"I'm so sorry, Jane," Oliver apologized for the fifth time. "I didn't mean to drag you into this, and I had no idea, of course, that they'd know you..."
Jane tuned him out. It didn't matter how Oliver's smarmy arms-dealing former associates had gotten their hands on them, once they'd recognized "Remi," they'd realized they could get a lot more for ransoming her back to Shepherd than they'd get from kidnapping Oliver now-Kind.
He continued to ramble on in the accent she used to find appealing but now found rather grating, while Jane struggled with the ropes that bound her wrists. They were very tight. Too tight for her to slip out of, even if she dislocated her thumb. She studied the room again. They'd been dumped in some sort of basement. The lone window was high off the floor and blocked by iron bars sunk into the cement window casing. The rest of the room was basically bare, nothing sharp that she could use to cut her bindings.
They'd thrown Oliver onto the cement floor a few feet away from her. She pulled herself up into a sitting position and used her bound hands and feet to awkwardly inchworm her way toward him.
He was still laying on his side, showing little interest in what she was trying to do. "Roll over," she interrupted him when he paused for a breath.
"I— What?"
"Roll over. Let me see if I can untie you."
He looked surprised but did as she asked.
She craned her wrists behind her, trying to trace the lines of rope so she could undo the knot she couldn't see.
"What do you think they're going to do with us?" he asked her.
She bit back the snarky response that jumped to her lips and muttered, "Hush, don't move," instead as she worked on the knots behind his wrists.
Unless she came up with some sort of plan, they were both a few hours away from ending up dead. There was little reason for Shepherd to pay to ransom Jane off, when it would be easier just to let these goons kill her. Of course, she might want to make sure the job was done right, which meant that Sandstorm would show up, kill the goons, and then kill Jane. Oliver's odds were slightly better, she decided as she worked. He was apparently worth serious money, so there was a chance they'd hang on to him until whoever coughed up the money to get him back.
He so wasn't worth dying for.
She should have taken Zapata's advice. Single was definitely safer. And Weller hadn't been entirely wrong, she concluded grimly. Oliver wasn't Sandstorm, but she should have been more careful. She wondered morbidly if he'd be sad if she died, or just angry that she'd been taken in so easily.
She'd barely managed to loosen the knot slightly when the lock on the door clicked, and the steel door swung open with a protesting screech.
"On your feet," ordered the huge goon she recognized as the one who'd bound her wrists. "Against the wall." He gestured with his handgun to make sure they understood that he meant business.
This wasn't good.
She sat up as slowly as she could, stalling for time.
"Hurry up."
"I've lost feeling in my feet," she shot back. "These ropes are too tight."
"Doesn't matter now," he muttered, reaching down with a beefy arm to yank Oliver up and shove him toward the wall.
Oliver wobbled and gave a little hop, his shoulder hitting the wall and keeping him upright.
The goon didn't move to help Jane. Apparently her reputation as Remi preceded her.
"Up," he said, keeping the gun trained on her.
She pulled her feet under her, inching into a crouch, taking as much time as she dared. She was under no illusion here— this guy wasn't the brains of the operation. He'd been sent for one reason only. As soon as she was standing up there next to Oliver, Mr. No-Neck with the gun was going to put a bullet in each of their heads.
###
"You're too late," sneered the greasy-looking son of a bitch who was apparently in charge of this band of sleaze-bags.
Weller resisted— barely— the urge to punch him in the gut hard enough to rearrange his internal organs. Jane was somewhere in this abandoned hotel, and he was more than willing to take every one of these assholes apart with his bare hands if that's what it took to find her.
It had taken them all day to track her and Oliver to this location, and he knew she was close by. He could feel it. But they'd swept through all the rooms upstairs when they'd raided the building, and Jane and Oliver were nowhere to be found.
Zapata tightened greasy's cuffs with a gleam in her eye and a sharp jerk of her wrist that made him wince.
"Where. Are. They?" Weller's voice was closer to a growl.
Greasy didn't look impressed. "They're both dead by now anyway."
Reade shoved one of greasy's newly-handcuffed associates toward them. The man was sporting a newly blackened eye and walked with a painful limp. "This one says they're in the basement," Reade said, as he shoved him out the door and toward the collection of law enforcement vehicles parked haphazardly out front.
Weller didn't wait for anyone else, but he heard Roman's footsteps echoing behind him as he sprinted toward the stairwell.
He was only halfway down the cement stairs when he heard a gunshot, followed a moment later by a second. And then silence.
Two gunshots. Two prisoners.
He hit the door at the bottom of the stairs hard enough to slam it into the cinderblock wall behind it.
There were several doors leading off the hallway, but there was light spilling out from only the door at the end, so that's where he ran.
Not too late, nottoolate.
He launched himself through the door and stopped.
On the far side of the room, Jane was kneeling on the windpipe of a brute whose face was rapidly turning a violent shade of purple. An abandoned handgun lay on the floor a few feet away.
The relief that swept through him was so intense that his legs threatened to give out for a moment.
"Kurt!" Jane's chin jerked up and eyes widened when she saw him.
For a second, he stood still, his eyes sweeping over her. Her face was bruised, blood welling slowly from a cut over her eye, and her arms were tied behind her, forcing her shoulders back at an awkward angle, but she was alive.
Weller kicked the gun out of the way, then grabbed Jane and yanked her to her feet and into his arms.
"I'm okay," she mumbled into his chest.
He let himself close his eyes for just a second, holding her close and inhaling deeply. He could smell sweat and blood and the faint hint that he recognized as her shampoo, but she was alive, and that was the only thing that mattered.
He leaned back just far enough to look at her again, needing to see her green eyes looking back at him to reassure him that she was okay. "You scared the shit out of me," he told her.
"Sorry. This wasn't my idea."
For the first time, he noticed Oliver Kind leaning against the wall behind them, looking like he was close to peeing his pants.
Kurt glared at him, and Oliver's face paled a little more.
Roman walked around them and firmly planted one foot on the chest of Jane's assailant, who had moved to reach for the gun. His color had faded slightly, but his eyes widened as Roman casually pinned him to the ground with the heel of his boot. He tried to complain but couldn't manage more than an aggrieved gurgle.
Ignoring the man's struggles, Roman leaned over and untied the ropes around Jane's wrists.
Reluctantly, Kurt let go of her so she could bring her arms up in front of her and rub feeling back into her wrists.
"Thanks," she said to Roman and then looked back at Kurt. "How'd you find us?"
"Patterson," he said succinctly, and she grinned.
"Come on, let's get you back upstairs. The rest of the team is worried about you."
She looked so touched, as though she was surprised that they'd found her. Or was she surprised that they'd gone looking? As if he would just let someone take her away from him?
Roman produced a pair of handcuffs—although Kurt didn't remember handing him any—and slapped them on the guy on the floor before yanking him to his feet with one arm.
Jane bent down and untied the rope around her legs, and then walked over to do the same for Oliver, which was enough to startle him into speech.
"Jane, I'm so sorry." He looked over at Kurt, a hint of alarm in his face. "I had no idea they'd involve your sister in this."
Kurt frowned at him, as Roman bit out, "My sister."
Oliver looked at Roman. "I'm sorry?"
"She's my sister. And you're lucky that it's not entirely your fault." Roman shoved the now-restrained brute in front of him, effortlessly handling his significant bulk. The unfriendly look on his scarred face as he regarded Oliver made the smaller man swallow and look back to Jane.
"I'm so sorry—"
Jane's face flinched in annoyance, and Weller had heard enough. He turned around to face Oliver fully. "You—"
Jane's hand on his arm stopped him before he could deck the guy. "Kurt," she said softly, looking up at him.
His hand uncurled from a fist as he stared at her, acquiescing to the plea in her green eyes. He drew a deep breath and stepped back.
Jane smiled at him and nodded slightly, thanking him silently.
And then she turned and punched Oliver in the nose.
"Aaaggh!" he yelled, clapping his hands over his face.
Roman snorted.
Jane turned back to Kurt. "That one was mine."
And then he gave in to the urge that he'd been repressing since he'd walked into the room. He leaned forward, cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her. Not a friendly kiss, not a soft kiss. More of a "Dear God, I love this woman, and I don't give a damn who knows" kiss. He curled his fingers into her hair, stroked his thumbs behind her ears, and kissed her like she was the oxygen he needed to survive.
And Jane kissed him back. She wrapped her arms around his waist and kissed him back like she never intended to let him go.
"I dink she broke my node," complained a voice behind them.
"You're lucky," drawled Roman. "I've seen her kill men with less effort than that."
Finally force to separate for air, Jane drew back and looked up at him, her eyes soft and misty.
"Come on," he muttered gruffly, wrapping his arm firmly around her waist. "Let's go home."