Inside Kuakini Medical Center in Honolulu, Danny patted the shoulder of the HPD officer standing at the door to the hospital ward.
"Hey, how about a coffee break?"
The officer nodded, suppressing a smile, and pointed to the end of the hallway, indicating he'd be waiting there.
"Thanks."
Danny pushed open the door and walked in with Jack, one behind the other. "You're Marku, right? Comescu's driver, right? Looks like the accident wasn't serious." The man
on the bed was the driver of the Mercedes-Benz G-Class, a young man who looked to be in his early twenties.
Jack patted his casted right leg gently and glanced at the records on the bed. "A few minor fractures, a mild concussion. Congratulations, you're lucky. You should be out in a week at most."
The young driver shuddered with fear and instinctively sat up from the bed, but he pursed his lips firmly and didn't say anything. Then he watched helplessly as Jack produced handcuffs and cuffed his right hand to the bed.
"I'm not afraid of you. This is a ward. People outside will know what you did to me." The young driver, named Marku, made no pretense of not knowing English. On the contrary, he spoke fluently, his accent light.
"Of course, you don't need to be afraid of me. You're a patient now. Don't worry, we wouldn't do anything inhumane to a patient."
Danny smiled as he pulled a reagent bottle from his pocket and a disposable syringe. He then drew the brownish-yellow liquid from the bottle into the syringe right in front of Danny.
Watching him, Marku tensed. "What are you doing? What is this?"
Danny smiled broadly. "Honestly, I don't know what it is. I found it in that lab of yours. I think we'll find out soon enough."
He then pulled the IV set from the bedside and inserted the needle.
"I know my rights. You're American police officers. I'll report everything you've done to my lawyer," Marku said, his eyes fixed on the syringe.
"You're right, but that assumes someone saw us enter your room, right?" Jack pulled out another pair of handcuffs and cuffed the man's left hand to the bed, then smiled at Danny.
"Will you tell anyone, Detective Williams?"
"Of course not. Supervisory Agent Tavola from the FBI."
Danny smiled back, then his face darkened as he pressed his finger against the needle of the syringe. "Where's Comescu?"
"Fuck you!" Marku replied flatly.
"Wrong answer." Danny shoved the entire vial of reagent in, and the vital signs began to beep rapidly.
"What are you doing! Take away the needle! Take away this thing!"
Watching the brown-yellow liquid flow down the transparent IV tube toward his arm, Marku's hair stood on end, and sweat dripped from his forehead.
"Looks like you have something to say." Danny turned the small wheel on the IV flow regulator. "Okay, I'm stopping for you. Tell me where Comescu is."
"I don't know where he is right now, seriously! I swear!" Marku's previous confidence had long since disappeared, and his face was filled with fear and panic.
"Okay, let's continue." Danny was about to resume the flow rate of the IV when Jack stopped him.
"Wait, this thing is too noisy and will attract the nurses." Jack reached out and removed the electrode patch from Marku's chest vital monitor, put it on himself, and then clamped the small clip on his finger.
"It's much quieter now. Look how steady my heartbeat is. How many vials of virus did he take?"
Danny began to creak as the flow regulator's wheel creaked. The sound was like the footsteps of death to Marku. Watching the brown liquid continue to flow down the transparent tube toward his arm, the man pleaded in fear.
"Stop! Stop! Stop! Nine vials! He took nine vials!"
"Who's he selling it to?" Danny demanded.
"I don't know," Marku shouted before he finished. "Don't touch that damn thing. I only know the transaction is at 4 p.m. today at the market in International Plaza, but there seems to have been an accident beforehand."
"What do you mean?" Danny frowned.
Marku swallowed. "When we went to pick it up, we found everyone inside dead. The patients—er, the test subjects—had all been shot in the head. The doctor ran away."
"What doctor? I need a name." Danny released the wheel, and the brown liquid quickly flowed through the IV tube.
"I don't know, I really don't know! I swear!" Marku burst into tears, his nose bubbling.
Seeing this guy's complete mental breakdown, Danny and Jack laughed out loud. "Relax, man, this is the Vitamin B12 we asked the nurse for. It's said to help you get better soon."
"I can promise you that. I guarantee it with half the credibility of a medical examiner." Jack uncuffed him, patted his shoulder with a smile, and then the two of them walked away, leaving Marku stunned.
We found the buyer. The Los Angeles office just sent us information. It's an extremist separatist group in Russia called the Ingush Group. Photos will be sent to everyone's phones immediately.
Last year, these guys blew up a bus stop in Moscow."
Standing on the second floor of a burger restaurant in International Plaza in downtown Honolulu, the bald, large Hannah glanced at Danny and gossiped with curiosity.
"Are you and that young FBI agent really related? Why don't I see anything in common between you two?"
"First of all, we're not related by blood. Jack's father is my childhood friend. Secondly, neither height nor driving skills are absolutely hereditary." Danny clearly knew what he was talking about.
Hannah, exposed, smirked and stopped the discussion, asking everyone on the channel, "G, how's the situation over there?"
Cheng Hao was in G. Karen's group, and the two were on standby near a fountain in the center of the market.
"No sign of Comescu," Karen said, complaining somewhat discontentedly, "I should have been the one questioning the driver."
"The FBI Hawaii office already had to pay for the extra car repairs. I don't think they'll pay for a hospital ward destroyed by a human tornado.
Or perhaps NCIS wouldn't mind paying a small fee?" Jack, perched on a rooftop, surveying the market from above through a telescope, retorted.
Frankly, Karen's involvement in the entire operation was a favor to a certain old lady; he definitely couldn't get involved in matters related to the confession.
Beating up that Marku was a minor issue. Given the deep personal grudge between Comescu and Karen, a report involving three departments working together would be extremely troublesome and would easily be criticized later.
Before Jack lay a Mk12 SPR sniper rifle, one of the sniper rifles that Steve McGarrett had just transferred from the Navy after Jack complained about the poor quality of the "Five-O" equipment.
This sniper rifle was essentially still an AR-15, but with a match-grade, free-floating stainless steel heavy barrel and a 77-grain (5g) Mk262 match-grade hollow-point bullet, it was more than adequate for close-range sniping missions in urban warfare.
(End of Chapter)