K-0, 8PM Tuesday

"O'Hara!"

Juliet's heart was pounding. Her stomach was tight with the sick feeling of being awoken suddenly from sleep. She knew there was no way she'd actually heard her old partner's voice in her bedroom here in San Francisco. But it also didn't feel like a dream. Dream-Carlton did not stubbornly refuse to use her married name the same way his living counterpart did.

"Spencer was 'Spencer' first, you'll have to make do with 'O'Hara,'" Lassiter had said when asked. "Besides, now you know if I ever call you 'Spencer,' I'm speaking under duress even if I tell you everything is fine."

Juliet eased herself out of bed, not that anything short of a lightning strike could wake Shawn. The sense of uneasiness didn't fade after she went to the bathroom, so Juliet padded softly downstairs to make herself a cup of warm milk. She'd only went to bed a half an hour before, an early bedtime following an exhausting day. The night was still salvageable if she could just get back to sleep.

Juliet talked herself out of going upstairs and texting Lassiter three times. It was just a bad dream.

Her cell rang at one in the morning: Marlowe.

"Hi, Juliet," Marlowe's voice sounded as brittle as Juliet felt hearing it. It wasn't just a dream. "I feel silly asking... but did Carlton say anything about driving up to visit you? He hasn't come home, he isn't answering his phone, and Lilly is- She's never cried like this. I think something is wrong."

"You're not silly," Juliet said, shaking Shawn awake. "Something is definitely wrong. If you haven't heard from Carlton by morning, call Brannigan and report him missing. Call me as soon as you file so I can put in for emergency leave. Shawn and I will be there as soon as we can."

K+16: Noon, Wednesday

The rule of thumb for law enforcement was that if you didn't recover a missing person in the first forty-eight hours, you had best brace yourself not to find them at all. By the time they got to Santa Barbara, Carlton's car had already been found abandoned four blocks from the station with the airbag deployed. Brannigan had checked the SBPD server to find out when Carlton logged off and started pulling traffic camera footage.

They were well ahead of the usual timeline for a kidnapping. It still felt like too little, too late.

There was something like panic in the back of Juliet's mind, a real fear of which she'd never felt the like. Fury, too.

The tape wasn't promising: a flawless PIT maneuver to take out Carlton's car by a black Ford Denali with tinted windows and no plates. The driver and his two henchmen had been wearing masks. There was nothing polished about how they took Lassiter down when he fought back. The men were familiar enough with crime, but not professionals.

There was a black book full of suspects in Lassiter's desk drawer, names marked with stars.

2 AM, Wednesday

Lassiter struggled when they pulled him from the van, and made them work for every inch of ground thereafter as they pulled him to wherever his kidnappers planned to hold him. He shouted as loudly as his gagged mouth allowed, even though the amount of time he'd spent bound and blindfolded in the back of the vehicle meant there was probably no one around to hear him. He burned the sounds and smells of his journey into his mind.

Lassiter kicked one of his captors when they tried to tie him to a chair. He didn't hear the sound of breaking bone or joint, but as hard as he'd been hit in retribution the man would be walking with a limp. Probable cause, at the very least. Brannigan and O'Hara would be certain to follow up on his list of convictions.

At last the hood was pulled away by someone standing behind him. Carlton swallowed as best he could past the gag. It was time for the moment of truth: if his captor was masked, he intended to leave behind a witness.

Lassiter was in what looked like the remains of an old mill. It was Gold Rush era construction or later. There was a large water wheel with planks stretched across the water in front of the wheel. The wheel had restraints attached. The water was still, obviously dammed off from its source. Illumination was provided by floodlights on bright yellow stands like you'd find in a mechanic shop or construction site. The windows had been sealed shut with metal sheets cemented to the stone. The old wooden doors had been replaced with thick steel. The lock was a keypad. Lassiter could hear at least two generators outside. There was no way to tell what time it was.

Across from Lassiter there was an exposed mattress spring, manufactured before the industry had switched to enclosed box springs. There was a home-made control box next to it, connected to wires and a battery. Carlton knew the setup was called a parilla. He also knew enough about its operation to fear it. There were swooping lines and symbols painted (burned?) into the stone floor. The circle encompassed most of the space. At the circle's center a chain hung from the high ceiling.

Across from Carlton was another chair, this one without restraints, and a small reading stand. The reading stand held a slim black case of pre-filled hypodermic needles.

His captor removed the gag.

"Experts have proven torture is an unreliable method of gathering accurate intel," Lassiter growled.

"And a bright good morning to you as well, Chief." His captor walked around Carlton's chair to sit down. No mask. Lassiter didn't recognize him by name or context, but he did look vaguely familiar. His clothes were designed for physical exertion and were of a quality make. Of course, thugs and a torture chamber didn't come cheap, either. "That would be most relevant if it was information I was after."

His captor pulled an alcohol wipe from his back pocket and tore it open.

"The CIA is credited with inventing this technique. A barbituate in one arm, followed by an amphetamine in the other: a sort of... roller-coaster. There are only so many rounds one can take before the heart gives out, but don't worry. You're no use to me dead."

Lassiter had been tied with his hands facing palm up. When he'd been tied down, someone had slit his sleeves open almost to shoulder with some sort of sharp instrument. Now Carlton knew why. His captor used the alcohol wipe on the inside of Lassiter's elbows.

"If it's not information you're after, then what do you want, –?" Carlton drew out the pause at the end. His captor wouldn't be stupid enough to give his own name, but even an alias would be something.

"You can call me... 'Steve.' And I want you to do something for me that you don't want to do. So I'm going to hurt you. Then I'm going to give you a chance to make it stop. You'll probably refuse, of course. So I'll keep hurting you until you are pissing yourself and begging me for mercy." Steve picked up a needle from the left side of the case and uncapped it. "I'll offer again. Then you'll give me exactly what I want."

Lassiter's hands felt numb and he wanted desperately to throw up, but he kept his jaw set stubbornly. Whatever "Steve" wanted, there was a reason he thought Carlton would refuse even under threat of torture.

Steve slid the needle into Carlton's vein and depressed the plunger. The world slowly faded. For the moment, the dread faded with it.