just so happened the crew was stealing an independent fisherman's newest catch—something about "intimidation"—with me conveniently along for the ride. Which was when I learned just how painful it was to land on a pile of fish after being punched in the jaw next to the edge of a ship's hold. Painful and weird and slimy—really weird and slimy. Trust me; it's an experience I never want to repeat.

Grumbling in complaint to no one in particular, I step into the guest house and eye the couch longingly… I know I need a shower, but it's almost midnight, and the cushions are practically calling my name. The housekeeper can always wash the slipcovers, right?

Somewhere in the back of my brain, a little voice that sounds an awful lot like Higgy speaks up and immediately begins chewing me out for even thinking that way. "You do realize the rancid smell of raw fish will permeate the entire couch, don't you? There is no soap on earth strong enough to clean it all out. You might as well just drag the piece of furniture to the curb and save everyone the time. And why haven't you changed clothes yet anyway?"

I glower in the direction of the couch. Imaginary Higgy was right, though. I'll end up leaving a pretty terrible smell if I pass out on the furniture without showering. As much as I don't really want to delay sleeping, I do want to avoid a lecture on ruining Robin's things and being told I owe whatever-amount-of-money to buy a replacement couch—which, knowing Higgy, will definitely happen. I'm also not particularly fond of the idea of waking up to an awful stench after giving it a chance to ferment overnight. I smell bad enough as it is already.

I force my tired feet toward the bathroom for what I decide will be the fastest shower on record—but it doesn't end up being so once I'm under the pounding water and realize how well the fancy showerhead works at massaging the aches plaguing my muscles. By the time I finish and throw on the first t-shirt and shorts I find in my drawer, my stomach is demanding attention over sleep. I realize, with everything that went down with the case, I've somehow forgotten to eat anything besides a protein bar around eight this morning—nearly sixteen hours ago? Yeah, I'm overdue for dinner.

A quick search of my refrigerator reveals only beer and an empty egg carton, and my freezer boasts a single package of uncooked bacon—which might be tempting if I actually felt like taking the time to defrost it. The pancake mix in my pantry seems promising until I realize I don't have any of the required eggs—and, after a quick shake of the cardboard box, my inner Higgy demands an explanation for why I put an empty carton back on the shelf in the first place.

I frown, too frustrated and tired to deal with this at the moment. Maybe I'll just skip the whole food thing and worry about it after I get a few hours of sleep. My stomach growls in complaint at that idea, and I sigh.

Wait. Higgy probably has food in her kitchen! Granted, she probably has some really weird stuff, but she'll at least have something I can eat. If nothing else, maybe I can find Kumu and guilt her into making something for me.

But then I remember the older woman won't be at the estate this late at night, and Higgy told me three days ago she wouldn't be here tonight. Oh well. Hopefully, there will still be something halfway decent in her fridge. If not, I suppose I can last a day without food if I have to. I've been through worse.

The next question is if I can make it to the house without getting attacked by the hellhounds—sorry, Dobermans. I still haven't figured out why they don't like me, but the feeling is mutual with the way they're always chasing me around. I'm positive they'll eat me if Higgy ever gives them permission.

However, I am famished and decide it's worth risking life and limb to get to the main house. I figure I can look at it this way: if the dogs do eat me, at least they'll put me out of my aching, starving misery.

I crack open the door and look around. There's no sign of either Doberman and no sounds to indicate they're nearby. That doesn't mean they aren't hiding in the shadows just waiting to pounce, but it is somewhat promising. I might just make it to the main house alive after all.

Thankfully, I do survive the quick trek across the grass. I'm not sure where the dogs are at the moment, but all that really matters is they aren't anywhere near me. I make sure to shut the side door into Robin's kitchen tightly behind me, though, just in case.

Turning toward the fridge, I'm already thinking of what I might find. Hopefully, it isn't just leftovers of whatever fru-fru dish Higgy had for dinner—

A noise from the other room makes me freeze in my tracks.

Visions of sharp teeth and slavering jaws dance through my head, and I swallow. I'm not scared, just… concerned. The dogs might run around the corner so fast they scratch Robin's nice wood floors, and I can't let that happen. Higgy won't be happy if she comes home to find gouges in the hallway, although I am pretty sure I can get away with blaming the dogs for that.

I stand still and tilt my head to listen. No growling or barking meets my ears, and I'm not quite sure what to think. Could it have been something falling off a shelf or the AC kicking on? I hold my breath, listening for more sounds, but several seconds tick by with nothing else drifting down the hallway.

Relaxing, I release the breath I've been holding. I'm sure it's as simple as the fact that I'm tired and starving. After all, I have been awake for somewhere around two days, plus I haven't eaten for half of that, so it probably just has me more on edge than I would be otherwise. And you know how it is whenever you're alone; every little noise seems way bigger and more dangerous. Shaking my head at myself, I reach for the fridge door again—

And hear it again. This time, I am absolutely certain it isn't just the AC. No, this sounds decidedly more… alive.

I reach for the large metal fruit bowl sitting on the counter, moving as slowly as I can to avoid making any noise of my own. If it's the Dobermans, I won't need an improvised weapon, of course. As much as I dislike their obvious desire to devour me, I also would never hurt an animal if I don't have to. No, if it's the dogs, I'll just make a quick escape out the side door and leave them inside the house or climb on top of the fridge if necessary.

Except now, I can tell this isn't the dogs. I can hear the sound of human footsteps moving around— inside Robin's house—when no one is supposed to be home. There are only a handful of reasons I can think of why someone would be in Robin's house right now, and almost none of them are good. So you bet I'm in need of a weapon.

I tilt the bowl to the side to empty it of its contents, being careful to catch the assortment of fruits before they spill all over the floor. Then, armed as best as I can be at a moment's notice—and annoyed I hadn't thought I needed to bring my sidearm with me because of course I wouldn't need it for a quick visit to Robin's house—I slowly pad in the direction the noises are coming from.

If I had time, I could find one of the guns I'm sure Higgy has hidden somewhere in the house. There's one in a fake book in the study, I know that, but I'm not sure I can get to it unseen and I don't know where any others are. I need to make a note to get a list from Higgy later.

Either way, this'll have to do for now.

As I move down the hall and near the doorway to the study, I can make out the sound of low male voices. There seem to be at least two of them. Now, the question is, what are they doing here? Is it just a burglary? And how did they get onto the grounds in the first place? I make another mental note, this one to check on the alarm at the front gate later; something must be wrong with it. I took care of the easily picked lock on the beach gate months ago.

Close enough to finally make out what the intruders are saying, I can hear angry words.

"Where are they? You said there's two of them, but I haven't seen them once the whole way here!"

"Who knows?" someone else retorts. "I'm not the dog whisperer. They're probably just out on the grounds someplace."

"Lucky for you I thought to bring steak," the first man snaps back. "Maybe we can tempt them out from wherever they are."

Well, this is interesting. Of all the reasons for someone to break into Robin's estate, dognapping hadn't ranked very high on my list. Higgy isn't going to believe this.

I'll tell her later, of course. First, I need to call in reinforcements. No one else is home, and, while that's good because it means no one else is in danger, it's also bad because it means I'm on my own. I might be able to take both guys in a fair fight, but I have no idea if they're armed or if there are more than just the two distinct voices I can make out. Contrary to what readers of the White Knight series might think, I can't reasonably expect to take on two or more armed bad guys while unarmed myself and live to tell the tale of how I'd bested them.

Yeah, I really wish part of my security measures had been to learn the location of Higgy's weaponry. Note to self for whenever I wrap this night up. And get some sleep.

I back up a few steps and reach in my pocket for my phone, then swear under my breath as I remember leaving it on the bathroom counter.

This just keeps getting better.

Quietly turning back toward the kitchen, I decide to hurry back to the guest house, retrieve my gun and phone, call HPD for help, and then… well, I'll go from there. Anything those guys might take, other than Zeus and Apollo, is just stuff that can be replaced, but I'm confident I can keep them from leaving and get the whole thing taken care of before Higgy gets back.

I turn on my heel—

—and suddenly find myself face-to-face with a guy in a ski mask.

So much for stealth.

"Who are you?" Judging from his tone, he's as surprised to see me as I am to see him.

There is no way the guy's buddies can't hear the shout, and I know I have almost zero time to get the upper hand. I could just let the situation play out, but I don't have high hopes this crew will leave peacefully without what they've come for. And, as much as it pains me to admit it, there's no way I'm letting them leave with the dogs.

Which leaves me only two options: either get the upper hand or get to a phone somehow—and the second isn't an option with the guy blocking my path. So I take a deep breath and throw the bowl at him. It bounces off the wall by his head, missing him completely, but it's enough of a distraction because I'm already lunging forward.

I catch him in a near-perfect football tackle that drives him backward, and we both go down in a heap. I see a pistol bulging from his waistband, and I go for it. If I can just get my hands on the weapon, I stand a better chance of taking these guys down—or at least, scaring them off—than I currently do.

We scuffle on the floor, rolling over each other in a desperate bid to gain the upper hand. I manage to get on top and land a blow to his jaw, but I've barely grabbed his gun when he launches himself up and over. The motion sends me in one direction and the pistol, which I don't have a full grasp on yet, in another.

The bad guy jumps to his feet, and I scramble up and go for him again, again sending us both crashing to the floor. He somehow manages to throw me over his head, and I slam into the doorframe of the living room and fall to the floor near one of the sofas, wincing at the pain flashing through my side from where I hit the sharp wooden corner.

I can hear footsteps in the hall from the other intruders, but I have no time to pay them any attention before my current foe is back on me. He grabs me from behind in a chokehold, and I can feel him squeezing the air from my windpipe. Throwing all of my weight back, I thrust my legs off the floor and twist my body, hoping to use the momentum to my advantage. Sure enough, the two of us go flying backward.

Thankfully, the other guy is still underneath me, and he smashes into the hard back of the furniture we flip over. I hear a dull cracking noise as I tumble over the seat of the sofa, hitting the edge of the coffee table on my way down, and hear the guy groan as he goes limp.

I scramble to my feet, but I'm barely standing when there's a yell from the doorway. I look up in time to see the barrel of a gun pointing in my direction and throw myself back to the floor as the gunshot echoes through the room. The bullet smashes into the coffee table next to me, and I hear the splintering of wood as it goes through.

Two more shots fire off, and I look around for something to throw. I can't wait for this guy to run out of bullets; he'll come around the sofa and take me out any minute.

My eyes land on a set of decorative glass spheres on the coffee table, and I shake my head as I think about what Higgy will say. And then I ignore that thought, leap up, and grab one of the balls. I chuck it as hard as I can in the gunman's direction and then jump up and lunge over the sofa in the same motion.

The guy instinctively moves aside as the projectile whizzes past his face. It shatters against the corner of the wall, but it gives me enough time to reach him before he can draw on me again.

I slam into him, grabbing his right hand with my left and then smashing my free hand into his gun to dislodge it. He isn't expecting that, and I'm able to disarm him with the maneuver. I briefly consider going for the weapon, but then my opponent's fist is coming at my face.

I duck, dodge the blow, and follow up with one of my own. It lands solidly in his stomach, and he bends over reflexively. A nicely placed uppercut sends him reeling backward, then I rush him.

We stumble through the doorway and hit the hallway hard. I'm somehow on the bottom, and, although he's dazed, he's still fighting. At this point, the adrenaline of the fight has fully taken over, and I ignore the pain. All I can think is it's either beat or be beaten, and I really don't fancy the second option.

We're taking turns getting the upper hand, then someone grabs the back of my shirt and hauls me to my feet. I struggle, but whoever it is has my arms now and is pinning them behind me. The guy I've been fighting jumps up and wastes no time slamming a fist into my stomach, driving the air from my lungs.

I gasp for breath, but he just sneers and hits me again. It's only the arms holding me upright that keep me from slumping to the floor because I just can't breathe. The guy punches me in the face, and I feel something in the vicinity of my nose crack.

Great. Not that I wasn't already going to have some fantastic bruises, but now that's going to include two black eyes. I wonder if I can get away with sporting the raccoon look.

And then something in my side gives in a flash of white-hot lightning, and I can't hold back the yell of pain that feels like it's being ripped out of my throat.

There's blood running down my chin from my nose, and it drips into my mouth and fills it with the taste of copper. Plus—and more concerningly—I'm having trouble seeing straight, and then the guy behind me wrenches my arms even farther back until the pain in my shoulders makes me wonder if something's been dislocated.

I wonder why I'm even bothering with the whole "protect the dogs" thing. I really should just let them take the stupid mutts. Those Dobermans never liked me, and I can recount numerous times they've left me smelly… presents I always manage to step in. Not to mention, I've never seen them actually provide the security Higgy claims they exist to provide.

Higgy.

She loves the dogs, although if she loved them more after she realized how much they hate me, I can't say. And they're Robin's dogs anyway, and I can't let Robin down just as much as I can't let Higgy down. Maybe more because Robin's the one actually paying me to keep everything secure.

The dogs are just lucky they mean so much to two of the people I care about not disappointing

Regardless of how important it is to keep these guys away from Zeus and Apollo, I'm not sure how much longer I can hold out, much less if I can actually manage to take these guys down. I'm wracking my brain for a solution to escaping my current predicament when I hear a sound that normally sends fear coursing through me.

I instinctively flinch, but then I realize it's actually a good thing. Whether the dogs go for me or not, it'll make the goons leave me alone. Plus, if I get eaten, it will just put me out of my misery, and I'm pretty sure I don't have the strength to argue with anything at the moment anyway.

A series of sharp barks rend the air as the Dobermans appear from the kitchen doorway. I vaguely wonder how they got inside and surprise myself when I realize I'm just glad to see them. Their teeth bared, they gallop forward, snarling.

Remember the security I said I'd never seen the Dobermans provide? Well, you can scratch that.

I've never been so grateful for their jaws as I am the moment I see Zeus—or is it Apollo?—leap off the ground and clamp those teeth around the arm of the guy using me as his personal punching bag.

And then the other dog is coming right at me, and I briefly wonder if he's going to take advantage of me being helpless at that moment to rip out my throat.

In a manifestation of all of my worst fears that will probably fuel my nightmares for months to come, the Doberman dodges around his compatriot and covers the few feet to me in two long bounds. I squeeze my eyes shut as the dog launches himself off the ground and right at me—

—just before I fall to the ground in an ungainly, painful heap as the goon releases me with a howl of pain.

Well, at least I'm not getting eaten.

Dazed, I crack my eyes open to see the man on the ground with the dog on top of him. The goon is yelling, and his shouts mix with his buddy's and the snarls and yelps of both dogs as they go at their jobs with relish.

Maybe too much relish, if you ask me, but I'm not the one at their mercy so I don't particularly care.

I take a deep breath, trying to get my vision to stop dancing all over the place. Unfortunately, that only serves to set my side alight with fire and send waves of pain slamming into my head. There's still blood running from my nose, and I'm pretty sure there's at least one other cut somewhere on my face.

I wipe my arm across my mouth in an attempt to clear some of the flow, then frown in distaste as the back of my hand comes away smeared red. But no time to dwell on that right now. I need to find a phone to call for help before the dogs kill the intruders—though I'm honestly not sure how to make them stop. Do they know enough to just hold the men down and not actually devour them?

I wonder if I can float the 'it's not my fault the intruders died, officer; the dogs were just defending me' excuse and be believed.

Using the wall beside me as support, I get to my feet and stagger down the hallway. I don't know how long has passed since the dogs attacked, but I don't think it's been more than a few seconds. I could be wrong, though… I can't really think straight at the moment.

I stumble a few times but finally reach the kitchen and look around for a phone. Robin has a home phone, I know, kept in case of emergencies. All I have to do is find the handset.

I spot it across the kitchen and make it halfway before I hear a sudden—and definitely human—sound directly behind me.

Whirling around, I see a dark blur as someone lunges at me. We hit the island at a high rate of speed and go sliding across it. My opponent is on top of me, and I can feel and hear various items crashing to the floor as we go across the slick marble surface in a tangle of arms and legs. So much for my having neatly dumped all the fruit out of the bowl moments ago.

As we reach the other side and flip off to the ground, I can't help but yell in pain. It's a solid multi-foot drop, and my already injured side impacts with some of the debris lying on the floor as I hit the tiles. I don't have time to look at what it is. Thankfully the guy didn't land on top of me, but that doesn't matter because he's quickly rolling to his feet.

I realize in a flash this is the guy I left unconscious on the sofa, and I aim a fist at his abdomen, right where I heard the cracking noise earlier. My blow hits its target, and the guy cries out. I follow up with another, but then he has his hands around my throat, and I let out a choked gasp.

I throw a few punches before managing to land one on the side of his head that makes him let me go. As he shakes his head, dazed, I scramble to get out from underneath him. I'm desperate for air, but I know I need to call for help. Things are spinning wildly out of control, and I need reinforcements.

We're on the far side of the counter from the phone, and I push to my feet to rush for the device—only to feel a fist close around my ankle. I kick out as hard as I can and feel my foot connect with something soft, but I don't stop to look. The only thought running through my brain past the clouds of pain is that I need to call 911. I'm fading fast, and someone needs to get here to help because I'm going to be no good in about two minutes.

My shaking fingers close around the device, and I quickly punch the numbers on the keypad and move for the "call" button—

—and feel a searing pain in my right side.

I swallow hard and blink down, my eyes locking onto one of Robin's steak knives that usually resides in a wooden block near the sink. Except now it's in this other guy's hand.

And covered in blood.

My blood.

Everything's suddenly gone cold and eerily quiet. I seem to have lost track of what my limbs are doing.

And then my body demands air and gasps in a breath, which immediately sends shock waves of pain washing over me.

I can't hold back the guttural cry of pain in response to the invading object, and I'm suddenly too tired to even think about raising my hand. I know I have to do something, and I grit my teeth as I attempt to gather all of my quickly fading strength… but it doesn't work.

My knees give out. My head hits the tile, and the whole kitchen is spinning. I vaguely realize the intruder is getting away, but I just… can't make myself get up to go after him.

Everything goes dark for a second—or is it longer?—and then I think I hear sounds from the direction of the doorway, but the island is blocking my view. I consider getting up, but bile rises in my throat as soon as I shift my head.

Is that… is that Higgy?

She's saying something I can't make out, and I frown. I need to tell her my version of events before she blames everything on me, but I just can't make myself move.

(Higgins)

It's been years since I've snuck back home this late at night. Memories of being a young teenager, coming back from a party long past my curfew and hoping my parents don't hear me, flood back as I turn to my snickering companions.

I put a finger to my lips and give them as much of a glare as I can muster, although I know it's not as stern as I mean for it to be. "Shhh," I whisper, barely holding back my own giggle. "He's going to hear you."

Rick smirks and reaches past me to open the back door of the SUV. "Nah, he won't. It's past midnight; I bet he's already sound asleep."

"He's been gone on a case for two days," T.C. adds. He grabs two of the bags from our cargo. "I checked in with him this evening, and he texted me on his way home. Said he was planning to sleep for the next week—and something about a pile of fish, but I'm not sure what that was all about."

I wrinkle my nose. "I do hope he didn't get into Mr. Masters' good sheets smelling like the catch of the day."

"Don't worry, Jules," Rick tells me reassuringly. "I think you've trained him better than that by this point."

Shaking my head, I turn to glance toward the guest house. There's no sign of movement inside, just the faint glow of a lamp through the open blinds. Good. Hopefully, the boys are right and Magnum's sleeping soundly. It'll give us enough time to set up for the surprise; the last thing we need is him catching a glimpse out of his window and wandering over to find out what we're all doing up and about at this time of the night.

"And you're sure he didn't make any plans for his birthday already?" I ask for the tenth time. It'd be just like Thomas Magnum to go and ruin a surprise without even trying. And then he'll flash that insufferable smirk at me and somehow worm his way out of my frustrations.

They both pause in thought, exchange a look, and then shake their heads as T.C. responds, "Not for the morning, anyway."

"Mhm," Rick nods along. "We got him to promise to meet us for lunch, but that's it. I feel like the concern is more going to be how we're going to manage to get him into Robin's house for breakfast."

I laugh at that. "Well, usually, but he's always up bright and early, regardless of what might've happened. And since I confiscated all of his eggs this morning while he was still out"— I grin as I think of my brilliant plan—"he's going to have to come beg breakfast off me." I chuckle again as I remember how little the man actually keeps in his kitchen anyway. "He even did us a favour by leaving an empty box of pancake mix in the pantry; I doubt he'll suspect a thing when he finds his supplies low."

"Ohh look at you being all sneaky." Rick winks at me.

I'm smug about it, I must admit.

By this time, we've loaded ourselves down with all of our shopping, and we head for the door into the house. I shoot one last look back over my shoulder before closing the garage and following the boys inside.

I'm already running through my mental list of what still needs to be done in preparation for the morning. We aren't doing anything big, just Rick and T.C. and myself—and Kumu, of course, plus the guest of honor. Magnum probably thinks I forgot his birthday or, more likely, that I don't care—which is just going to make this that much more fun of a surprise when we pull it off.

We'd gotten plenty of party supplies, balloons and streamers and such, as well as the ingredients for what was probably the largest spread I'd seen in years. Chocolate chip pancakes, fresh ground coffee, bacon—

I'm so distracted I run right into Rick's back. "What the—"

He just holds up a hand, and I blink. I can't see anything from behind the taller men, and I roll my eyes. Whatever it is, I am the majordomo of the estate. If something's happened, I need to know about it. I huff a sigh and step around the others to get a look at whatever's stopped them in their tracks. My money's on a burglary, which would make the most sense, even though Magnum is supposed to be the live-in security consultant. But, then again, he has been away for two days, and he is probably sleeping—

I interrupt myself with an involuntary gasp as I take in the scene in front of me. It's one thing to think "burglary" but quite another to see the mess the scoundrels left in their wake. The place has been ransacked. There's nothing left on the kitchen island, and the fruit that had been in the silver bowl on the counter is now scattered and smashed all over the floor. The bowl itself is missing, probably chalked up as some valuable piece in the sticky-fingered thieves' minds. The rest of the room is an absolute disaster, although the island in the middle of the room blocks my view of what else of a mess might lie on the far side of it.

There's a bark, then, from the hallway, and I immediately recognise the tone. "Oh, good lads!" I exclaim as I set my bags down on the counter just inside the door and rush toward the sound.

"Higgy! Wait!" T.C. is on my heels.

I think the boys sometimes forget I'm quite capable of taking care of myself. I don't slow but also don't call him out on it. I can hear his footsteps behind me as I round the corner, and I smile as I see Zeus and Apollo sitting quite proudly on top of two men.

The humans in question are masked, clothed all in black, and lying on the floor of my hallway—Mr. Masters' hallway. And probably bleeding all over it, I sigh. Hopefully, it hasn't been too long since they were apprehended and the stains will scrub out.

Judging from their postures, the men in question have given up. Probably decided not getting eaten was a better deal than attempting to escape and not be arrested. Smart.

The lads look our way as T.C. and I pull up to regard the situation. Zeus looks at me proudly, his tongue lolling out to the side as he pants. Apollo woof s and tilts his head as he studies us. Their tails wag gently as they take in my pleased body language.

"Good boys," I croon softly. I reach for my mobile. "Stay," I tell the Dobermans with the accompanying hand signal, and they duck their heads in acknowledgment.

T.C. clears his throat. "Do, uh, you need me to do anything?"

"Thanks," I acknowledge, "but it looks like the lads have this covered already. I'll just call the police and have them come clean up this mess."

He chuckles. "I see why Thomas is always worried about those dogs now," he remarks jokingly.

I roll my eyes. "Oh please. If they really wanted to eat Magnum, he'd be dead already. He's just always willing to play keep-away, and they love that game, especially with him for some reason."

As I start to tap out the numbers on my phone screen, I don't get past the first '1' before Rick's voice cuts down the hallway.

"Hey! In here!"

I know something's wrong the second I hear his tone. One glance at T.C. tells me we're on the same page. We don't say a thing, just spin on our heels and tear back toward the kitchen.

I don't see Rick when I get to the other room but immediately realise he must be on the other side of the island. Something in my gut feels funny. "What's going— Oh ," I break off with a choked gasp.

There's an absolutely gory mess on the floor in front of me. Blood splatters the cabinets near the sink and smears the floor all around, but that's not where my focus is right now.

I hear T.C. swear, but I don't turn. I'm not even focused on Rick, who I vaguely note is shirtless, nor on the pool of blood on the floor—but rather on the limp form under Rick's hands.

Magnum.

He's paler than I've ever seen him before, and that's saying something with the injuries I've seen him sustain over the time I've known him. His nose is broken, there's blood crusted over half his face, and his right eye is heavily swollen. But all of that takes a backseat to where Rick's shirt—bright and starched only a minute earlier—is now a sopping red mess wadded against our friend's side.

Rick looks up at me, face as grim as I've ever seen it. "Higgy…"

I shake my head, slowly at first, then faster, and then I move forward and fall to my knees next to the men. I ignore the sticky liquid on my bare knees. "What…" I reach for Magnum but stop myself as I realise I'll do more harm than good. I can't keep my fingers from trailing through his hair, though, and I wince as I feel a gash near his temple.

There's a dark feeling forming in the pit of my stomach, but I don't make any effort to squash it. "Is he…"

"Alive," Rick finishes in the affirmative, his response clipped and thick with emotion. "But…" He sighs and looks between us. "It's bad."

His gaze tips downward, and it's then I notice one of the good steak knives lying between Magnum and Rick.

Behind me, T.C.'s already on the phone with emergency services, but I barely pay him any mind. I'm solely focused on Magnum. He hasn't moved, hasn't opened his eyes. I don't know what to do; I feel so helpless, and I don't like it one bit.

My gaze goes back to the shirt in Rick's hands that's absolutely soaked now, the blood starting to drip from the light linen fabric onto the tiles. I straighten up and open a drawer to my left. I ignore the streak of red I add to the outside of the cabinets as I pull out a wad of dishtowels to hand to Rick. He gives me a tight smile of thanks and accepts them, and my eyes focus on the blood covering his hands.

The sight of blood has never made me sick before, but this is different. This is Magnum's blood, and there's too much of it literally everywhere except for inside his body where it belongs. I bite my lip as I stand there and watch Rick press the fresh cloths to Magnum's side. The white fabric quickly becomes tainted red, and I clench my fists.

My vision is quickly turning red as well, and I barely register T.C.'s announcement that help is on the way. Then I hear the dogs snarling in the hallway, and I turn toward the sound. These men broke into the estate, and, although I often have given him grief for it, Magnum did his job. He heard a noise or saw something suspicious and came check it out. Judging from the chaos all around me, he put up quite the fight, and now he's fighting for his life on the floor of my kitchen.

"Higgins." T.C. puts up a hand as I pass him, stopping me in my tracks.

I glare at him. "Let me go," I say in a low, even, cold tone.

He clearly understands my expression and shakes his head slowly. The weight doesn't leave my shoulder. "Deep breath," he instructs quietly. He doesn't say anything further, but he doesn't have to.

I know what he means, but I don't have to like it. "Those… This is their fault."

"I know."

"Guys!"

I turn with my stomach flying into my throat.

"You need to pull the car around," Rick tells us. If his expression was grimmer than I'd ever seen it, his voice is hoarser and thicker than I've ever heard it. "We can't wait any longer for the ambulance."

All other thoughts flee my mind, and I nod sharply and clear my throat. "Right." I move for where I set my purse when we walked inside—just a few minutes before? It seems like hours.

And then my knees nearly give out with relief as the sound of sirens fills the air. Even from down the drive, where I know they're pulling up to the gate, I can hear them. I waste no time letting them onto the grounds.

The next few moments are a blur. T.C. rushes to open the door and points the paramedics to the kitchen. Several uniformed officers follow behind them, and I remember to go call off the lads so the cops can arrest the now-thoroughly tamed criminals. Both dogs are none the worse for wear, and they sit, panting, pleased with themselves but watching me in concern.

I try to stay professional and recite to an officer with a notepad all the facts I can remember, but then the stretcher goes by. I trail off as I watch it rush out the door.

"Higgins?"

I blink and look up to see T.C. and Rick standing at the open door.

"Come on. We're following them to the hospital," T.C. tells me, gesturing.

The officer looks between us, then flips his notebook closed and nods at me. "We can pick this up again later," he offers.

I smile my thanks and turn to join the boys—then pause. "Hang on." I suddenly realise Rick's still sans-shirt. "You can't go out like that."

Rick blinks down at himself. "Oh. Right."

Shaking his head, T.C. rolls his eyes and takes charge. "I'll go grab one from Thomas's closet. Higgy, you pull the car around. Rick, go wash your hands," he adds gently.

I nod at the order and head for the garage, barely allowing myself time to breathe.

To be continued...