"I know I resent the fact that you’re in there while I’m cooped up in a car with nothing but a tape recorder and bad takeout. What law requires the driver of a forklift to be male anyway?"
The newest addition to the RCI warehouse staff couldn’t help but grin at his wife’s grousing.
"The forklift isn’t always available, you know. I didn’t hear you complaining when I was hauling those crates around yesterday. Besides, I feel like you’re right beside me thanks to this nifty new equipment. I’m almost disappointed no one has been curious enough to ask about the receiver so I can throw the switch and turn it into a real radio."
An unconvinced sniff came through the pipephone in his ear. "Well, I hope Vinnie Prescott shows up soon. I have no desire whatsoever to stay in this car for the whole night on top of being stuck here the entire day. Didn’t you say the shipment has already arrived?"
"That’s what I’m moving around right now. Hey, Artie, where do you want this one?"
Laura heard the foreman’s voice naming an area in the warehouse, the faint whirring of the forklift, then a shrill female voice cut through the air with a hair-raising, "ARTIE!"
"Maureen?" asked Laura.
"Who else?" Steele replied, spying her emerge from the warehouse office. "I thought stiletto heels went out of fashion already." The clicking of heels on the ground got steadily louder.
"Artie, there’s a bunch of suits in the office looking for you," Maureen called out.
"Suits? What would they want with me?" Artie sounded annoyed.
"How should I know?" Maureen bestowed an overbright smile on the forklift operator. "Hi, Johnny."
"Hello, Maureen, how are we doing today?" Steele greeted her back.
"Better now that I’ve seen you."
"Slut," said a barely audible voice through the earphone. Involuntarily, "Johnny Todd" broke into a grin, which Maureen naturally assumed was for her.
"You’re much too cute to be a forklift operator, Johnny," Maureen drawled as she draped herself in front of the forklift.
"I always thought so."
Laura rolled her eyes. Much to her annoyance, the flirtatious banter continued until Artie came back on the scene with the aforementioned suits. Laura heard him give Steele directions to move and then help open one of the crates.
"I still don’t see why you need to do this," Artie said, "We’ve never had any trouble with the law before."
A male voice answered. "And I’m sorry to say it doesn’t matter. We’ve got a search warrant; we’re just trying to do our jobs."
Laura’s pulse quickened as she realized what they were waiting for had finally happened. She checked if the recorder was running and wondered what her partner was doing.
Steele slouched down as much as he could while he pried the crate’s lid off with a crowbar. He recognized the policeman (now openly in uniform) and another man from the bar among the four now claiming to be narcotics officers. He wished he could tell Laura what was going on, but that would have to wait. He pulled his cap lower.
The crate’s lid came off, and the pleasant aroma of coffee that had lingered in the air all day now seemed to explode from the opening.
"Step back," the policeman said. He began sifting through the coffee grounds. Minutes later, he fished out what looked like a half-kilogram packet of white powder.
Artie’s face became almost as pale as the powder. "This… this is a mistake! It’s gotta be! I – it’s – this load just arrived. I mean, I––"
"Well, this sure don’t look like talcum to me," one of the suits commented, taking the packet from the cop.
"I don’t believe this is happening!" Artie cried. "We’ve been importing coffee from these guys for months now. There’s never been any problems…"
"Have you ever met your supplier?"
"Of course not, they’re in fuckin’ Colombo or someplace like that. I don’t deal with those guys. I just manage the warehouse, you know? Oh shit… What the hell am I gonna do?"
"We’re gonna have to confiscate the goodies," the officer declared. "You got anybody around here to help us?"
A wild-eyed Artie cast a frantic look towards Steele and Maureen, who was uncharacteristically shocked into silence. "No, my people just took off for lunch except for Johnny here. Shit, I don’t know anything about this, I swear to God! Maureen, you better call the boss."
The other man from the bar spoke up. "Yes, you go do that, lady. Mr…?" he prompted, gesturing towards Steele.
"Todd."
"Mr. Todd can help my men round up the merchandise. Meanwhile Officer Bentley and I have some more questions for the foreman." He looked oddly at Steele for a moment before turning in Artie’s direction.
The two men who began "rounding up the merchandise" might as well have had the word "MOB" emblazoned on their foreheads in flashing neon lights, at least as far as the undercover detective was concerned. Steele’s attempts to draw them into conversation. ("So you’re with the Narcotics Squad, eh?") received no more than a token grunt now and then.
Dying to be in on the action, Laura let out another frustrated sigh inside the car. She could hear what was being said, but Steele had turned on the radio at his end just to be safe. He whispered updates whenever he was far enough from the mob boys to do so. Suddenly, Laura heard Artie’s voice again, apparently at close range.
"Johnny, listen to me. I think I’ve come to an arrangement with Officer Marley and Agent Thomson. They say after their investigation, if they’re convinced we had nothing to do with all of this, we can walk away clean. They’ve had cases where the shippers, that’s us, never even found out about drugs planted in their merchandise –– like the smugglers plant the stuff at the point of origin and find some way to pick it up at the other end without anybody bein’ the wiser. They’ll start digging in South America and they’re also gonna check out the guys we’re selling this to. For now, they’re just gonna confiscate the stuff. We have to keep this quiet. I don’t want any of the other boys to know what happened here today. Are we clear on that?"
"No problem, Artie," Steele answered, thinking to himself, "If only you had any idea what the real narc squad did. We’d all be halfway to the station for questioning by now."
The phony agent and cop tandem came over, while the other two left the warehouse with the packets they’d gathered. Thomson addressed Artie.
"Mr.Willis, I don’t think we will be able to finish extracting all the merchandise before your men come back from lunch. We’ll bring in more of our people to continue after hours. Tell your boss we’ll also talk to him then. In the meantime, we’ll be stationed nearby watching your warehouse, so don’t get any ideas. As for you, Mr. Todd…"
He stopped short and stared at Steele once again. "Wait. Now I remember. That’s why you look so familiar. You were at Vinnie’s the other night, weren’t you?"
"Oh, no!" Laura jumped in her seat and hit her head on the rearview mirror, but she barely noticed. She heard her husband say casually, "Vinnie’s? What’s that?"
As if on cue, the look of recognition spread to Officer Marley’s face. "Yeah… were you the one with that broad who came up to the judge claiming to be a fan of his!"
"You must have mistaken me for someone else."
"I never forget a face," Thomson said. "How long has this man worked for you, Mr. Willis?"
Artie look more confused than ever. "Johnny? I just hired him a couple of days ago."
"Uh-huh, I knew it. I think we may have found our culprit. Mr. ‘Todd’, why don’t you come along with us now –– nice and easy, or we can do this the hard way too. It’s up to you."
"Johnny? What the hell are they talking about?" the clueless foreman asked.
"I have no idea, Artie," Steele answered, "but it looks like I’ll have to go with them for now. No need for the cuffs." He tried to shrug out of Officer Marley’s grip on his arm, but apparently the lack of cuffs was the only concession they were willing to make.
Laura was about to gun the engine in pursuit of some half-formed plan in her mind to sweep in front of the warehouse and whisk her partner out of harm’s way, when what came over the receiver made her drop the car keys.
"You’re Remington Steele." It was the voice of Agent Thomson, and it was not a question. "Don’t bother to deny it. I said I never forget a face. A friend of mine ended up in the joint because of you. A very good friend."
Hearing the tone of his voice, Steele didn’t bother to argue and kept silent.
"What about that woman you were with? Where is she?"
"How should I know? She was just someone I met that night and paid to go over to your table."
"Nice try, Steele. You think I was born yesterday? I’ve read about you and your prized female associate. Isn’t she your wife or something now? Well, I hope you said a proper goodbye this morning coz I don’t think I even care how much you know about our little operation here…. you’re not going home to the missus tonight."
There were about 20 feet from the door of the warehouse. Steele suddenly threw an elbow into Thomson’s smirking mug with his free arm, then turned to drive a knee into Marley’s stomach. Another blow to the back of the neck and Marley went down. Steele whirled in time to knock the gun out of Thomson’s hand and dealt him a roundhouse across the jaw before sprinting out of the warehouse.
"Laura, I’m out…"
Behind him, he heard Marley shout someone’s name. He spotted the dark sedan parked across the street but didn’t locate the driver until the first shot rang out. The next few came in quick succession.
He stumbled, crashing into a row of boxes piled high on the sidewalk. Cursing at the blocked escape route, he changed direction and bolted towards the alley at the side of the warehouse.
"Laura, I can’t put on the earphones yet. Let me find a safe hideaway first."
Relief washed over Laura upon hearing his voice. She didn’t even know she had been holding her breath since the scuffle started.
Steele skirted along the alley and ducked into the warehouse next door. He weaved through the rows of merchandise, wishing it wasn’t lunch hour so that he’d at least have some human distractions for the mob boys. In the distance, he heard them come through the same door he did and exchange muffled instructions. He paused to scan the rest of the warehouse floor, dug the earphone out of his chest pocket and switched the receiver back on.
"Laura, I’m back Can you hear me?"
"Loud and clear! Are you all right?"
"Yes, but it might be a good idea to call the police. They’re hot on my heels," he began moving again. His hand reached over to rub the growing numb spot under his ribs, presumably the beginnings of a nasty bruise from falling onto those boxes on the sidewalk. He stopped cold in his tracks.
Almost the entire left side of the white crewneck he’d worn underneath his flannel shirt had turned red. His hand came away glistening with blood.
"Good Lord," he gulped before he could stop himself.
"What’s the matter?"
Her voice cut through the curtain of shock that gripped him. Laura. If she knew he’d been shot, he wouldn’t be able to stop her from coming after him. If she was seen by Thomson or Marley… no, he couldn’t risk having both of them on the run from those Godfather wannabes. He didn’t know how long he could hide it from her, and she would want to kill him when she finally found out, but perhaps by the time she got to him, she’d be more preoccupied with trying to save him first before she tried to kill him.
"You–– you better call the police," he repeated. "And stay put in the car while I try to find a way to get to a place where you can pick me up."
"Is something wrong?" Laura asked again, the note of urgency stronger in her voice.
"I just can’t see any decent spots to lie low around here," he said evasively. "I might not be able to talk if they get near me, so don’t worry if I suddenly don’t answer you." He tied his shirt tails around his waist in an effort to staunch the blood flow and was barely able to suppress a gasp of pain. It occurred to him that the numbness would wear off soon.
He heard Laura giving directions to the authorities over the car phone as he went towards the back of the warehouse. Spotting an empty soda can on the floor, he picked it up and hurled it as far away from him as he could. Maybe it would buy him some time.
"The police are on their way," Laura said. "Where are you?"
"I’m somewhere near the back of the warehouse. There’s a hallway… additional storerooms, if I’m not mistaken."
He was breathing too hard and hoped that Laura didn’t notice. The first few doors were locked, and the ones that were open, vacant. He finally slipped into a room filled with empty and half-empty crates.
"Laura, I can’t find the back door, but I’m in a storeroom with some empty crates. I think I’ll just… stay here until they go away."
Laura’s fingers drummed on the steering wheel. "I thought you wanted me to pick you up. Are you sure?" She couldn’t shake the feeling that he was hiding something. And why was he breathing so hard?
"It seems to be the best way right now," Steele made his way to the farthest corner and chose one crate that was stacked on top of two others. He pulled himself up, a hand gingerly bracing his left side, but couldn’t prevent a groan from escaping his lips.
"What’s wrong with you?" demanded the voice in his ear.
"Laura, I ––" He finished sliding the cover off his chosen hiding place, irritated at how heavy it seemed when he’d lifted half a dozen just like it this morning. His shirt tails had already turned red as well, and he took care not to leave any bloodstains. No sense leaving a trail for the hounds to follow.
"Dammit, answer me!" Her tone made her husband grateful she was not with him at the moment. "You’re hurt, aren’t you?" She knew what the answer was, just listening to the ragged breaths he took.
Suddenly, he felt too tired to make up an excuse. "Yes."
Without waiting for his explanation, she gunned the engine and practically roared out of the alley where she’d parked.
Steele stepped into the crate, relieved that he didn’t have to hide another gasp of pain when he lifted his leg. He could only manage to replace the cover partway and gratefully sat down inside the crate to catch his breath.
"Laura, please," he pleaded. "Don’t come after me yet. Call the paramedics. Wait for the police. Please. If those men recognize you as well…" he closed his eyes and sighed. It wasn’t going to do any good, but he had to try and talk some sense into her.
"Where are you?" she asked, her voice harsh.
"Listen to me, it’s not as… serious as you probably imagine. I don’t –– I didn’t even… feel it at first. It’s below my rib cage, so nowhere… fatal. I’ll be fine. Stay where you are… darling, please."
She stopped the car down the street from RCI’s warehouse. Observing the dark sedan Steele noticed earlier, she picked up the car phone and dialled 911. Her hand trembled, and she told herself it was anger.
"I hear someone at the door," Steele said as Laura finished the call. His breathing quieted, but didn’t slow.
Quickly, she separated the communications equipment from the bulky tape recorder and slipped the portable receiver into her pocket. She grabbed a first aid kit from the glove compartment and a jacket before getting out of the car.
Steele listened anxiously to the sound of crates being opened and closed around the storeroom. He didn’t trust himself to move without giving himself away; merely prayed that the strength he had left would be enough to give this bastard a surprise or two. The footsteps moved steadily closer.
Then, blessedly, the sound of police sirens drifted in.
"Tony!" a voice called from the hallway. "Let’s get outta here. I hear the cops."
The man in the room hesitated. "I know he’s in here." He opened a crate so near Steele, Laura could hear the clatter when the lid fell back in place.
"C’mon, man, forget it!" the voice insisted. Tony reluctantly obliged.
Steele waited until they were out of earshot before heaving a sigh of relief. "They’re gone."
"Where are you?" she asked again.
"Laura…"
"Don’t argue with me. You need first aid, and someone has to tell the paramedics where you are," she said as she walked past RCI.
"At least wait… till Thomson and Marley have left! They might see you."
At the precise moment he said it, she saw two men emerge from the warehouse through the side door in the alley. She ignored them as best she could and sauntered past like a warehouse employee. Heading towards the main doors in front, she prayed that the two men from the bar would also take the side exit.
Her luck held until she was about ten yards from the door. Shouts of recognition came from the general direction of the alley. Without looking back, she sprinted through the front entrance and hoped they wouldn’t bother coming after her.
They didn’t. The police sirens were louder now.
"I’m inside the warehouse. Which way do I go?"
Steele shook his head in resignation. Why did he even bother talking her out of this?
"Towards the back," he said. "Hallway…" He thought about getting out of the crate to meet her. His entire left side throbbed in rhythm to the pounding of his own heart. When he moved, blood seemed to gush out into his hand, making him feel even more light-headed.
Laura ran all the way to the back of the huge warehouse, feeling a touch of panic when there was no hallway to be seen, only a sea of boxes and a couple of forklifts lined up against the wall.
"What hall–– ?" Suddenly she saw it, tucked away in the far left corner. "Never mind."
She raced towards it and encountered the same set of locked doors and vacant rooms he’d tried earlier. "Dammit, which door is it?" she practically growled into the microphone.
He was pushing the cover above him and it chose that precise moment to come crashing down the side of the crate. The sound pointed Laura to the right door, but did nothing to alleviate her anxiety.
"What happened? Where are you?"
Steele heard the panic in her voice and felt a stab of guilt. "Just... trying to get out of the crate."
She burst into the storeroom then. Her eyes swept rapidly over the collection of wooden containers but she still couldn’t find him. "Harry?!"
"Over here... corner," said the voice in her ear.
"Which corner?"
"Turn right."
She turned. "Keep talking to me."
Soon, her eyes spotted his dark head bobbing above the rim of his hiding place, then his back emerged from the crate. She never remembered how she got to his side. Suddenly he was turning towards her while still standing inside the crate and his right arm pulled her into a tight embrace. He flinched from the pain as she hugged him back, but refused to let her pull away. She was here. It didn’t matter.
"Hey," he whispered.
She touched his face, dismayed to find how pale he was and how cold the skin felt under her touch. She looked at the hand covering his left side–– a crimson mess of blood and fabric. Something in her own chest ached.
"C’mon, let’s get you out of here," she said.
With one arm on Laura’s shoulders, Steele gingerly got out of the crate and they slowly clambered down the ones below it. She made him lie down on the first available stretch of bare floor they came across. He didn’t protest.
"I liked this better… when it was numb all over," he professed with a weak grin.
Laura lost no time breaking out the first aid kit. They both knew that even if the bullet hadn’t hit a vital organ, loss of blood could just as easily kill him. She cut away at his clothes, then gritted her teeth at the sight of the ugly wound below his left rib cage.
He, in turn, watched her face uneasily. "Did they see you?" he asked, trying to divert attention from himself.
"Yes, but it was too late. The police was almost here," she replied, noting that she wouldn’t have time to do any cleaning up. She’d have to apply pressure soon.
"So they... didn’t follow you?"
"No." Without warning, she pressed down.
"Owww!" He jumped so violently, she nearly lost her grip. Sweat poured down his face, and he had to take several deep breaths before his back came into contact with the floor again.
"Sorry," she said with a worried frown. His eyes were closed, and he seemed to be fighting to stay conscious. She gripped his hand. It was cold and clammy.
The pain receded to a dull throb. Those blue eyes flickered open.
"I... definitely... liked this better... numb."
She smiled in relief. "We have to keep the pressure up; you’re bleeding too much," she explained, although she knew she didn’t need to.
He nodded wordlessly, and she pressed down again. His involuntary gasp tugged at her heart. She knew she couldn’t afford to waste any more time before going to get the paramedics. There was only so much she could do with the first aid kit, and it wouldn’t be enough to save him. But how could she leave him like this? She squeezed his hand, then used it to replace her own to cover the wound.
"I have to find the paramedics and tell them where you are," she said, but didn’t move a muscle.
He noticed her hesitation and smiled –– reassuringly, he hoped. "Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere."
"You better not!" she threatened, smoothing back the dark hair that clung to a forehead slick with perspiration. She bent down and kissed him deeply. "Don’t you dare go anywhere," she thought to herself.
When she lifted her head, he saw that her eyes were unnaturally bright.
"If this... is supposed to relax me..."
She chuckled. Trust him to try to make her laugh at a time like this. "You get another one if you keep yourself awake till I get back."
"Just one?"
"Well, that depends on how much energy you still have."
"Bribery, Mrs. Steele?" he grinned.
"Anything to keep you from passing out," she admitted.
"I like your methods."
She just had to kiss him again. Then she took off her jacket and covered him with it. "If all else fails, apply pressure," she said, picking up his hand and demonstrating.
He grimaced. He really wasn’t sure if he could manage to stay conscious. As it is, the room spun above him whenever the pain hit.
"Promise me you’ll stay awake?" she asked.
"I love you."
"I love you too. Now promise me."
Of course she’d see right through his attempt to avoid giving his word. He wanted to laugh, but it hurt. "Alright. I promise."
She planted a kiss on his forehead and was gone.
Lacking the need to put up a brave front for Laura, he lay on the floor and let the fatigue and cold envelop him for the first time. He shuddered violently and felt more alone than he’d ever felt for a long time. No, not alone... scared.
He’d been here before –– staring death in the face –– and he’d always laughed his way out of it. Danced, even. Why did it have to be different this time?
He sighed. A rhetorical question, that one.
It was ironic that this happened so soon after they’d talked of the possibility. And why did it have to happen now, when it mattered most to both of them? A year earlier, maybe they could still walk away with their hearts barely intact, but now...
As he hovered precariously on the edges of consciousness, he began sifting through the most vivid memories of their relationship. Tentative for so long, passionate of late, but always eventful ––Remington Steele thought of the day he walked into her office as Benjamin Pearson and how far they had come since then.
In contrast, Laura’s thoughts assiduously avoided the memories as she dashed through the warehouse. He was worse off than he’d let on and she had expected that, but the sight of his pale, weakened state still shocked and upset her. How long had it been since he was hit? Ten, fifteen minutes? More? Each additional second put his life in greater danger, and she rued every floor inch she had to cross just to get outside.
Two patrol cars were parked in front of RCI, but no ambulance.
"Where’s the paramedics?" she demanded of the policeman standing on the curb.
"On their way, Miss..."
"My husband was shot. Can someone come with me so you’ll know where to direct the paramedics later?"
The policeman knew the tone well enough to act first and ask questions later. He and his partner followed Laura back into the warehouse, running to keep up with her the whole way.
"He’s in here," she announced at the door of the storeroom. The second policeman nodded and turned back; the other went in with the lady who still hadn’t spared the time to introduce herself.
Laura knelt, out of breath, beside her husband’s unmoving form. She didn’t think it was possible for him to look any paler, but she was wrong. His head was turned to one side; his eyes closed.
"No," she uttered, looking stricken. Her hands immediately flew to check the pulse in his neck, and she felt him stir at her touch.
"Open your eyes!" she pleaded, knowing that once he lost consciousness, the chances of him waking up was practically nil. "You promised…"
Her voice blended into the haze of pictures and scenes that were tumbling through his mind. Promises… yes, he vaguely remembered promising Laura something just now...
"Wake up and look at me, damn you!"
"I’m not asleep," he wanted to protest, but it was surprisingly difficult to open his eyes. He felt himself being shaken, then crudely lifted, causing pain to shoot up his side. A groan and several blinks later, he found himself lying in his wife’s lap and watched her break into a relieved smile above him.
"Thank God!" she exclaimed. "For a while, I thought… I was afraid… never mind." And she showered him with kisses. He remembered his promise then and smiled when his lips were free.
"How are you feeling?" she asked.
If it was difficult to open his eyes, it was even harder to talk. His throat was parched; his voice barely above a whisper. "Not… so good."
"Hang in there. I’m right here with you." She grasped his hand.
Coldness seeped all the way into his bones, and he shivered. "Laura, whatever happens…"
"Nothing is going to happen," she said vehemently. "You are going to go to the hospital, you’re going to get well, then you’re coming home with me and we’re going to take a long vacation together."
"Okay," he mumbled. His eyes kept closing at their own volition. To make up for it, he tightened his grip on her hand. His own mortality never felt as palpable as it did at that moment. How many times had he wished in the past that, should anything like this happen, let it be to him and not Laura? Yet now he found that he couldn’t bear the anguish he spotted in her eyes. Lord knows the last thing he wanted was to hurt her, but blackness rapidly closed in on him and he knew with certain dread that he couldn’t fight it off much longer.
He was only half-aware that he began murmuring something over and over again… like a mantra, but more of a verbal lifeline to hang on to. A part of him knew he had to keep saying it while he still could.
Laura cradled his head, all but drowning in helplessness, frustration and fear. It was one thing to find him unconscious, and quite another to watch him struggling vainly not to slip away from her and unable to do a single thing about it.
She couldn’t make out what he was saying and leaned closer.
"–– you... Laura… I love you..."
A torrent of tears blurred her vision and cascaded down her cheeks. He never said it except for the most intimate of moments. He preferred less direct (and oftentimes more romantic) ways of expression. Instinctively, she knew he was saying it now for fear of leaving things unfinished.
Her whole being screamed against it. "Listen to me! You’re not going to die. You can’t do this to me! I am not letting you do this, do you hear me?"