Inside the Kuakini Medical Center in Honolulu, Danny patted the HPD officer stationed outside the hospital room on the shoulder.
"Hey man, how about grabbing a cup of coffee and taking a short break?"
The officer nodded, barely hiding a smile, and pointed toward the end of the hallway, signaling that he'd be waiting there.
"Thanks."
Danny pushed open the door to the hospital room with Jack following close behind.
"You're Marku, right? Comescu's driver? Doesn't look like that crash was too bad."
On the hospital bed was the driver from the G-Class—barely in his twenties by the look of him.
Jack gave the cast on his right leg a light tap, then picked up the medical chart. "A few minor fractures, mild concussion—congrats, kid, with this luck you'll be out in a week tops."
Marku flinched at the touch, instinctively sitting up in bed. But to his credit, he clenched his lips shut and didn't say a word. Then he watched wide-eyed as Jack pulled out a pair of handcuffs and secured his right wrist to the bedrail.
"I'm not afraid of you. This is a hospital. People outside will know what you're doing to me." Marku didn't even bother pretending not to speak English. His tone was fluent, his accent light.
"Of course. You don't need to be afraid of me. You're a patient now, and don't worry—we wouldn't do anything inhumane to a patient."
Danny smiled pleasantly as he pulled a small vial from his pocket, then a disposable syringe. He drew up the brownish-yellow liquid into the syringe right in front of Marku's face.
Marku's eyes widened in alarm. "What are you doing? What is that?"
Danny grinned. "To be honest, I don't actually know. Found it in your little lab. I figure we'll find out together soon enough."
Then he reached over and injected it into the IV line.
"I know my rights! You're American cops! I'll tell my lawyer everything you've done!" Marku shouted, but his eyes were locked in terror on the needle.
"You're not wrong. But that's assuming someone actually saw us enter your room, right?" Jack added another pair of cuffs, securing Marku's left wrist as well. Then he smiled at Danny.
"Would you tell anyone, Detective Williams?"
"Of course not, Supervisory Special Agent Tavoller of the FBI."
Danny smiled back, then his face went stern as he placed his finger on the syringe plunger. "Where's Comescu?"
"Go f*** yourself!" Marku snapped without hesitation.
"Wrong answer." Danny calmly pushed the entire dose in. The heart monitor immediately began beeping faster.
"What are you doing?! Stop it! Take that thing out of me!"
Watching the brownish-yellow liquid flow down the IV tube toward his arm, Marku's body went rigid. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
"Looks like you've got something to say," Danny said, adjusting the roller on the IV to slow the flow. "Okay, I've stopped it. Now tell me where Comescu is."
"I don't know where he is right now, I swear!" Marku was a mess—no longer defiant, just terrified.
"Okay, then let's continue." Danny reached to adjust the roller again—
"Wait! Stop! Please! He took nine vials! He took nine of them!"
"Who's he selling them to?" Danny pressed.
"I don't know…" Marku cried out again before Danny could touch the IV. "Don't touch that thing! I only know the deal was scheduled for 4 PM today—at the International Plaza Market. But I think something went wrong earlier."
"What do you mean?" Danny frowned.
Marku swallowed hard. "When we went to collect the goods, everyone inside was dead. The patients… I mean, the test subjects had all been shot in the head. The doctor ran off too."
"What doctor? I need a name." Danny let go of the roller, and the brown fluid resumed flowing quickly down the tube.
"I don't know! I really don't! I swear!" Marku was sobbing now, even snot bubbling from his nose.
Seeing that the guy had completely broken down, Danny and Jack both started laughing.
"Relax, buddy. That was just some vitamin B12 the nurse gave us. Supposedly helps with recovery."
"That much I can promise—with the half-credentials of a forensic pathologist," Jack said, unlocking the cuffs and giving Marku a reassuring pat on the shoulder. Then the two of them walked out, leaving him sitting there in stunned silence.
——
"We've found the buyers. L.A. office just sent over the file. It's a radical separatist group from Russia called the Ingush Battalion. Sending their photos to everyone's phones now.
Last year, these guys bombed a bus stop in Moscow."
Standing on the second floor of a burger joint at the International Plaza in downtown Honolulu, the bald giant Hanna delivered the update, then glanced sideways at Danny with a curious smirk.
"So, you and that young FBI guy—are you two really related? Because I don't see any resemblance whatsoever."
"First off, we're not blood relatives. Jack's father was my childhood best friend. Second, height and driving skills aren't strictly hereditary," Danny replied dryly, clearly anticipating where Hanna was going with that.
Called out, Hanna grinned and dropped the subject. Then he spoke into the comms, "G, what's your status?"
Callen was paired with Cheng Ho. The two were stationed near a fountain in the middle of the market.
"No sign of Comescu yet," Callen replied, sounding a bit frustrated. "I should've been the one to interrogate that driver."
"The FBI's Hawaii office already approved extra funds for car repairs. I doubt they'll also pay for damage to a hospital room caused by a human tornado.
Or unless NCIS is willing to cover the bill?" Jack quipped from his rooftop perch, scanning the market through binoculars.
In front of him sat an Mk12 SPR sniper rifle—a recent delivery from the Navy arranged by Steve McGarrett after Jack had complained about Five-O's outdated gear.
The Mk12 SPR was, at its core, still an AR-15, but upgraded with a match-grade free-floating stainless steel heavy barrel. Paired with 77-grain Mk 262 open-tip match rounds, it was perfectly suited for urban short- to mid-range sniping.
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