one

The tour bus slowed as it pulled into the gas station for yet another rest stop, and Lance rolled over in his bunk, feeling refreshed after a much-needed nap. Actually, he hadn't slept much, but sometimes he felt better just lying down for a while, not doing anything at all. At any rate, it had done him good, because now he felt full of energy.

And he had to pee.

He bounded into the front lounge area, where Joey lay sprawled out on the full-size sofa, Dré perched on the corner as though he were a much smaller man. "Hey, you gonna get anything this time around?" Lance asked him as he stepped by, retrieving his bag and jacket from where he'd tossed them down earlier. "They might have some good stuff in the confectionary here in Wherever The Hell."

"Findlater," their driver informed him of the town's name.

Joey shook his head lazily. "Nah, I'm gonna sit this one out," he yawned. "I don't have to use the bathroom or anything, so...."

Lance shrugged, pulling his jacket on over his knit shirt. "Okay," he gave in. "Can I get you anything while I'm up, then?"

"No, I'm good; but wake Steve up, will ya -- he might've slept through the stop."

"Sure thing." Turning and slinging his bag over his shoulder, Lance sprinted up to the back of the bus and banged on the door separating the back lounge from the bunk area. "Yo, Steve!" he yelled. "Rest stop. You gonna get off the bus and get something?"

There was a pause and Lance imagined the older Fatone stretching himself to wakefulness before he replied. "Okay," he answered wearily through the door. "Gimme a minute and I'll be out, all right?"

"I'll catch you in a bit," Lance told him, giving the door one final bang for good measure and rushing back to the front. Bathroom, bathroom, bathroom... where's the bathroom? Outside on solid ground, he allowed himself a stretch, reaching his arms high above his head and enjoying the stiff breeze of late autumn. Chris breezed by him, knocking him in the stomach deliberately with his hand as he passed.

"Jesus, Chris," he breathed, catching the older man's hand and yanking him back towards him. "Watch the bladder, man. I didn't get off the bus just to piss myself, thanks."

Chris grinned at him wickedly. "I know," he acknowledged. "But I get first dibs on the can, so you can hold it a second longer." They both made their way to the gas station, and Lance self-consciously tugged on the brim of his bucket hat, pulling it a little lower over his eyes. He'd left his sunglasses back on the bus and even though there were few, if any, people around, experience had taught him that even then, one could be spotted when one least expected it. Being near to Chris was only an added danger; one man who resembled a member of *NSYNC might escape notice, but two was practically asking to be recognized.

The older man was waiting just outside the door when Lance finished and finally emerged from the restroom. "You coming with me to the convenience store?" Chris asked him. "'Cause you know what I'm thinkin' I want right now? Some Nerds. You remember Nerds, right? That'd be great."

Lance cocked an eyebrow at him and shook his head. "Nerds...?" he asked, trailing off.

Chris rolled his eyes. "Dude, you are not telling me you don't know Nerds. We've had this conversation before, Lance! Nerds? Those tangy little candies--" he sighed in exasperation. "Come on," he grunted, grabbing Lance's arm and leading him over to the small confectionary. "I hope they have 'em here so I can show you."

The bell above the door tinkled gently, announcing their arrival as they pushed it open and entered the quaint little shop. Lance followed agreeably as Chris searched up and down the aisles looking for the elusive candy. "Aha!" Chris exclaimed triumphantly, grabbing several small packages from the shelf in front of him and scooping them into his arms. "Oh, this is awesome; they have orange ones, too!" he breathed. "Want me to get you some?"

Lance shook his head. "I'll try to manage without 'em," he answered wryly. "It'll be hard, but..." heaving a dramatic sigh, he grinned. "You can show 'em to me later, okay? I just wanna get some Bubblicious; hang on." Leaving his friend behind, he made his way to the front of the store, stopping short when a young boy no more than six years of age accidentally darted into his path.

"Bradley!" a young woman called sharply from behind them both, and Lance held the boy steady by the shoulders as she approached them, an apologetic look on her face. "Sorry," she told him in earnest. "Tell the nice man you're sorry," she admonished her son as Lance returned Bradley to her, and the boy complied, bashful at the public reprimand.

Lance grinned widely at her. "It's okay," he said politely, stepping past her to resume the path to his destination. Squatting down in front of the bubble gum shelves, he was trying to decide on a flavor when the door's bell tinkled again. He felt, rather than saw, Justin squat down beside him.

"What are you doing?" Justin asked him in a conspiratorial whisper, eyeing the assortment of flavors with the same apparent fascination as the older man.

Lance smiled, catching Justin's impression of him. "I'm trying to pick a flavor."

Justin glanced at him sideways, dubiously. "Get one of everything," he suggested. "We almost gotta go, you know."

"Nerds!" Chris announced from behind them, displaying the treasures before them in a flourish as he approached loudly. Both men turned to see the assorted candies he had amassed.

"Oh," Lance exclaimed slowly, taking a pack from Chris and examining its ingredients. "Nerds. Now I know what you're talking about." Chris bumped his shoulder in mock anger, and he flipped the tiny carton around to show it to Justin when the younger man leaned in for a closer look.

Justin took it from him and studied the package in his hands critically. "Candy with faces on it," he mused, nodding appreciatively, and Lance laughed at the expression on his face.

Chris retrieved the packet Justin held and finished paying for his bundle. "Be nice to me and maybe I'll share some with you later," he called over his shoulder, exiting the store. Justin rose to his feet as he left.

"Here," he called, reaching a hand down by Lance's head. "Gimme a grape one and let's get outta here."

Lance leaned up against the shelving unit as two new patrons entered and shuffled past him, and handed Justin the requested item without looking up. Finally deciding on watermelon, he grabbed two packs of that as well and began to straighten when a rapid-fire stream of gunshots filled the air and startled him to his knees.

"Holy shit," Justin whispered, dropping down next to him, and they heard a scream muffled from the back of the store as bits of plaster dropped down around them.

"All right, everybody," a harsh voice rang out. "Get down on the ground and we won't hurt ya. This is a little hold up, here."

Holy shit! Lance thought, echoing Justin's words in his mind as he lowered himself slowly, leaning forward, pressing his cheek to the slightly muddied tile. Inches away, Justin mirrored his actions, and the younger man's eyes also mirrored the fear that he was certain showed in his own. Gun shots just above his head... a hold up... this wasn't a movie; this was real. They could all die in here... his mind reeled at the thought. He knew that Randy was only a few feet behind him, but that thought lent him little comfort; a bodyguard did him no good in a situation such as this one. If only he'd hurried and bought the damn gum a little sooner....

Just a few aisles over he heard a child begin to cry, the soft mewing noise made when one attempts to stifle the sound, and remembered the boy who'd run into him minutes earlier. Oh God, oh God, oh God, he prayed, unable to articulate anything more specific. If anything happened to that boy....

"I said get down, bitch!" another voice yelled, and the mother cried out in fear. Justin widened his eyes sadly at Lance, and Lance closed his eyes, wishing that he at least didn't have to hear this exchange.

"Oh, God, please... my son," the woman pleaded. "He's just a baby! Please, just--"

"Just get the fuck down," she was told, and presumably she complied, murmuring hushing noises until the child's sobs of distress became muted.

Above Lance's head at the counter the man he guessed was the first gunman was demanding the contents of the cash register. The cashier nervously counted out twenties and tens -- the meager profits of a seldom-frequented private business -- and every time he faltered, the gunman insisted that he start over.

After the sixth time, the man with the gun snorted in disgust and shot him, and Justin moaned involuntarily as they heard the cashier's body hit the floor with a sick thump.

"What'd he say?" JC asked Chris as he made his way back to their bus's lounge after conferring with their bodyguard Mike.

Chris shook his head and shrugged helplessly. "Said they were giving 'em a few more minutes and if something was wrong Randy'd let 'em know." He sat down at the table heavily. "Like, how long can it take to buy bubble gum? I left them right at the checkout counter, for God's sake." Slouching down in his seat, he pulled out a handful of the candy packets he'd just bought and began to sort through them.

"Man-- you got Nerds?" JC exclaimed, reaching across the table and snatching a few packs for himself as he stared in wonder.

Chris widened his eyes in relief and smacked his hand down on the table. "Thank you! My God, somebody finally remembered!"

"I haven't seen these in like..." JC shook his head. "Forever! These were in the store just now?"

"Uh-huh," Chris nodded. "I'm tellin' ya, I went in there to show Lance, and him and Justin just don't have a clue. Friggin' babies, those two. You forget sometimes, you know?" He shook his head in disgust. "I have no faith in this generation; no faith at all. Anyone born after '75--"

"Um..." JC raised his hand.

"'76--" Chris corrected himself.

"Joey?" JC asked.

"'77," Chris further amended. "Anyone after that. Sad people, all of 'em, and where are those two?" Standing impatiently, he stalked back to the front of the bus, where Mike was standing just outside the door, arms folded across his chest in a familiar stance. "Has it been a few minutes yet? 'Cause, you know, I'm not one to tell you how to do your job or anything, but it's not like you can get carded or strip-searched buying bubble gum in a convenience store."

Mike silenced him with a significant glance, and raised his hand-held radio to his lips, obviously of the same mind as his charge. "Number three," he began, speaking in the pseudo-cryptic jargon that they always used when discussing *NSYNC members, "what seems to be the hold up? We have two and two here; are the others with you?"

Chris leaned further over the huge bodyguard's shoulder. "What's going on?" he demanded.

Mike stepped away from the bus and glanced at Chris over his shoulder. "Go back inside the bus, Chris."

He frowned. "I just wanna find out--"

"Back inside the bus," Mike repeated sternly, and his voice brooked no argument.

"Okay," Chris agreed, turning slowly and heading back for the lounge. JC looked up from his captive package of Nerds as he approached.

"What now?"

Chris sat back down, clearly puzzled by Mike's order. "I don't know," he admitted. "Mike just told me to go back here. I don't know if something's up or what. I mean," he struggled to make sense of it, "what could be up?"

JC shrugged. "Maybe something's happening in there," he said softly, looking at the store through the window. He couldn't see anything inside from where he sat, of course, but suddenly it seemed to hold secrets to which he was not privy, and he didn't like the feeling he was getting.

"Something happening that Randy couldn't contact anybody about?" Chris challenged.

He shrugged again. "I don't know, Chris." He sighed and leaned back. "You know what? It's probably nothing. Probably some precautionary deal, whatever, they'll be out in a couple of minutes and we'll get rollin' again."

"I just hate getting held up," Chris stated. "You know? I wanna know where we're going and when we're getting there."

A sound near the front of the bus attracted their attention, and shortly Lonnie stepped into view, sitting down on the couch across from both men. "Hey, guys," he greeted them, sounding slightly weary, and suddenly JC seriously feared that they would not be rolling out in only a couple of minutes. A surreptitious glance at Chris told him that the older man felt it as well.

"Hey, Lonnie," he answered. "Any news on what's keeping us here?"

Lonnie stared hard at them both for a moment before responding, and when he finally spoke, their world shifted impossibly.

"Now, I want y'all to keep your heads down, and get out your wallet, purse, whatever, and lay 'em down on the floor beside you," the first gunman instructed, strolling leisurely around the prone figures spread out along the store's floor. "Slowly!" he admonished sharply. "Nothing sneaky or sudden, or we'll just kill y'all and take your fuckin' money anyway."

They all obeyed, their motions wary as though they didn't trust the armed man not to kill them, sudden motion or no. He retraced the path he had strolled as the items were laid out, glancing at their identification, withdrawing the cash and tossing the rest back at them.

"No cash?" he asked, and kicked hard at Lance's legs as he walked by them, dropping his wallet on the small of his back. Lance realized belatedly that he'd placed his hands palms down on the floor, and stared in horror at the gold of his ring, plainly visible from virtually any direction. The gunman kicked him again, and he winced.

"Muthafuckin' cowboy boots--" why had he worn them? he wondered. He'd only put them on because they were handy and comfortable and they didn't have any appearances that day-- "from muthafuckin' Mississippi. Muthafuckin' redneck, no muthafuckin' cash, but that's a pretty nice ring you got there." That was worthy of another kick, and he heard the laughter of the other gunman as he half watched, half sifted through the money in the register.

"Gimme that," the demand finally came, and Lance attempted to wriggle the ring off of his finger with his thumb, using the clamminess that had developed to his advantage. It was accepted even as the youth stepped nearer to Justin, already reaching for the younger man's wallet. Lance shifted carefully, trying to see his face, and hoped that his scrutiny would go unnoticed. He knew that he needed to get a glimpse of these men, for something that he could tell others when he got out of this. If he got out of this.

"No muthafuckin' CASH!" the gunman roared, flipping angrily through Justin's wallet. "The fuck walks around with no cash," he muttered to himself, glancing at the driver's license in curiousity. "Justin muthafuckin' Timberlake...." He bent right over the younger man, and now Justin could see him clearly as well, forcing himself to take in the young, exotic features twisted in anger, the close-cropped black hair, the single stud that graced his left earlobe.

He hadn't planned on the strong grip that brought his head up, clenching both his worn baseball cap and a fistful of hair in hand, before slamming it down hard on the concrete floor. Justin bit back a cry of pain, his vision exploding into dozens of fiery sparks, and he could barely hear the other gunman speak through the ringing in his ears. "...muthafuckin' pop star, Darryl; ease up on the muthafucka and just take his shit!"

Justin lay still, dazed, as Darryl roughly tugged the diamond studded earrings from his lobes, not mindful of their backings, and gave up his rings without thought. Just please don't kill me, he silently pleaded with his assailant, feeling a wetness spread over his forehead. He could almost feel the tension that Randy and even Lance were giving off; the mental debate weighing the risk of speaking up versus the risk of him being harmed further. He hoped that they would both be quiet and stay safe.

"You with him? Huh?" Darryl asked Lance, turning to the other man and nudging him in the side with his foot. "That why you had no cash, either?"

Lance looked about to answer when a crackling sound full of static cut into his words and Justin's thoughts. "Number three, what seems to be the hold up? We have two and two here; are the others with you?"

Justin saw and met the recognition in Lance's eyes. Randy's hand-held radio. They were supposed to be back at the buses by now, and he and Lance were missing at head-count. The rest couldn't leave without them, or knowing where they were; they were on-duty; they had a show to do tonight.

"What the fuck was that? Where the fuck did that come from?" the other gunman demanded, quickly sidestepping the checkout counter and striding over to where they lay. Fearing what would come next, Justin still tried to follow him out of the corner of his eye. He saw black track pants and worn Adidas sneakers come to a stop by Randy's body when the bodyguard raised a hand slowly, unthreatening.

"Look, man," Randy began, his voice soothing and calm, and Justin envied him his composure. "I'm a security guard on duty, and I'm being paged. There ain't nothin' I can do about that. But if I don't answer, there's gonna be four more guys like me bustin' in that door there--" he pointed-- "in about a minute. So how about you just tell me what to say to them and there won't be any trouble. All right?"

"Darryl," the other gunman called, and Justin could sense Darryl's hesitation as he turned back to his partner. "What the fuck you gonna tell 'em, man? There's a fuckin' bus just pulled up in front. Shit."

"Why don't you tell 'em?" Darryl challenged him.

"If you let us out of here," Randy said carefully, "The lady and her kid won't talk. The rest of us'll be in the next state tomorrow. No one'll ever know."

"Fuck that," Darryl spat. "You've seen my fuckin' face. You don't get to leave."

The hand-held radio crackled to life again. "Number three! We're coming for you in--"

"Okay... um," Darryl began, snatching the device from Randy's waist and addressing the speaker on the other end. At the other gunman's gestures, he tossed it to him and the young man lifted it to his own mouth.

"Okay, look," he said, his voice more firm and sure than Darryl's had been. "Yeah, Number three and two and two or whatever are in here. But listen up; you want 'em back, you're gonna have to make it worthwhile. You give us what we want, we give you what you want, all right?"

There was a momentary silence on the other end, before they heard a crackly "What do you want?"

"We'll let you know," he answered, and clicked off the connection.

two

"All right," the second gunman called, tossing Randy's hand-held radio aside and sending it skittering into the wall. "Y'all can sit up; I guess it doesn't matter if you see us now. Looks like it's gonna be a while," he added, leaning back against the checkout counter.

At those words Justin didn't know whether to be pleased or disappointed; the blow to his head had left him feeling dizzy and nauseous, and right now he simply wanted to remain close to the ground. Realizing that their captors would not likely be understanding if he admitted such a thing, he grimaced and rolled slowly until he could half prop himself against the checkout stand. After several hard blinks, his vision cleared and he began to feel a little better, though his head still throbbed. It could be worse, he told himself. They could've kicked the shit out of me.

He raised a hand and touched his forehead where it felt cool, and swallowed hard when his fingers came away a dark crimson. It wasn't a lot, but it was there, and the sight of blood had always made him queasy. Pushing his hand up further, he bumped the baseball cap from his head and set it down beside him; with his growing headache, the tension on his scalp was making things worse rather than better. Out of habit, he passed his fingers over the flattened hair, attempting to smooth out the kinks, and almost laughed out loud when he realized the futility of the action. Still, he continued to run his fingers through the tight curls, grateful for the sense of normality with which it provided him.

Darryl strode past them to gesture behind the aisle where the mother and her son sat. "Come on; move up here with everybody else so we can watch your ass from the front," he ordered, gesturing carelessly with his gun, and she wordlessly carried out the command, holding her son close to her protectively as she moved to a spot between Randy and Lance.

Lance rose to his hands and knees and felt a weight shift against his chest. He froze for a second, remembering his necklace, and thanked God that he'd tucked the cross inside of his shirt today. He hoped that the chain would not show around the neck of his shirt. It wasn't that he was so attached to the necklace himself, but he didn't want the robbers to think he'd been holding out on them. After seeing the way Justin had been treated for no reason at all, he was not eager to face their wrath himself. And it seemed that Darryl didn't like him already.

Settling slowly into a kneeling position, he saw Darryl eye him quizzically and meekly averted his gaze, realizing that now was not the time for penetrating eye contact. His fervent hopes for his cross to escape notice were banished, however, when the gunman spoke again.

"Hey," Darryl demanded, taking a few steps nearer and pointing the barrel of his gun downward, and knocked Lance's hat from his head with a swipe of his arm. "What's that? You got some kinda necklace on?" He gestured around his own neck. "Take it out," he commanded. "Take it off. Give it to me; hurry up."

Lance obeyed the order and pooled the chain and pendant into a pile in his hand before handing it over, watching and holding his breath as Darryl examined it. At least the youth didn't seem as agitated as he'd been before.

After staring at the cross for a few moments, Darryl called to his partner. "Hey, Troy, come look at this. This ain't no muthafuckin' silver, do you think? What the fuck is this?" He held out the chain for the other youth to examine.

As the other young man finished pulling the tape from the surveillance camera and stepped over to them, Lance could now see him without having to alert anyone to his scrutiny. Taller than Darryl, Lance estimated him to be perhaps Justin's height, maybe slightly shorter. His complexion was more fair than Darryl's, and his head was shaved clean. His thinly trimmed moustache disappeared from view when he chewed thoughtfully on his upper lip as he examined the necklace in Darryl's hands. "Nah," he shook his head. "I don't know what that shit is made of." Troy glared down at Lance sternly. "You got any other shit on you we need to know about?"

Lance started to shake his head before remembering the bracelet he was wearing as well. Did I have to wear all my jewelry today? he groaned inwardly as he lifted his arm slowly so as not to instigate them and pulled up his sleeve to display the trinket. "Just this," he said quietly, before he responded to the unspoken demand and attempted to unfasten the bracelet. This proved to be a difficult task, however, with his trembling fingers now slightly slick with nervous perspiration, and he couldn't seem to get the leverage he needed to pull back the clasp.

Fuck me, he thought desperately, licking his lips as he felt the weighty stare of both gunmen bore into his head and he wiped his palm off on his jeans before trying again. Seeing -- or rather hearing -- the way in which Troy had killed the cashier for similarly goofing up stayed with him, and even if the gunmen had a vested interest in him he didn't count on staying alive if he riled them. Finally, taking a deep breath and holding it, he succeeded in pulling the clasp open and handed it over as well.

Troy nodded at him in acknowledgement as he accepted it, and then narrowed his eyes yet again. "Is that it?"

Lance performed a run-down on himself mentally even though he knew without thinking that that was, indeed, it. "Yes, sir," he responded, surprising even himself with the pleasantry, but words his father had said rang through his head. "You be polite to a fault; 'yes, sir', 'no, sir'. You don't give them any reason to think you might stir up trouble." He'd been talking about what to do if Lance was ever pulled over by police, but thinking of it now lent Lance a strange calmness that filtered through his voice. He didn't sound nearly as afraid as he felt.

"So you're in that group with him, huh?" Troy asked, jerking a thumb back to where Justin sat, as he squatted to look Lance right in the eyes. "One of them boyband muthafuckas." Straightening, he called back to Darryl. "How much you think these muthafuckas are worth?"

"Gotta be a million, coupla million, you think?"

Troy scoffed. "Coupla million each, at least, and that's cheap," he said, bending over Justin. "How much you think you're worth, muthafucka?" Not waiting for an answer, he stood and went on. "We could add up all their shit to figure out how much money they have."

Darryl shook his head. "Nah, nah, man... we're talkin' what the record label would pay for their asses. It don't even matter how much they have. They'll pay all kinds of shit to get these bitches back."

"No, you're right, you're right," Troy agreed, then rubbed his head rather dolefully. "Shit," he breathed, suddenly seeming regretful. "How the fuck did we get in this? It was supposed to be in and out, grab the cash, go..."

"You're the one who wanted to take their shit," Darryl volunteered. "And how the fuck were we supposed to know we'd get these muthafuckin' pop stars and their muthafuckin' bodyguard in here?" He grunted and pounded his fist against the countertop angrily. "Muthafuckin' bad timing is what this is."

Justin furrowed his brow in annoyance and confusion. We can hear you, you know, he thought sullenly. Aren't you supposed to keep this stuff a secret or something? Listening to them discuss how much money they thought he and Lance would fetch them... like they were prizes or something, like they didn't have friends or families beyond their record label who might care... the whole thing was making him sick. Randy dared to speak up again, drawing both gunmen's attention once more. "If all you want is money, just let the kid and his mom go, man. What good is it keepin' them here?"

"What good is it keepin' you here?" Troy asked. "Why don't we let your ass out of here, and then you can't keep an eye on the little muthafuckas, huh?"

"Well, I can be your link to the outside," Randy propositioned them. "I can talk to the police, help you negotiate. How does that sound?"

He can help keep your asses from getting snipered, Justin thought, hoping, as he watched Troy cross the room to retrieve Randy's hand-held radio, that the armed men would take Randy up on his offer.

Wes led the still-shocked, still-stunned Fatones on to the bus that Chris, JC, and Justin shared, and stayed there with them and Mike while they were driven blocks away, to the rear parking lot of a store warehouse. Steve came because he always did, because Joey needed him, because he knew Justin and Lance as well, and because he too worried and cared. Police's orders; once they'd been notified that there was a hostage situation involving two members of *NSYNC, the instructions were to remove the remaining members from the scene entirely.

Chris had protested the relocation the most; he only calmed slightly when promised that he could speak directly to the officers of the negotiation unit if he had questions. As things stood, however, Lonnie and Dré stayed in the convenience store lot with the police, sending information back and forth with their comrades, who in turn passed it on to the anxious men they guarded. Steve kept a respectful distance, sitting back without saying anything when Mike entered to brief the others.

"Talk to us, Mike," Chris insisted, nearly pouncing on the larger man when he approached from the front of the bus. "Please. We gotta know what's going on in there. What are the robbers asking for? How long do you think it'll be 'til they can get Lance and Justin out?"

"Well," Mike sighed and sank down in the couch across from them. "They made an initial demand of... ten million--"

"Oh, fuck," Chris moaned.

"--But," Mike continued, "The cops are definitely gonna talk them down from that. It's just an initial demand, guys. They'll get 'em down to nothin' in no time."

"Do you know if everybody's okay in there?" Chris asked, lifting his head from where he'd buried it in his hands.

"Well, there's no serious injuries, except they're..." Mike paused reverentially. "They shot the cashier," he admitted. "Killed him. Guy owned the business; the police are just finding out his info and notifying his family. So that's part of the demand, too; they want the murder charge dropped to manslaughter. But the police say that'll probably give them some leverage in the negotiations."

He was met with silence, more than aware that the young men were questioning the sanity of that situation; whether they should be sadder that an innocent man had had to lose his life, or happier that it might provide their friends with a greater opportunity to escape with theirs.

"Did Randy say if anyone else was in there with them?" JC finally spoke up, changing the subject slightly.

Mike nodded. "Yeah; a lady and her kid."

"A kid?" he frowned. "How old are we talking, here?"

Shaking his head, Mike shrugged. "I don't know that; so far he only said it's a minor. That could mean seventeen; it could mean anything." He rose to his feet again. "Look, that's all I know right now, guys. I'll keep you posted. Sit tight and I'll check in with you when we find out more." With that, he made his way back to the bus's entrance and left the three young men to themselves.

"Shit, though," Joey breathed once Mike had gone. "Like, at least let the kid go, you know?" He was met with nods of agreement. "The mom and the kid. I mean, if they only want Justin and Lance..." he trailed off, shaking his head slowly, mournful for the other innocent victims.

"You know," Chris began softly, "it still hasn't hit me. That they're in there, and we don't know if they-- how they--" he sighed. "My mind just keeps playing over every scene from every hostage movie I ever saw, only this time it's for real. This is really happening, right now, and I just can't believe it." He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hands. "I should've stayed with them," he said miserably. "They were right at the checkout and I wanted to get back to the bus early, so I just... left 'em there. I could've stayed with 'em for one minute; my God. I should've fucking stayed." He sat up again and slumped back against the seat, frustrated.

"What good would that have done?" JC argued gently. "You'd just be in there with them right now, and we'd be worried about you, too."

Chris just shook his head. "I could've maybe... I don't know. I could've made Justin go on ahead without me. I could've bought Lance's gum for him. It should be me in there. They're fuckin' easy targets, man. Come on; the pretty boys? Everybody knows Justin's face. Nobody'd demand five million dollars for my ass -- maybe it would've been different if it was me in there."

"There's no way you could've known," Joey told him, taking advantage of his proximity to wrap an arm around the older man. "Maybe they'll have more of a shot with you out here, too. You can't see these things coming, man."

"I wonder what it's like in there," JC mused aloud. "You know; I mean, I wonder if it's really quiet or if they can talk to each other and stuff.... I wonder if the robbers are being decent to them."

"Well," Chris pointed out, "Mike said there were no serious injuries, so...."

"What's 'serious', though?" JC asked. "And if someone was roughed up, we don't even know if it was Lance or Justin. And they killed somebody already--" He groaned irritably, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands. "This speculating is gonna drive me insane."

"At least it's the two of them in there," Joey said, somewhat hopefully. "You know what I mean? I'd hate to think it was just one of us havin' to go through that alone. I mean," he went on, his voice lowering. "It means we're two down, but they've got each other."

"No, you're right," JC agreed. "It's gotta be better to have a friend with you."

Steve rose and moved quietly past them, heading for the back lounge. "Where you goin'?" Joey asked as he passed.

"You think this might've made the news yet?" Steve asked them.

"I never even thought about the news," JC admitted, sighing.

"Yeah, well, I'm gonna check it out and see what they're saying. Wes went back there before, right?" At the others' nods, he turned and continued on his way.

"You know," Joey declared, after a moment more of silence, "if they're in there for a long time, at least they won't go hungry."

Chris swung his head and glared at him, incredulous. "For fuck's sake, Joe!"

Joey started at the harshness of his tone and glanced defensively between his two bandmates, JC's expression almost mirroring Chris's. "No-- what? What? I'm serious! They're in a convenience store; if this thing drags on at least they'll have something to eat and they won't starve. Jesus, I'm saying that's a good thing."

JC's face softened as he mulled it over. "But," he said softly, "If the robbers have food maybe they'll be able to hold out longer, too."

"And maybe they won't even let the hostages eat anything, either," Chris added.

Joey regarded them both sadly for a moment before raking his hands down his face wearily. "I was just tryin' to be positive for a second, you guys," he sighed.

JC shrugged, his motion the only acknowledgement that Joey had spoken. "It'd all just be sugar energy, anyway," he pointed out. "Wouldn't do 'em much good after a couple of hours."

After a moment of silence, of each of the men sinking into their own thoughts, Chris spoke up again. "We know you meant well, Joe; thanks."

He shrugged and leaned forward on the table. "That's why it's a good thing we have each other right now, too, isn't it?"

"You guys," Steve yelled, jogging up the bus's hall to meet them. "It's all over the news. Media's havin' a field day with it." Wes came up behind him, joining him at the lounge's table.

"What?" Chris demanded, "Jive couldn't get them to shut up? Or Johnny? They couldn't get some kind of media blackout or something?"

Wes shook his head. "They tried to keep things quiet, get the media not to put out anything alarming," he admitted. "Johnny's been on the phone almost since the second this thing broke. But since there are other civilians in there with them we couldn't stop 'em."

There was yet another silence; no one could think of a thing to say. After a moment JC sighed, hanging his head and reaching into his pocket to retrieve his cell phone. "Hey... what are you doing?" Joey inquired.

He looked up with eyes full of worry. "We should call our parents, guys; let 'em know we're all right." Police had already thought to notify the Basses, Harlesses, and Timberlakes of their sons' situation, but likely felt that the families of the members in no immediate danger needed no consolation.

JC's was a gesture as much to reassure himself as anything else.

The others thought that was a fine idea.

three

Officer Laurie Wolff, commanding officer of the Negotiation Unit, rubbed at her eyes and took a sip of her already lukewarm coffee, waiting for the hostage takers to respond to the initiation of contact. Fourteen years in the unit, six of those as its commanding officer, and Officer Wolff had never had to deal with a case involving celebrity hostages. This case was going to be high profile. Not that the media coverage would affect her in her work, but it certainly added to the pressure. A perceived screw-up on the viewing public's part could cost her her job. A genuine screw-up on her part could cost a life.

"We want to work with you here, Troy, but let's keep our options open, all right?" she asked him, glancing sideways at her partner, listening to the conversation on the open connection. "We're contacting Jive right now, we're getting right to the president of Jive for you. Now, we're talking ten million and a manslaughter charge; that's a start. Let's keep talking."

She paused on the line, waiting for Troy's response to come crackling over the line, before continuing. "Well, how about we get you five million, and we talk about getting you a reduced sentence on that manslaughter charge."

Again, she waited, taking another sip of her coffee. "Well, Troy, what good would ten million dollars do you if you're serving a full sentence for manslaughter? You can take five million now, let your family take care of it, and be out of prison more quickly to enjoy it."

Another pause, and she glanced up at Officer Counious to ensure that he was hearing this demand correctly. "Seven point five and you're telling me you think the money is more important than getting out of prison?" Officer Wolff sat back slightly. "If you go there, we can't make any promises about the manslaughter charge, Troy," she warned him. "You make sure your friend knows that, okay? We can talk seven point five mil, but you might get put in for second degree after all; I can't help you there."

After a hasty conference, he returned. "We still say seven point five," he insisted, his voice betraying his uncertainty even as he spoke.

"Six, and we see what we can do about the manslaughter charge," she told him.

This time it was Troy who paused, and they listened to him call his partner back over to discuss the terms. "Okay, six," he finally responded, his voice crackling and popping through the static.

"You let the mother and her kid go, and we'll get it to you even faster," Officer Wolff ventured, rubbing her eyes again when Troy barked a negative response. She sighed. "What's so important about those two hostages, Troy? What can they get you? You just want the money? You let 'em go, and we give you more. You want the pop stars? Let the civilians go."

"We'll let 'em go when we see some money first. Give us half; we'll let 'em walk right out."

"Let me explain how this works, Troy," Officer Wolff explained gently. "We contact the head of Jive. He scrounges up the company's assets and attempts to put together this amount of money on such short notice. Cash, mind you. This money has to be drawn. It has to be wired to us. This can't happen immediately. We need you to hang tight and just stay calm until we can get--"

"You should be able to get half in half the time, right?" Troy challenged. "So when we see half, we'll let them go. How long will that take?"

"Troy," Officer Wolff said firmly. "Look. You're a smart kid. We both want something here. I wanna see those hostages walk out unharmed, and you want some money and a reduced sentence. Don't think you hold the cards here. I know you don't wanna die in there. I know it's not that important to you that you collect every penny of the ransom. I'll let you know when we have one million, and when we do, I wanna see that mother and child walk out of that store without a scratch on their heads."

The pause during which Troy responded was much more satisfying this time around. "Good," she told him. "Then we'll be in touch."

"Excuse me?" The woman spoke up softly. "My son has to use the washroom," she said timidly, the inflection in her voice almost making it the statement into a question. Justin watched her sympathetically, her reddish-brown hair messily framing her face and dipping just below her chin. She looked to be in her mid twenties -- a teen mom? -- Justin wondered, and the way she absently stroked her son's dark hair reminded him of his own mother. He wondered if he'd see his mother again. Soon, he corrected himself. He wondered if he'd see his mother soon.

Darryl set his gun down beside him on the counter and buried his head in his hands. "Is there some shit in the back where you can do that?" he murmured to himself, straightening up and walking briskly to the back area of the store to check it out for himself. He emerged a moment later, rubbing his hand over his head. "Go," he said wearily, gesturing behind him. "Think one of us should go with 'em?" he asked Troy as he reclaimed his spot near the abandoned weapon, and his partner held up a hand, not ready to free the young hostages yet.

"So..." Troy began, bending over and picking Lance's hat up where it had fallen beside him. He placed it on his own head and turned the rim upward, turning to Justin. "You're Justin, right?" He glanced back over his shoulder at Darryl, still leaning up against the checkout counter. "You checked the muthafuckin' licenses, bruh; what's this bitch's name?" He nodded his head in Lance's direction, and Justin saw Lance turn wary eyes on the bald-headed youth.

"Shit, I don't remember," Darryl grunted. "Some other J shit. I dunno. What is it, again?" he directed at Lance, walking around the counter to stand by the young woman. Beckoning to her, he led her back through the aisles to the washroom, not waiting for a response.

"It's not Ja--" Lance started softly, then gave a little sigh. "My name's Lance," he answered. Justin could hear the careful tone, the articulation in his voice, and knew that only he could tell Lance was supressing his accent.

"How'd a redneck muthafucka like you end up in this boyband shit?" Troy asked, sitting next to him and setting his gun down on the floor between them. Laughing at the expression that greeted him from both of his captives, he corrected himself. "Okay; forget I asked that," he told them. "But where were y'all headed when y'all decided to stop in here?"

"Ohio," Randy answered for both of them, and Lance shot him a grateful glance. "They had a show to do tonight."

Troy shrugged indifferently, obviously not concerned with the prospect of a missed or cancelled concert. "Yeah, well. Nothin' personal."

Justin fought to keep himself from scoffing; the incessant throbbing in his head alone told him that it was personal; who was Troy trying to fool? "What're you gonna do with the money?" he asked instead, attempting to engage the man in some sort of conversation.

The youth shrugged again. "Give it to my mom," he said lightly, reaching behind Lance to pluck a package of beef jerkey from the shelf. "She can buy herself some pretty shit, maybe move to a better neighborhood. Put my brothers through college." He bit into a stick of the snack. "Whatever the fuck she wants."

"Are your brothers younger than you?" Lance asked gently.

"Yeah." Troy nodded, but did not look his way. "Ten and sixteen. You got brothers?" he asked Justin.

Justin nodded in response. "Two and eight."

Troy started in surprise. "Shit! How old are you, muthafucka?"

Justin narrowed his eyes only slightly. "Nineteen. You?"

"Shit," Troy cursed again. "Older than me, that's all." Finally acknowledging Lance's presence, he turned to face him. "What about you; you got brothers?"

"No, sir. Just a sister. She's older than me." Troy simply grunted in response, and Justin winced for Lance sympathetically, knowing that lacking this bonding fodder with Troy would not win him any courtesies.

"You know, you've got a family, right?" he spoke up, drawing Troy's attention back to him.

"I just told you 'bout my muthafuckin' brothers, bitch," Troy answered irritably.

"I know," Justin told him. "But we have families, too, you know. We're not just names on a magazine cover or anything. Don't you think people are worried about us? Don't you think your brothers would be worried if they knew you were--" he was cut off by a door slam at the back of the store, and groaned in frustration.

"Y'all can eat, too, you know," Darryl informed them as he returned with the other two captives, gesturing to the aisles stocked with assorted junk food behind them. "Go 'head, get up. Take what you want." He punctuated his words by pulling a package of Reeses Pieces from the shelf nearest to him and tearing it open, unwrapping one piece and pressing it into his mouth whole.

Justin shook his head, still feeling nauseous. "I'm not hungry; thanks," he muttered, and glanced up at Lance, whose gaze was already on him, serious and penetrating. The older man was hugging his knees and Justin couldn't read the expression on his face, though he seemed to be searching out something in Justin's eyes. Approval? Justin furrowed his brow slightly in thought; Lance raised his own, and suddenly Justin understood the unspoken question. Lance wasn't going to eat unless Justin ate, without his explicit okay.

He nodded at the display behind Lance, giving his non-verbal approval, and Lance continued to watch him for a moment before easing up and turning to search the shelves beside him. He settled on a bag of Ranch Doritoes and opened it slowly, settling back to his spot on the floor. The space formerly occupied by his ring left a light band on his ring finger; not quite a tan line, more a sign of wear, but Justin averted his gaze, not liking that the ring was gone.

The gunman's re-arrival had put a damper on any further attempts to make conversation, and after a few moments of silence while everyone excluding Justin ate something, Lance was about to venture the risk to ask the young mother her name. He leaned forward to crawl over to her when he was halted by a frustrated slam from Darryl.

"How long's been since we talked to that cop?" Darryl asked the empty air, moving back to the counter and pulling his gun to him.

Troy shrugged. "A half hour? Forty-five minutes ago? Why?"

Darryl retrieved Randy's hand-held. "We should give 'em an hour to get that fuckin' million to us," he muttered. "I'm not walkin' any more of these muthafuckas to the bathroom, bruh."

"Whatchu gonna do if they take too long?" Troy narrowed his eyes in suspicion, and Justin's breath quickened. Holy Jesus, he thought. Don't start picking us off! The pain in his head was an insistent pounding, and he felt as though it was getting worse at the thought of more violence. He glanced at Randy and Lance, the former regarding the two armed men with a cautious detatchment, the latter with wide eyes that flickered anxiously between the two.

"Pick someone," Darryl told him. "Eenie mynie moe it; I don't give a fuck." Opening the connection on the radio device, he waited for Officer Wolff to respond before addressing her. "Yeah," he spoke up. "We just wanted to say that we, uh... want that million in an hour or..." he shrugged. "We'll kill one of 'em." He clicked off the connection, not waiting for her reply, as Troy approached him.

"Are we bluffin' this shit, man?" he asked Darryl, his hand already on his gun's trigger. "Or you really wanna do this?"
Nodding to the hostages listening raptly, their fate hanging on his words, Darryl shrugged once more. "Your call. Either way, we get the money faster."

*NSYNC's isolated tour bus, parked in the empty lot of the warehouse, radiated a hush as the three singers inside retreated in to their own thoughts and fears, touching each other for comfort but not speaking aloud.

That hush was broken when the heavy footfalls of Mike approached as he jogged down the narrow hallway to meet them.
"Guys," he panted slightly, still gripping his hand-held radio. "Situation just got a bit worse."

Lance focused on staying very still as Troy held the barrel of the gun to his temple; tried not to breathe, tried not to blink, tried not to tremble with the overwhelming sensation of adrenaline coursing through him that screamed flight! in time with his heartbeat. The cool metal soon warmed against his skin, and Troy slid the barrel meticulously across his brow until it rested on his forehead, just above the space between his eyes.

The youth eyed him with equal parts distaste and curiousity. "You 'fraid to die, muthafucka?"
His mind racing, Lance thought back to, of all things, the Columbine massacre; of the girl who had been asked point blank whether she believed in God, had answered 'yes', and had been killed. She'd been hailed a martyr, for staring death in the face and answering fearlessly, knowing that her answer would likely bring that death to her.

He wasn't that brave.

He thought of his parents, likely watching this on the news and hysterical with fright, so far away and unable to rush to see him, not knowing if they'd see him again. He thought of his friends and bandmates, mere yards away, equally helpless and probably feeling worse for knowing that were it not for a cruel twist of fate it could easily be them here instead of him. He thought of Justin, lying on his stomach just out of reach, facing in his direction but with his eyes squeezed shut, as though afraid of what he'd witness if he opened them. He thought of his own life, unlived, not yet a quarter to completion, lifetimes of experience behind him and yet so much he had left to do.

Mere milliseconds had passed. Lance prayed two words -- Forgive me -- and answered truthfully.
"Yes, sir."

Troy paused for a second, apparently caught off guard by that response, and then let out a throaty chuckle. Pulling the gun away from Lance's head, he threw his head back and actually laughed, releasing the sound into the hushed environment. Then he straightened and seemed to compose himself.

"Redneck muthafucka," he sneered, and pulled the trigger.

He heard Randy's muffled curse and a female scream even before the loud blast that rocked him back; before he felt the hot, searing pain that exploded about his left shoulder. Aiming for my heart, I just bet-- He fell prone, groaning, and blinked tears of pain from his eyes, grateful that they continued to spring up even as he fought to keep them from emerging. If he was in pain, after all, then he was alive, wasn't he?

He could feel his shirt grow wet and heavy with his spreading blood, the heat of his wound dispersing and leaving a throbbing reminder, alternately sharp and dull in its pulsing. With unmistakable clarity Lance was aware that with blood loss would come shock, trauma, and eventually death, but he also knew that to move now, to attempt to treat himself or entreat someone's help was as risky as lying still. He lay on his back and stared at the store's ceiling for a moment, deliberating, before making his decision. He'd already been shot; if he was going to die now he'd rather it be for trying to save himself than sitting back and waiting for death to come to him.

As he crossed his right arm weakly over his chest to grasp his injured shoulder, he became aware that Randy had been speaking. "Look, man; please. You don't want another death in this. Even you told 'em an hour, and you're shootin' people in five minutes? The police'll believe you fucked up one time, but two? Shit, man. Just let me treat it. I'm the only one in here with First Aid."

Lance grimaced, squeezing down on what he thought was the source of the most pain, feeling his blood slip through his fingers. He didn't even know where the bullet hole was; his whole shoulder screamed in agony, for attention. For all he knew he was doing more harm than good, trying to stop the bleeding this way. And then suddenly Randy was there in his field of vision, his face wavering like a mirage through the tears in Lance's eyes. "It's all right," Randy said to him softly, quickly shrugging off the open button-down he wore over a t-shirt and searching for its seams, beginning to tear at it with purpose. "Don't panic," he went on slowly, consoling him, when he had three separate strips of fabric to work with. "The blood makes it look worse than it really is," he told Lance, giving the neckline of the younger man's shirt a sudden tug, ripping it down the middle to give him a clear view of the wound.

Oh? Then what about the pain? 'Cause that's pretty bad, Lance wanted to point out, but Randy was gently prying his fingers away from the wound and he gave in to the wordless request, half fearing that a geyser would erupt from his shoulder if he moved his hand. It didn't, and the pressure eased up for only a moment before Randy had pressed a folded segment of makeshift bandage into his skin. Hard. It felt as though Randy's hand would slip right into the hole and come out on the other side, and he could no longer stifle a whimper of pain, his legs writhing slightly. "Just gotta slow this bleeding down," Randy informed him apologetically, even as he raised Lance's shoulder to search for an exit wound on his back, and Lance clenched the fabric of his shirt tightly in his free hand, oblivious to the bloody print he left on the material.

Justin opened his eyes slowly, hearing Randy coo comfortingly to his friend, and sat back up to watch the bodyguard treat Lance's injury with sympathy and concern. There was so much blood -- he could see it staining the front and sleeve of Lance's shirt from where he sat, and swallowed back the bile that rose in his throat -- that he couldn't believe Lance was still conscious, wide-eyed with terror and and regarding Randy as though he couldn't believe what had just happened, either. Beside Lance, the mother with her child steadfastly averted her gaze from both the gunshot victim and the gunmen, her arm wrapped around her son's head to protect his view as well. Justin glanced back where Troy and Darryl stood, the former muttering protests to his irate partner. "...why I took the gun away. I meant to miss the muthafucka, shake him up a little... muthafucka can't die on us; this'll all go to shit..."

Darryl shot him a glare. "The fuck you lookin' at?"

I'll see you in hell, Justin thought. "Nothin', sorry," he said quietly, glancing back at Lance and trying to meet his gaze, to let him know that he was thinking about him. But Lance kept his eyes steadily on Randy's, and so Justin closed his eyes and said a prayer for him instead.

four

There had been an uncomfortable silence after that, while their captors turned their attentions toward monitoring what Randy was doing for Lance. Each of the hostages were clearly afraid to raise any ire after being reminded so vividly that the guns the youths held were not merely for decoration. Even Randy had ceased to speak, quietly checking Lance over; the dilation of his pupils, the pace of his pulse, the shallowness of his breath.

Randy had told them that Lance shouldn't die from the bullet wound, which was probably a mistake; once they'd been assured that Lance's life was in no immediate danger, Darryl and Troy had insisted that Randy make the injury sound as minor as he possibly could when he spoke to the police about it. This time, however, instead of a voice blaring over the open connection on the hand-held radio, they were treated to the faint sound of the store telephone ringing in the back room. Exchanging a long glance, the gunmen allowed it to ring; five, seven, twelve times. Finally, in a nonverbal agreement, Troy escorted Randy into the back, and Darryl remained in the front, keeping a respectful distance. Now that actual damage had been done, he no longer seemed to want to appear a threat.

Justin watched Darryl carefully for a moment, careful not to make eye contact, but the other man's attention seemed to be elsewhere. He hoped that the gunman was feeling guilty; it was the very least Darryl could do. When he felt certain that his actions would not draw unwanted attention, Justin turned his gaze to his friend, making eye contact and giving a rueful smile.

"You feelin' okay?" he asked Lance in a whisper, crawling over to sit next to him, and propped his back up against the support pillar. Lance glanced at him with eyes that were tight with pain, his face pale and lips dry, and Justin realized even as the words left his mouth how silly the question was. "Don't answer that," he advised quickly, and grinned, grateful to see Lance smile in return.

"How about you?" Lance asked softly, gesturing at the already dry bloom of blood that decorated Justin's hairline from the blow he'd received earlier.

Justin winced slightly, reminded of the wound, and gingerly reached up to touch the area, surprised when his fingers came away dry. "Yeah; yeah, that was nothin', man. I was scared for a second, though, but... shit," he breathed, lowering his voice even further. "He shot you! Asshole. I thought he'd... that you were..." Justin trailed off, as though afraid to give voice to the thought.

Lance nodded, freeing Justin from the obligation to speak. "I know," he sighed. "But I'm not, right? So..." he pursed his lips, licking them as he did, and bit back a grimace; he was becoming increasingly thirsty and knew it was the blood loss that was doing it to him. Just because Randy had slowed the blood flow did not mean that he had stopped it. "We're gonna get out of this, Justin," he whispered, reaching for Justin with his good arm, his hand still carrying traces of blood from his attempt to staunch his own bleeding. The younger man studiously ignored that, averting his gaze, and linked their fingers amiably. "This is just... the worst is over, you know?" he went on.

"Yeah," Justin agreed, though he sounded as unsure as Lance felt. "But before this goes any further," he blurted, his voice hushed, "I just want you to know... I wanna tell you that I love you, man." He squeezed Lance's hand reassuringly. "I love you, Lance," he repeated, this time careful to keep the macho tones that usually coloured the phrase from his voice.

Lance squeezed him back. "I love you, too, Justin."

Justin sighed. "I just want this to be over."

Speaking with Randy had confirmed the Unit's suspicions: one of the hostages had been shot. Now it was only a matter of ascertaining the extent of the damage, and getting the victim out for proper medical attention. With the gunmen having taken an openly beligerent role during negotiations, Officer Wolff could not afford to take chances. The "action" team of the Negotiation Unit had been summoned, prepared to remove the hostages by force if absolutely necessary. They were to be used as a last resort, but it was now clear that they needed to be there, just in case.

"He's alert and co-operative, pupils equal and round, heartrate 90, respirations 25 breaths per minute."

The EMT on hand nodded attentively as Officer Wolff watched him take down the details. "How bad is the blood loss?"

Randy hesitated on the other side of the line. "Yes," he answered. The response was wise; it told them that one or both gunmen were listening in on his side of the conversation, and that he was not at liberty to reveal how bad the situation truly was.

"Let me rephrase the question, Randy. Is the blood loss moderate to severe?"

"Yes," Randy repeated, more promptly this time.

Officer Wolff leaned in. "We may have to negotiate for some time before we can get him medical attention. Do you think he can last two hours without running into difficulties?"

"No."

"One hour?"

More hesitation. "Okay."

"Thanks Randy," she acknowledged. "Can you put on one of the young men holding you, please?" She waited while the phone changed hands; as they had realized, someone was standing nearby.

"Hey," the slightly breathless voice came over the receiver. Officer Wolff recognized it as the one she'd spoken to earlier.

"Okay, we're asking you to let us see the victim so we can get him medical help," she insisted firmly.

"No," came the stubborn response. "He doesn't need it. And besides -- we don't know if we can trust you; what if when we open the door y'all just bust in and take us? Nah, man," he went on. "He's fine. He doesn't need a hospital."

"Troy," she began. "You and your partner offered us an ultimatum. Then, without waiting to see where we stood on the issue, you took matters into your own hands and injured someone -- as far as we're concerned, with intent to kill--"

"I wasn't tryin' to kill him," Troy protested. "I wasn't tryin' to kill him. Just scare him."

"--and now," she continued, as though he hadn't spoken. "You're denying him medical care. It's your call, Troy," she reminded him. "But if he dies, this deal with the manslaughter charge is off. Completely. We will charge that you fired with intent to kill. Is that clear?"

"Look," Troy insisted. "His security guy's got him all tied up and everything. They're keepin' an eye on him. It's a fuckin' flesh wound, okay? I clipped him. He's not gonna die."

"You do understand the price is going to go down now," Officer Wolff stated calmly.

"What? What do you mean?" Troy asked, his breathing growing slightly heavier in agitation.

"Calm down, Troy," Officer Wolff warned him, "and think about it. You injured one of them. You can't expect full price for damaged goods."

She heard his muffled curse come through the connection. "So... so are you still getting the money for us? How much off are we talking here?" he asked, quieter now.

She paused meaningfully. "The money's still on its way. But it'll be a quarter less. And you better treat them like kings from here on in if you wanna see that four point five, do you hear?"

Shots had been fired, and someone had been injured. Maybe more than one someone. And the men on the bus did not know who. It was unconfirmed, they were told. All that Chris had managed to pry out of Officer Counious when he demanded to speak to someone directly was that a threat had been made, and then they had heard gunfire, and right now they were attempting to determine who had been hit and the extent of their injuries.

Chris did not find this consoling in any way. None of them did; JC nibbled furiously on his fingernails, biting them to the quick, while Joey attempted to distract himself with every shift of movement that caught his eye. It was something Chris might have done himself were he not so upset. But right now, Chris... he was livid.

"Chris, man, you need to calm down," JC told him, reaching out to touch him comfortingly. "I know you're upset -- we're all upset, and we're all worried -- but you're makin' me even more tense than I am already. It's eatin' me and Joe up inside just as much as you, but you gotta relax, just a bit... you gotta."

"They could be dying in there, JC," Chris protested. "They could be bleeding to death. They could be--"

"We don't know that," JC interrupted. "Look... guys, we don't know. We don't know," he repeated. "If anything happened to either of them in there..." he didn't finish the thought. "I can't just tell myself they're gonna be fine when they might not be, but I can't kill myself thinkin' the worst, either."

Chris shook his head. "I can't not worry, man," he insisted. "The cops aren't tellin' us shit, we're holed up in the friggin' bus? No, man; what are we supposed to do? Just let it go?"

JC pressed his lips together tightly, his gaze flickering between his two friends. "I don't know what we do to keep from going crazy in here," he admitted.

"Then let's pray," Chris said abruptly, sitting forward in his seat and reaching out expectantly for JC's and Joey's hands.

Joey nodded. "Good idea," he told the older man, turning his head towards back of the bus even as he took Chris's hand within his own. "Should I call Steve and Wes up for this?"

"No," JC stopped him. "This is just us, okay?"

Joey agreed, but hesitated when they started to bow their heads for prayer. "Uh... guys?" he ventured, drawing their attention back to him. "Would it be okay with you if we prayed a rosary? Like, I'll show you how; I just..." he trailed off, unsure how to explain.

Chris shrugged slowly. "Do you have have a rosary on you, or do we not need one?" he asked.

Joey shook his head. "No, I don't have one," he admitted. "But we can..." he released his friends' hands and rose, heading for his bag, and they heard him searching through its contents for a moment. When he returned, he held a pad of scratch paper and a pencil. "It's a meditation kinda thing," he explained, writing a series of abbreviations on the blank page.

"We had this one rosary back home that had a picture of one of the icons from the front of St. Catherine's Basilica," he said, half to himself. "And when Steve and Janine and me were little and couldn't sleep 'cause of a nightmare or whatever, Mom would come into our rooms and say the rosary with us 'til we fell asleep." He glanced up at JC and Chris then, catching their sympathetic gazes; they knew as well as he that his speech was for distraction's sake. Returning his attention to the paper, he continued. "I don't really remember how it's supposed to go, but when I feel like things are really bad and I need to keep myself busy, sometimes I like to do a cycle and I feel a little better when I'm done. Like I'm really doin' somethin' about it, you know?"

"Does it work?" JC asked him.

He shrugged. "I don't know. Half the time, I guess. I believe in it, though, in a kinda weird way." Sitting back slightly, he showed the paper to the other men. "Okay, so you pray it in cycles, and there are five sections of ten beads, and you pray a Hail Mary for those--"

"Okay, I don't know the Hail Mary," Chris interjected apologetically. "Do you, JC?"

JC shook his head. "I know a little bit of it maybe, but I don't think I remember much."

"We don't have to do that one," Joey told them. "Or I can write it down for you; whatever. I don't know how to do a rosary right, anyway; what does it matter what we pray? Anyway," he went on, "in between those you do a Lord's Prayer. There's a beginning part I'm not sure how you do, but we can skip that shi--stuff," he corrected, suddenly wary of cursing when discussing a holy artifact. "We can mark off the ones we've done on the paper and at the end we can start over or whatever you want." He put the pencil down and waited for Chris and JC to share their opinions.

Chris was the first to speak up. "That sounds good," he said, and reached for Joey's hand again, just as Mike quietly re-appeared beside them. JC spotted him first from his vantage point.

"Mike!" he exclaimed, grasping Chris's and Joey's hands tightly. "News; any news? What's goin' on in there?"

Mike shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah. Okay, we found out the gunshot wound was to the shoulder, not to any vital organs, so they're expecting a full recovery, although there's a fair bit of blood loss. But--" rushing on, he answered their unasked question-- "it was Lance."

Chris exhaled sharply and let go of his friends' hands, running his fingers through his hair as he fought to maintain his composure. "God," he whispered. "I can't believe they shot him. Just like that; just shot him. Shit."

JC resumed his assault on his thumbnail and stared out of the window at the brick wall of the warehouse, afraid to meet his bandmates' eyes. Beside him, Joey dropped his other hand as well, and JC could hear the pencil scribbling furiously against the scratchpad's paper.

"So you're saying he's gonna be okay?" JC finally asked, his head still turned away. "Like, he's... is he conscious and stuff?"

"Yeah," Mike assured him. "Conscious, alert -- and this is comin' right from Randy, so he knows what he's talkin' about. The negotiators are just tryin' to get him outta there so he can get treated, you know?"

"What if they can't get him out?" Chris asked.

"They'll get him out," Mike told him confidently, then stood by, waiting for any further questions. There were none, so he excused himself with the promise of more updates when he got them.

"Wait." Suddenly changing his mind, Joey gripped him by the forearm as he turned to go. "We were just gonna pray; can you stay here for that?" he pleaded. "I wrote out the Hail Mary," he told the others. "Let's call Steve and Wes; we need the people right now, guys."

He was surprised when JC and Chris agreed easily, while Mike went to the back of the bus to fetch the other two men. When he returned, Steve emerged from the back lounge, moving softly past the others, and picked up the remote for the television at the front of the bus. "You guys," he said, turning it on and selecting a channel. "I think you need to see this."

They all turned their attention to the news report providing the latest updates. The information bar along the bottom of the screen indicated that the footage was taken from the location of the hold up that had taken Justin and Lance hostage. Several young women were climbing out of a Honda Civic in the lot across the street, dressed in casual street wear; JC estimated them to be in their late teens at the earliest.

As the last woman emerged from the backseat, she pulled with her a large placard and flipped a pair of sunglasses down over her eyes. Striding around to the front of the car, she carefully tucked the sign under the windshield wipers as her companions formed themselves into a circle a few feet away. When she stepped out of the way, the sign's print came into view and the camera zoomed in to display its simple message.

"You're in our prayers, Justin and Lance... We love you."

Moving aside, the bearer of the sign joined her friends, taking their hands, and the five of them stood in silent prayer.

"Wow," JC breathed, making eye contact with each of the other men. "Do you think..." he sighed. "Do you think they're...." He did not finish the thought; he didn't have to. The others knew what he meant. Do you think they're sincere? Were these girls concerned over the welfare of two young lives unfairly endangered, or were they simply fearing the loss of two of their pop icons? They had not, after all, mentioned the mother and child who were also hostages.

Chris shook his head in uncertainty. "A prayer's a prayer, man," he said quietly. "I don't think God's choosing favorites in there."

Lance became aware of a slightly stinging sensation on his face -- a tapping against his cheek -- and furrowed his brow, willing the discomfort away; with the awareness of the stinging came awareness of the fierce throbbing in his shoulder that ebbed his life away with every throb. God, he just wanted to sleep and forget about it completely. The offending slap appeared again, and he tried to turn his head away before finding his chin gripped tightly, holding his head secure.

Justin shook Lance's head by the chin with a jerking motion and smacked his cheek repeatedly with the fingertips of his other hand. "Lance. Lance, stay with me, here; you gotta stay with me, all right?" He shook him again and was rewarded when Lance's eyes fluttered open, pinning him with an unfocused gaze full of pain and disorientation. "Good," Justin breathed, rubbing Lance's bloodied fingers and cringing when he felt how cold they'd grown, his body already drawing circulation from his extremities in reaction to his injury. "Good," he repeated, watching Lance's eyes carefully, daring them to slide shut under his watchful stare.

At the checkout counter, Troy gazed out of the store window, chin propped up on his hands. The police had called again, wanting an update on Lance's condition, and this time he'd told Darryl he didn't want to field the call, so it was the latter who'd followed Randy to the back room. The fact that the bald-headed gunman seemed so distant and defeated gave Justin some hope; with the way Troy had seemed sullen after his last conversation with the police, and the way Lance was rapidly falling into shock, Justin suspected that something would have to happen, and soon. He prayed that it wouldn't prompt any retaliation on their captors' part; they might not be paying attention to the hostages now, but if they felt suitably threatened he didn't put anything past them.

He felt warmth at his side, a small wriggling form crawling up next to him, and turned his head to look at the little boy who had been crying before. Tear tracks had dried on his sullen little face, and Justin felt a sharp twinge in his heart as he thought of his own younger brothers and how he'd feel if they were ever caught in a situation like this one. He forced the worry from his face and spared a comforting grin for the child. "Hey, you're maybe not so scared any more?" he asked, lifting his arm and wrapping it around the boy's tiny body, pulling him closer to him.

The boy shook his head and seemed to melt into Justin's embrace. "Crying's for babies," he pouted. "I didn't see you crying. I wanted to be brave like you, not scared."

Justin tightened his grip a little and shook his head. "It's okay to be scared. Even grown-ups get scared. And you know what? This is a pretty scary thing that's going on right now."

"Are you scared?" the boy asked, his wide brown eyes searching Justin's face for signs of a ruse.

Justin nodded. "I am pretty scared," he admitted. "I don't like guns and stuff like that. And I don't want anyone else to get hurt, either. Especially not you and your mom here," he added, glancing up at the anxious woman who hovered just within reach.

"Like your friend?" the little boy questioned, wiggling loose slightly to peer around him at Lance's limp form, his head lolling as he faded in and out of consciousness. Justin glanced over at Lance sharply, but decided that as long as he seemed to be fighting it he would be all right. "Is he sleeping?" the small voice piped up, and Justin turned his attention away again.

"Yeah," Justin sighed, squeezing Lance's cold fingers again. "He's sleeping 'til we can get a doctor in to see him. I hope that's soon."

"Is he your best friend?"

Justin smiled. "Yeah, he is. He's one of my best best friends."

"My best friend Martin was playing out on his front lawn one day," the boy began, seemingly out of the blue. "And he ran across the street to get his ball and a car hit him and he died 'cause my mom says God needed him to be an angel in Heaven."

"Bradley," his mother exclaimed wearily, and reached over to touch Justin's shoulder, her eyes gazing sadly into his. "I'm sorry about that," she said softly. "I never know what he's going to say."

Justin gave her a weak smile and shook his head. "It's all right, ma'am," he assured her. Turning back to Bradley, he frowned slightly. "I'm sorry about your friend, Bradley."

Bradley looked up at him solemnly. "I hope God doesn't need your friend as an angel," he said simply.

"I hope--" Justin began, before his voice broke and he stopped. "Thank you," was all he said.

They were all startled by the sudden bang of the back door being flung open, and Darryl strode out angrily, Randy close behind him as though he could prevent any damage from where he was positioned. "Fuck," the gunman swore, passing his hand over his short hair, mussing it awkwardly. He rubbed at his upper lip anxiously. "They want him now," he growled, gesturing at Lance. "They wanna take the muthafucka out or else they're gonna come in for us."

five

 Darryl, in his agitation, was prepared to drag Lance to the door if need be, but Justin would not be cowed. "Just back off," he said, probably more harshly than he should have to the man with the gun. "Just-- just give me a minute. We'll get him up, okay? We'll get him up."

Kneeling over Lance, he smoothed out the pained creases in his friend's forehead with his thumbs. "Lance?" he said softly, trying to get him up again. "Can you hear me?" Lance gave a weak sound of affirmation, his eyelashes fluttering, and Justin took what he could get. "You know you're gonna get help in a second?" he asked him. "We're gonna get you up in a second and we're gonna get you to the hospital, so can you-- do you think you can maybe get up for a second so we can get you out of here?"

Lance pressed his lips together and opened his eyes fully to look at Justin. "Yeah," he said softly, his voice strained. "But I can't--" he stopped. "Can you help--"

Justin was ahead of him. "Yeah, yeah," he assured him, already taking his good arm as Randy got behind him, bracing his hands against Lance's back. "You lean on me all you want," he murmured when he leaned in to Lance to hoist him up.

Darryl stopped them when Justin got Lance's arm flung over his shoulder and had begun to stand. "Wait, hold on," he told them sharply, stepping menacingly close. "You can't both go with him. One of you goes. That's it."

Justin froze mid-crouch and turned unbelieving eyes on him, but it was Randy who spoke up, touching him comfortingly. "I'll go," he said quietly. And don't make a fuss, Justin understood in the gesture, and kept the comments on the tip of his tongue to himself.

"He'll be comin' out of the back," Mike told the men on the bus. "And there's an ambulance on the way; they'll take him to the General and he'll probably go into surgery right away." He looked around, taking in each of their expressions. "When we get word, what do you wanna do? Stay here, go see him, what?"

There was a silence as they all thought it over. "I don't know," Chris said finally, deliberating. "When we're so close by it feels kinda like we're all in this together. I mean, we can't see in the store, but we're right there, you know?"

"Yeah, but Lance is gonna need someone there for him when he wakes up," Joey pointed out.

JC exhaled sharply. "My God," he wondered. "Can you just imagine if he wakes up and-- what, we're still here? What's he gonna think?"

"He'll think we stayed here," Chris said, "and you know, I think he'd understand if we did. But," he conceded, "I don't want him waking up alone, either, any more than you guys do." He sighed. "Well, what do you guys think?"

"I think," Joey said, "Lance'll need us more than Justin."

Chris nodded. "Then we go." He glanced around at the others. "Right?"

"We go," Joey agreed.

Mike went up front to tell the driver they'd be leaving, and when he came back he had news. "He's out," he told them, "and he's at the hospital, and they've got him in surgery, and they tell me it looks good."

A chorus of released breaths echoed in the lounge. "Lance, man," JC murmured abruptly, unaware that he was even speaking aloud. "You're gonna be okay."

Joey glanced at JC from beneath his lashes for a moment, squeezing his hand gently, before launching the next prayer, one the others had committed to memory after only a few recitations. "Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee...."

Justin had to pee.

He wasn't sure when he had first become aware of it -- probably somewhere between declining to eat and Lance's injury -- but the sensation tugged and gnawed at him in the back of his mind until, now, it was becoming increasingly difficult to sit still.

"I need to--" he swallowed, his pride at a weak point-- "um. Use the washroom." He glanced sideways at Darryl, nearly standing over him now that Lance had been dispatched with. "Is that-- can I do that?" Fucking watch it, he told himself. You'll get yourself killed; just fucking watch it.

Darryl didn't seem to care much anymore. He jerked his head behind him. "Come on," he said tersely, and started off before Justin had risen to his feet.

There was a window in the bathroom, just above Justin's head and next to the toilet. He turned on the faucet and stared at the window as he relieved himself with Darryl waiting outside the door, wondering if his shoulders would fit through the pane. He could certainly reach it, especially if he hoisted himself up and stood on the toilet. The grating, though, he probably wouldn't be able to get off in the minute or two he'd be expected to be in here.

He finished but didn't flush, rinsed his hands but didn't turn off the faucet, and braced his foot against the toilet seat to peer over the edge of the window sill. And do what, he thought, tear off the grate and leave? And what about Bradley and his mom? What would happen to them if I got out?. They'd probably get killed, was what, he thought. With Darryl and Troy's only meal ticket gone?

The grating was cemented in solidly anyway. Darryl banged on the door and threatened to come in on him. Justin stepped down, flushed, turned off the faucet, and left.

"Man, what the fuck are we doing here? Do we even fuckin' know anymore?"

The question was thrown out to the room -- Darryl specifically -- from Troy, still behind the counter, head cradled in his hands. He didn't even seem to be participating in the situation anymore, his gun lying out of reach on the surface.

Darryl spoke up from beside Justin. "We give the muthafuckas five more minutes," he said, shaking his head. "It's been a muthafuckin' hour. We don't need this shit. We don't need to put up with this shit." He didn't seem so much furious as high-strung at this point.

"And what?" Troy challenged him. "We give 'em five more minutes and what? We shoot this muthafucka, too?" he asked, jerking his chin towards Justin. "We lose him, too? Bruh," he said, lowering a commanding fist to the counter. "We. Are muthafucking losing here. Losing! How much fuckin' money you think we're getting now, do you know? We're muthafuckin' waiting for them to tell us how much! We're outta the muthafuckin' game, man!"

Darryl shot Justin a look, as though daring him to listen in on their conversation, and Justin glanced away, into Randy's own calm gaze. Darryl rose to meet Troy at the counter. "You're saying you're out? What?" he asked, his voice dangerously low, but still audible.

"There ain't no gettin' out, man," Troy mumbled. "I pulled the muthafuckin' trigger, I mean." He sighed. "You think we're gonna see a penny of this money, bruh?" he asked.

Darryl didn't respond immediately, leaning over the counter in concentration. "They got five minutes," he said finally, with determination.

And then what? Justin asked Troy's question in his head.

Lance's eyes opened under the weight of an almost oppressive numbness that he felt throughout his body; through the cracks in his lids he could already see the bright flourescent light from the ceiling, and opened his eyes the rest of the way, squinting all the while. Disorientation plagued him for a moment and he wondered where he was -- but only for a moment. He knew those lights, knew the unfamiliarity of the bed that was neither a bunk nor a hotel mattress. Lance knew a hospital when he was in one, and with that realization came the knowledge that the nightmare he'd experienced -- the robbery, the terror, the gunshot -- was more real than he'd have liked it to be.

His attention shifted to his shoulder after that, but he felt no discomfort there, as a relief. His arm felt heavy and he knew that he had a few hours before the pain medication would fade and he'd be asking to be knocked out again. He tried wiggling the fingers of his left hand just to be sure, and, feeling them drum against his thigh, he relaxed. Okay, he thought. I'm gonna be okay.

"Hey, Lance," a voice called to him from the bedside.

Turning his head slowly to examine the room around him, Lance made out Chris sitting by his side, watching him with dark, cautious eyes. The corner of his mouth pulled up in a half-smile. "Hey," he responded, his voice deep and gravelly, and cleared his throat.

Chris gestured to his arm, then his face. "How are you holdin' up?"

Lance took a deep breath and thought about it. "Feelin' no pain," he slurred slightly, and smiled, hoping to dispel some of the solemnity in his friend's features. "Drugs're good." His gaze fluttered to the door and back to Chris when the older man nodded in acknowledgement. "You here alone?"

Chris shook his head. "Uh, I... told JC and Joey to go ahead and get somethin' to eat. I wasn't really hungry, so...." He shrugged. "We've been here for a while," he said.

"Oh." Lance paused. "How's.... Justin?"

Shrugging, Chris shook his head again. "Fine," he answered. "I mean... he's still in there, but... nothing's new, that we've heard."

"Right." Lance studied him for such a long moment that Chris would have feared he'd fallen asleep with his eyes open if it weren't for his occasional blinks. "Thanks," he added, a million reasons for gratitude conveyed in the single word.

"Well..." Chris raised a shoulder uncomfortably.

"I was buggin' you before," Lance said suddenly, his voice still low.

Chris started, confused. "What?"

"I remember Nerds, Chris," he went on. "I was just bein' a pain. So. Don't be like..." he sighed. "Don't feel like it was your fault, okay?"

"Look, I know you can just--"

"Chris." Lance's voice was stern considering his condition. "You're here by yourself for a reason, and I'm just sayin', bad things just happen sometimes. So don't feel guilty about this."

"Lance, you don't know how--" Chris pursed his lips and took Lance's left hand gently within both of his own hands, squeezing it carefully. "I don't know how scared you must've been in there," he choked out. "But when we didn't know--" he swallowed.

Lance sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and his chin began to tremble in that way that meant he was fighting tears. "Chris, don't--" he blurted.

"We thought we'd lose you, man," Chris concluded, blinking back the dampness in his eyes.

All at once, it seemed, the calmness that had possessed him when he was faced with his mortality in the store left Lance, and he was reminded of how close to death he had truly come. He could still, if he thought about it, feel the gun's metal barrel against his skin; he didn't know what terrified him more -- that he'd come out of it alive, or that he'd been seconds from death in the first place. Moisture flecked from his eyelashes when he blinked as well, nostrils flaring as he sniffled, and a tear began to trail down the side of his face. "So did I," he said simply.

The money was indeed on its way, but these gunmen wouldn't see a cent as far as Officer Wolff was concerned.

"What do you mean, it's down to three now?" the agitated voice came over the other end of the line. "You made us give up the muthafucka and now you're hacking the price, too? Fuck you! What the fuck's this?"

Wolff took a healthy gulp of lukewarm coffee and grimaced, handing the cup to Counious and accepting a fresh, steaming one in return -- black. "Maybe this would be handled better by your partner," she offered. "We can't negotiate if you're not going to be reasonable."

"He can't talk right now," was the reply. "I'm handling this." Darryl sighed heavily and started again, more slowly, more evenly. "Look. If you're gonna change the deal on us like that, we can play that, too. We're changing our demands."

"All right," Wolff acknowledged. "What are they?"

"Drop the charges against us."

Wolff shook her head. "That's not possible, Darryl; you know that."

"Then get us off," he said. "I know you people can do that. Give us plane tickets. Europe, Canada, wherever. Let us get outta here; take the money and go -- can you do that?"

"Let the mother and child go and we'll see what we can do," Wolff told him.

"No-- then we'd just be giving in more!" Darryl argued. "No. Forget it."

Wolff sighed and gulped her coffee. What she wouldn't give for his less excitable, more rational partner now. "Who do you want the money for, Darryl? The pop star or the civilians? Look," she offered. "Think about it. We'll call back shortly."

"We don't need to--"

"Just. Think about it," she cautioned. "Ten minutes."

"No way," Troy said forcefully, shaking his head. He folded his arms and leaned back from the counter. "You lost your muthafuckin' mind or something! Europe? You wanna leave the muthafuckin' country?"

"Europe means we don't go to jail, bruh," Darryl pressed. "And we get the money to go! You're the one who asked if we'd see a penny? We'd get all the muthafuckin' money, man; you think about it."

"What about your mom, huh?" Troy spat at him. "You were gonna help her out, and now you wanna take this money and run out? What about my family, huh?" he said, and Justin thought of the brothers Troy had told him about, and wondered if Darryl had brothers of his own that he wanted to look out for, too.

Darryl shrugged. "We can send 'em the money," he offered. "With three mil? We can send 'em two. We can send 'em fuckin' all of it, get jobs -- who the fuck cares, man? Are we gonna do this or not? They're callin' back now; you tell me."

Troy looked over to where the hostages sat, taking in each of them, and Justin met his gaze without flinching. Look at me, he thought. Look at me and think of your brothers and do something right for once today.

Troy sighed. "And we'd have to let those two go," he said, jerking his head towards Bradley and his mother. "Right?" At Darryl's affirmation, he stroked at his lip in agitation, gaze flickering from the mother and child to Darryl to the gun just out of reach on the counter. He licked his lips slowly. "I think," he said softly, as the phone in the back room began to ring, "we need to let 'em go."

Darryl made an abortive sound of victory and started off to answer the phone before Troy stopped him. "No," Troy said. "I mean, let 'em all go."

Darryl kept his eyes on the back room. "What're you talkin' about?" he asked quietly.

"This," Troy tugged on his arm until he looked back at him. "we gotta give this up, bruh. This isn't gonna happen. Let's just," he sighed. "Just muthafuckin' go and get outta here and forget about it, man." Under his voice, the phone continued to ring. Justin counted; thirteen, fourteen....

"You wanna fuckin' bail on me," Darryl snarled, yanking his arm free from Troy's. "You wanna go to muthafuckin' jail and we did this for nothing? You think that's what I want? Fuck you, man, you're deciding for both of us!"

"I'm tryin' to keep us from gettin' killed," Troy hissed, grabbing back at Darryl. "They aren't gonna let us leave the muthafuckin' country, nevermind with that kinda money!" Twenty, twenty-one.... Troy pointed towards the front door. "What's keepin' them from just shooting our asses dead when we get out there, after they tell us our muthafuckin' plane to muthafuckin' Europe's all ready? Huh?" He shook Darryl in his grip. "Get real! It's over! Just let 'em go. We can handle this."

He came to sit down beside Justin when Darryl left. "Hey, man," he offered, almost inaudibly, after a moment of deliberation.

"Yeah," Justin nodded curtly in return.

"I'm sorry about your-- friend. He's gonna be okay," Troy said, as if to reassure himself more than Justin.

Yeah, no thanks to you, Justin thought. "Yeah," he said.

"You can go back to your brothers pretty soon," Troy continued, keeping his head down and his gaze firmly on the floor between his legs. He hadn't made eye contact with Justin once during the exchange.

Justin hesitated to respond. You, too, he wanted to say, but he didn't know how long it would be before Troy and Darryl got to go home to their families, and he didn't want to wish Troy speed on seeing his family anyway. The dead cashier would never get to see his family again. Lance was in a hospital bed miles from his. So fuck you, Troy; you don't deserve to see your brothers, your family, Justin wanted to say, once he thought about it.

When Darryl got off the phone he looked defeated, shoulders sagging with resignation. "They're, uh. Givin' us a few minutes," he said, his voice gravelly and low. "Say they'll go easy on us if we hurry. So. Let's get the fuck outta here."

Troy rose and clapped him on the arm. "We made a good call on this, bruh," he said. "I think this was the only choice we had left."

Darryl didn't look so sure.

It was Steve who broke the news to them, bursting into Lance's room, the others situated around his bed. "You guys, thank God," he breathed, closing the door behind him. "Mike and Wes're on their way up. I just had to tell you."

JC was at his side in an instant. "What? What?" he demanded. "News? What news? What're you--"

"They're lettin' 'em go," Steve beamed. "In, like, two seconds. It's over. They're lettin' 'em go!"

"You know, we shouldn't get our hopes up 'til they're out out," Chris started, but he was beaming, too.

Joey glanced heavenward and mouthed a 'thank you' when he thought no one could see him. Lance saw him, though, and pressed his fingers to his eyes against a wave of fresh tears.

Justin pressed his fingertips into the tense small of the young mother's back -- how had he not gotten her name? -- urging her toward the door and the S.W.A.T. team he could make out clearly through the glass paneling. He felt Randy behind him bringing up the rear in the heirarchy of protection, each trying to shield those ahead from harm. Even further back, behind Randy, he knew that Troy and Darryl were shuffling reluctantly along, unarmed and with their hands over their heads so that they would not be seen as a threat.

Something went wrong, though; he could feel it in the air, somehow, a shifting in Randy's posture behind him -- something, and he knew that something unplanned and unexpected was going to happen. He knew it was a mistake even as he heard Troy call Darryl's name, panic lacing his voice, and thought one would kill the other. He knew it even as the mother screamed and pulled Bradley tighter to her stomach, even as Randy pushed forcefully down on his shoulders, hissing "get down!" and thought they'd kill him. He knew it as he whirled, head whip-cracking around to the source of the sound, and saw Darryl's mouth open, the length of gun angled inside and his finger on the trigger and saw him pull it--

Justin vomited.

 
six

  Wes had told them the news moments before the media reported it: one of the gunmen, a nineteen-year old Darryl Rodriguez, had turned his weapon on himself, while the other, Troy Clemens, eighteen, had opted to surrender peacefully. Mentions of assault with a deadly weapon were murmured, hushed, by the TV anchor, while nineteen, Lance thought. Nineteen like Justin, and with a family like Justin, and how could anyone do something like this when they have that?

JC turned to Lance when they flashed the names and faces of the gunmen up on the screen. "Did you know who they were and everything?" he asked softly. "I mean, did they talk to you and stuff?"

Lance shrugged uneasily and his expression grew pained as he considered it. "Not a lot," he said. "I couldn't--" he sighed. "They didn't like me much, I don't think," he said, and JC cringed involuntarily.

Gesturing to the screen, JC asked him, "Was... Darryl... the guy who, uh." he cast his gaze to Lance's shoulder and dropped his hand, suddenly deflated. "Sorry," he hastened to explain. "I mean, that's. I shouldn't've--"

Lance cut him off. "No, it wasn't him," he said simply. He didn't add that he sort of wished that it had been.

A television console was flickering overhead, projecting the jubilant news reports coming through about the freed hostages, when the guys arrived at the police station to meet Justin. The sound was muted, but they knew what was likely coming through: reportedly in good health... return to their families... reign of terror now over... similar sentiments. Justin's family knew that he was safe by now. Lance's family knew. Neither of them would see their sons before that night.

Justin sat next to Randy, who spoke to him softly, on a bench along the wall. He looked diminutive -- even for being dwarfed by the bodyguard -- and cold as he hugged himself, shivering despite the blanket draped over his shoulders. His eyes were downcast, only flickering up when JC offered a tentative "hey."

"Hey," Justin replied. He didn't smile when he stood, his eyes large and haunted, and he had a spot of dried blood up in his hairline that made them wince. The blanket fell from his shoulders and to the floor before Randy could catch it, and he was only wearing his undershirt beneath it.

Joey averted his gaze without even realizing what he'd done, and wrenched it back. What he'd expected from Justin exactly, he wasn't sure: relief, some joy at seeing his friends again, perhaps. Not this slightly trembling, diminished, dull-eyed man who looked, for all the handful of hours he'd spent locked inside the store, like he'd been battered more on the inside than out.

"Oh, man," he said when he hugged Justin, crushing him close and feeling Justin's heart rabbiting against his chest. Justin's arms came up around him loosely, his chin digging into Joey's shoulder the way he stood. "It's so good to be seein' you right now; you have no idea."

"Mmmmhh," Justin said, dropping his head to bury his face in Joey's shirt, and let out a sound not unlike a strained sob. He fell silent again then, but continued to shake in Joey's arms.

"Hey, sleepyhead."

Lance smiled slightly with his eyes still closed and rubbed at them with his good arm, stretching as he did. "I'm up," he murmured into the room as he blinked his eyes open, and turned to take Justin in. "Hey," he added softly.

Justin nodded pragmatically, his hands shoved into the back pockets of his jeans. "That's the word of the day," he said, by way of a greeting. "How are you doing?"

"Better," Lance answered without thinking. "Better now that I know you're okay," he added. "They said I could fly out of here already, but I wanted to wait for you." He paused. "How are you doing?" he asked carefully.

Justin stood silently where he'd been, lips pressed together, his gaze drifting repeatedly to Lance's shoulder before he wrenched it back to Lance's face. He looked as though he were afraid of what would happen if he responded. "Her name's Karen," he said somewhat randomly after a while, by way of a response.

Lance blinked in confusion. "Justin?"

Justin waved a hand. "The... lady in the store. With the son? Bradley. I made sure I got her name at the police station, and...." he shrugged. "Her name's Karen. I, uh. Thought you might be interested in knowing that. I don't know why," he chuckled, a slightly desperate sound. "I just thought -- you know. Lance would wanna know her name... so."

Lance nodded and swallowed uneasily, absorbing Justin's mood, and held out his arm. "C'mere," he said calmly, and when Justin stepped closer, pulling his hands free to slide one around Lance's waist and the other over his shoulder, Lance held him as tightly as he dared, fisting the light over-shirt Justin wore in his grip.

"Darryl killed himself, man," Justin whispered into Lance's neck, his breath only slightly shuddery.

Lance held on tight, opening his hand to rub over Justin's spine. "I know. I heard," he said. "Are-- do--" he stopped himself. "I'm sorry," he said simply, instead.

"Like, two feet away from me," Justin went on. "Two--" he sighed. "I saw him do it, Lance."

"Oh--" Lance squeezed his eyes shut and pulled Justin closer to him. "Do you wanna talk about it?" he asked.

"No," Justin said.

Johnny called, speaking positively of tour cancellation, saying of course and naturally and whenever you're ready -- not a second before. Lance smiled minutely, nodding on his end of the conversation. "My arm should be okay in like, a couple of weeks," he said, not sure why he'd volunteered the information except that he felt it was expected of him somehow; that he reassure everyone that he would be all right. He was aware that he could use some of that reassurance himself.

Johnny, however, wasn't having any of it. "No, no, don't give me that," he argued. "You take as long as you need to feel up to speed -- and not just the arm," he added pointedly. "I don't want you back on the road until you're one-hundred percent there emotionally. so. Whatever it takes."

"Right," Lance said. "Okay."

"We're all gonna need some help, Lance," Johnny went on. "I'm talking group therapy -- let everybody deal with it and get their feelings out. This affects all of us."

Lance stole a look around the hospital corridor at his groupmates, and thought about it. He watched as Justin walked beside him, jaw firmly set as the nurse pushed his wheelchair inexorably towards the exit; Joey, whom he knew was trying to look pleasant at least, and instead merely looked sad; Chris, who walked up ahead of them, had his head tilted in to JC's, JC with a comforting hand on the small of Chris's back. He wondered just who Johnny meant by "we" and "us", anyway.

Out in the cool night breeze, Lance shivered, but not only because of the chill; there was an unease that came, suddenly, with being out in the elements, and he clutched at the handle of the wheelchair, fighting shortness of breath. First thing to discuss with the therapist, he thought wildly. Being outside scares the shit out of me.

Hugs were brief but not perfunctory, now that they were out in the open; the real goodbyes had been said, the real tears shed from the safety of Lance's room. The guys hugged Lance gently, carefully, as though they were afraid they'd hurt him if they clung; in contrast they squeezed Justin, who held them loosely as though afraid of the same thing. Justin's hand wrapped around Lance's bicep as he stood to get into van taking him to the airport. "I'm coming with you?" he said, an uncertain question rather than a statement of the obvious.

They'd sent for two vans, but Lance didn't see how it could work any other way than going together, couldn't think of a time when they'd need each other's company more. "Of course," he said, unable to read Justin's eyes in the dark of night.

Justin had thought that when he got home he'd ensconce himself inside, take his mother to see his grandparents and not leave a family member's side for a week straight at the very least. He'd counted on the nurturing support of his mother; had hoped, in some small way, that she would help to kiss the demons of his ordeal away the way she'd done when he was a small child.

But those demons had been imaginary, and these demons, while no longer threatening, were very, very real.

They had therapy in which to voice their fears, Lance and Justin alike, separately and together, flying in to Florida weekly to meet, and group sessions where the guys tried to support them and offer comfort. It was there that Justin realized why people who had been through difficult ordeals referred to themselves as survivors rather than victims. To think of himself as a victim of a hostage situation felt, in a way, as though he were being forced to relive what had been done to him, over and over. To survive somehow implied that he had risen above it, lived to tell the tale. It made him feel strong. Stronger.

It didn't always work, not right away; but Justin took solace in the knowledge that he was not going through this alone. He took comfort in knowing that Lance sometimes looked as haunted as Justin felt, when Diane slipped an arm around his shoulders and squeezed.

He learned things, too, about Lance, in those sessions meant for the two of them. He learned that they both had nightmares; Lance dreaming of the cold steel of Troy's gun against his temple and between his eyes, dreamed of Troy shooting him in the face, the hand, the chest, dreamed of being so injured that he'd never be able to function normally again, never again be able to work.

Justin dreamed of Lance's death as well, and of Darryl's -- he dreamed of red clouds of blood exploding behind the gunman's head, of his body hitting the floor with a sick thump, of lifeless eyes frozen on him. He slept alone, in the room his mother had set aside from him, and woke up screaming, hot tears already on his face, and wished that he could crawl into bed with his mother and Paul and cry.

When Lynn asked about his dreams, though, Justin always lied; because how did you explain to your mother that you dreamed of your captor blowing his brains out?

"Do you ever tell your mom?" he asked Lance softly once, after a session, while Lance fumbled one-handed for his keys. "About the nightmares, I mean. Does she know what you dream about?"

Lance stared down at the keys, fingering the button to unlock his car doors. "She knows I have 'em, I know. I mean..." he shrugged. "She knows. Not what they're about, though." He opened the door and worried his lip between his teeth thoughtfully, hesitating before he got in. "I don't think... she wants to know what they're about," he said finally.

"I think it would break her heart," Justin said, nodding sagely, and he was speaking for his own mother as much as for Lance's.

"I know it would break her heart," Lance said.

WEG received an unmatched outpouring of support intended for the boys -- all addressed to Justin and Lance, but many expressing sympathies and well-wishes for the others as well; an egalitarian fan effort that they knew had been organized by several groups of individuals.

They'd expected a drop off after the first two weeks, but a month after the ordeal mail was still steadily trickling in. No stuffed animals or balloons, these: letter after letter of poetry, long devotionals, photographs of parents and brothers and sisters serving with the police force, heart-breaking testimonials from teens who had lost friends or loved ones to violence. It seemed that Justin's and Lance's experience had turned this into a family affair.

Sometimes, though, there were gaffes. "I thought we got this stuff screened," Chris hissed, furious, when Lance read, with Joey looking over his shoulder, a letter from seven-year old Katie who sent him a drawing of Superman to watch over him and protect him from "bad men." Joey had simply straightened wordlessly and left the room, leaving Lance to stare at the letter with consternation, but when JC rose to go after him, Lance stopped him.

"Lemme," he said, and nobody objected.

Joey was slouched against wall in a far corner of the hallway when Lance found him, rubbing the back of his neck tiredly as if he'd been carrying the weight of the world upon it and it was finally giving out. Lance thought that that might not be so far removed from the truth.

"Joey," he said, and Joey looked over his shoulder before turning fully to face him, leaning in on the other shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Joey told him. "Didn't mean to walk out on you there... I just needed...." He sighed, wiped over his face with his hands, and God, Lance thought, they weren't even on tour and Joey looked so tired. "I needed to get some air. I didn't mean--"

"Don't do this, Joey," Lance cut him off in warning, pointing a finger at him, his voice calm. But his lips were pinched and his eyes were tight and anxious, and Joey knew that he was simply keeping his frustrations in check.

"I'm not doing anything," Joey protested. "I'm not-- what do you--"

"Don't you dare," Lance went on, his voice gaining steely resolve, "stand there and feel sorry for yourself because you weren't there to," Lance faltered slightly, his hand waving. "Protect us, or something. Don't you dare, Joey." Behind him Justin edged out into the hall, hands carefully tucked behind his back as he leaned against the door.

"I wasn't!" Joey answered defensively, more because Lance had accused him than because it was the truth. "I didn't! I-- That wasn't what I--" it occurred to him, vaguely, that he was protesting too much, and he closed his mouth with an audible click.

"You prayed for us, Joe," Lance went on, jabbing his finger for emphasis. "What do you think would've happened if you hadn't done that?"

"I don't know," Joey admitted.

"And I don't want to know!" Lance said hotly, his eyes glittering.

Justin touched Lance's shoulder cautiously, from behind, and Lance jumped with a yelp; then turned wordlessly and pressed his face into the crook of Justin's shoulder and neck in a fluid motion that Joey knew was well-rehearsed. They always seemed to know the roles, Joey thought, watching Justin's hands roam over Lance's back: who needed comfort and who could do the comforting, and when.

Lance wasn't very good at comforting anyone but Justin these days, and nobody but Justin seemed able to comfort him in turn; and Joey mourned the way things had been, the way Lance and Justin had been, with a fierce and constant pain.

To the world, Lance's left arm rested comfortably in a sling, the bulk of bandages shielding his shoulder from view and from the elements. He had some range of motion back, and would get the rest in time; but Lance also had a scar now, beneath the bulk of bandages. It had not yet completely healed, but the corners had begun to form already, a jagged snakey thing less than a half inch in width and two in length. It was keloid for some reason; Lance could already tell that it would not fade the way the scar above his eye had -- it would be a pale white raised testament to what he'd gone through. He felt it every time he changed his bandages. He didn't like to let anyone change them for him.

He changed his bandages in the dark, mostly.

"I mean," he said once, during a session, "it's like, it's not bad enough that we're never gonna forget this, you know? I have to have this--" he sighed and slumped with unease against the deceptively soft chair in which he sat. "It's not just in my head; it has to be a part of me, too."

Justin had nodded sympathetically, listening with care and rubbing Lance's other arm, and made noises about getting the scar removed when it had completely healed.

"It's the principle of it," Lance had said in response, the image of the scar burned into his mind. "The fact that I'd need to get it removed is the point in the first place, you know?"

At times Lance cried, harsh sobs that racked his body whether or not tears came with them, because he caught himself wishing that it had been Justin and not him.

Troy pleaded guilty, and Justin held Lance's hand all the way to the prison -- his left hand, finally -- grateful for the opportunity to do so.

"What are you thinking?" he asked, squeezing gently to draw Lance's gaze from the window to his face, because this had been his idea and while Lance had agreed easily enough, he had never actually told Justin how he felt about the plan.

Lance watched the window behind Justin's head, a somber presence in his dark shirt and pants, his hair darkly natural to match. "That I'm ready to let this go," he said slowly. "Praying a bit," he added honestly.

Justin nodded, thinking of how they'd both changed on the outside after this; Lance letting his hair grow out and Justin shaving his own. They each had their own rituals for renewal. "For?" he prompted.

"Strength." Justin was unable to mask the quirking of his brow, and Lance smiled slightly. "Not to like, keep myself from hurting him or anything," he said lightly. "Just... to be calm. To keep it together. To be bigger than this."

That, Justin understood.

The security in the institution was damning and depressing both; the heavy lock and slam of huge doors, sliding to shut off corridors from those forbidden access -- prison was like a fortress, and Justin grasped, in a way that movies never quite conveyed, how formidable Alcatraz must have seemed in its glory days. It was just another way in which the movies failed to measure up to the real thing.

Troy, in this setting, was small, minimal, compared to the high walls and the hulking guards -- not even Randy had seemed this large next to him when Troy was the man with the gun. Obviously out of his element, he sat on the other side of the plexiglass division, nervously trembling and fiddling with his limited accessories; the phone, the wire, the buttons on his prison-issue wear. Justin sat down across from him and stared, and Troy blinked, no question as to who was in control.

He said what he had to say without picking up the phone, without speaking up. He simply said it, slowly and carefully, one time only, and he knew that Troy understood what he'd said. Troy's lips moved in response, and Justin didn't bother to read them, didn't feel like pretending that it was an expression of gratitude, didn't care. He felt something that was wrong go right, though, somewhere inside of him; and, standing, he gave the seat over to Lance, who gave him a tiny smile of admiration before his face cleared.

He didn't envy Troy for being on the receiving end of Lance's transparent gaze.

Lance watched Troy cough nervously, unblinking, and thought about all the things he'd intended to say, all the things that had gone through his mind in the weeks that they'd planned this and on the drive down and on the long walk to meet Troy here. He'd considered giving a recital of what he'd suffered at Troy's hands, or a run-down on Justin's experiences since, but in the end he merely folded his hands on the ledge before him, the evidence of his healing and progress in plain view.

"I forgive you," he said, slowly, the way that Justin had just before him, and Troy flinched.

Troy's lips said thank you, but his eyes said sorry, and Lance healed a little bit more.