Deliverance is my 27th published fanfic, and my first in the 'Lewis' fandom!
It's set entirely in the Third Person's Point of View, and will eventually become James Hathaway/Robert Lewis, though warning in advance, it's a slow build! The first 13 (I think!) chapters are pretty violent and rather dark and involves many delightful torture scenes!
And now... I think that's pretty much all the warnings I can give without spoiling the plot!
Hope you enjoy, and please leave reviews! (I reply!)
Rachel :D
Chapter 1
A black Jaguar sped through the narrow Oxford streets, buildings blurring past on both sides, cars blowing horns and people shouting in alarm and leaping to the side to avoid it. Sirens blared loudly from the vehicle, the tell-tale red and blue lights flashing in warning. The driver, a man in his mid-thirties, stared ahead of him, face set in a grim, serious expression as the car spun with a screech of rubber tires on tarmac pavement, leaping from St Aldates onto Speedwell Street, a two-lane narrow street that took all his attention to keep the car steady on.
He had gotten the call only half an hour ago, and he ran his hand through blonde hair in worry.
He was going to be late.
Quickly gripping the wheel as the car shuddered slightly, he yanked it to the left and maneuvered a sharp U-turn onto the A420, ignoring the blaring of horns from all sides.
He didn't have much time.
Blue eyes studied the road in front of him, dark shadows thrown across the car, broken only by the occasional streetlight placed every few meters.
He was almost there.
Arriving at the next junction, he slammed the pedal to the floor of the car to narrowly avoid an oncoming truck, urging the car to come on push on hurry up faster faster faster!
He took the bend too fast.
Car serving, he jerked the wheel sharply, trying to regain control of the car as they approached Folly Bridge.
Folly.
How ironic.
The Jaguar skidded to the side, brakes locking and steering lost, and for one short frozen moment, the blonde in the front watched the barrier approach in silent horror, before the front of the car caught on the pavement and lurched. The back of the car was flung forwards and flipped in mid-air, the driver losing consciousness the second his head hit the windscreen, tossed about inside the vehicle like a ragdoll. The Jaguar smashed through the weak barrier with a painful screech of metal on metal, its own momentum throwing it over the bridge's railing and sending it spiralling into the dark murky waters of the Thames below.
There was a monumental splash, the creaking of a broken barrier, and then-
Silence.
Gurdip sighed as the dark-coloured car was finally towed from the river, smashed windscreen, ripped tires, mangled doors and all.
He glanced down at his watch.
10pm.
Drunk driver?
Shaking his head, he looked back up as the tow-truck began beeping loudly as it backed up, dragging the unrecognisable car with it. The firefighters on scene immediately began rushing over and yelling- "There's someone still in there!"
A welder, sparks, and many minutes later, they managed to take off the driver's door, and a distorted body fell out.
Gurdip's expression twisted to one of disgust at the sight of twisted legs and bloody arms.
Poor sod wasn't even wearing a seatbelt.
As they carefully removed the body from the crash site, something black and thick, like a wallet, fell from his pocket. Reaching down, the firefighter picked it up with a frown, flipping it open to reveal a gold badge inside.
He swallowed thickly, before turning his gaze to the officer standing at the edge of the crime scene. The man met his gaze evenly, before frowning, and taking a step forwards.
He waved him closer.
"Something wrong?" the Detective asked, and the fireman slowly held out the black leather, "... I'm sorry".
Gurdip cautiously took the wallet, knowing that look on the other man's face, knowing that feeling of cool dread settling in his stomach, knowing that badge number.
He stared at the familiar five-digit number for a solid minute, not wanting to realise what they mean, no wanting to admit that this is from his precinct, not wanting to know who they've just lost to something as stupid as reckless driving.
Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath before turning the badge and flipping open the ID card.
An even more familiar face stared right back at him.
His gaze snapped back to the destroyed car still pouring out water, and amongst the wreck he was able to make out the registration number.
OV25 ZMO.
Christ.
Gurdip was faintly aware of the badge falling from his hands, and his knees buckled at the same time he laid eyes on the corpse, mangled beyond all recognition, lying on the cold ground a few meters from the crash site.
Pale skin, blonde hair, lithe build.
Oh Christ.
He just about managed to jerk himself to the side before his stomach lurched and he vomited up coffee and a half-digested bagel.
It couldn't be- It can't be- be-
He felt a warm hand rest on his shoulder, and suddenly there was a worried face kneeling in front of him, saying something.
"-ergeant! Sir! Sir, are you alright?!"
He reached up and wiped a shaking hand across his mouth as he jerkily nodded.
"Here, let me help you get up".
A second hand joined the first, this one on his opposite shoulder, as the firefighter who'd handed him the badge to begin with dragged him to his feet.
Once somewhat steady, the man let go.
"Sir, do you need an ambulance?"
He shook his head, not trusting his voice right now as his traitorous gaze drifted back to the body lying still only five meters away-
"Sir!"
The fireman stepped in front of him, blocking his view of the dead blonde, and he hoped to god that the dark night hid his glistening eyes from view.
"Can I help you with anything?"
Gurdip shook his head once more, "I... I k-know him. I need to- to- I need to make a c-call".
He nodded reassuringly, and gently pushed the officer in the opposite direction of- of-
He needed to ring Innocent.
On the cold ground below, going unnoticed by both men, nestled in the wet grass and cool with the falling dew, lay the black and gold badge, still open and facing the stars above, the ID faintly visible only by the light of the moon. A photo of the car's owner was printed on one side, fair hair and a half-frown marring his handsome features, and the man's details were printed on the other. And there, directly across from those serious blue eyes, was the police officer's name, printed in thick block letters.
James Hathaway.
