Title: Take Your Time to Catch Your Breath (and Choose Your Moment)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Gen, Diana/Christie
Warnings: Violence, hurt/comfort
Spoilers: Minor for 3x16 "Judgment Day"
Beta: by fantastic mam711. And all remaining errors are mine.
A/N: Written for whitecollar h/c Whump-a-Palooza challenge.
Title from lyrics of "Slide" by Dido
Summary: This weekend wasn't going according to plan. Not at all.
It was Saturday morning when Diana finally arrived home after another long day and night at the office; criminals in the city didn't just take some days off because of Caffrey's disappearance. They still had investigations to do, paperwork to file, leads to follow. She was exhausted.
Walking softly into the bedroom, she smiled at Christie's curled form; she was in the middle of the bed hugging Diana's pillow—she did that often when she was away during the night. Before she managed to take another step, the alarm clock sounded. Christie moaned into the pillow, her left arm lifted and hit the off button with deadly precision; opening one eye she looked at the door.
"Hi, beautiful." Between the two of them, Christie was much more of a morning person than herself. "You're up awfully early today..."
Diana grimaced and took the last steps before lying on the bed, her head hitting the pillow Christie was hugging. "More like I'm not down yet." She yawned, closing her eyes, and with a deep sigh allowed her knotted muscles to relax. A finger poked her in her shoulder, followed by a kiss on her head.
"Come on, Di, I'm out in an hour for a full 24-hour shift today. Get up, take a refreshing shower, and eat breakfast with me. You can sleep all you want when I'm gone," Christie whispered into her ear, her warm breath tingling on Diana's cheek. "Keep me company, please?" she asked again, and then she was gone.
Diana could hear soft steps, a door opened and not fully closed, then a shower starting. Moaning, she hugged the pillow. Christie was right: she could take a refreshing shower, eat breakfast with her fiancée, and then fall asleep as soon as she left. Dragging herself off the bed, she let her jacket hit the floor.
It actually didn't end like Diana wished, but circumstances were not in her favor. She was too tired to protest when Christie pushed her under the warm stream of water and exited at the same time. Not even ten minutes later she joined her girlfriend in the kitchen, smiling slightly when a cup of fresh coffee was put in her hands.
They didn't even talk much, just enjoying the time they had together before Christie had to go out. Diana sent her off with a kiss, and a promise to sleep and make a grocery run. Taking the last sip of her coffee, she decided to make the grocery run right away; it was just the right time to hit the nearby farmers' market and buy some fresh fruits and vegetables.
Donning a pair of fresh jeans, a white t-shirt and a jeans jacket, and putting a fold of bills into her pocket, she was almost ready to go. The badge was left on the nightstand and the gun was closed in the safe; the car keys she'd left on the table. With one last visual sweep of the room, she fixed her hair into a ponytail and put two pins in to keep the side hair from falling; with dark glasses on her head, keys and phone in hand, she was out after only half an hour.
If Diana hadn't been so tired, she could have enjoyed the weather, the perfect balance between warmth, sun and humidity. The shower and morning banter with Christie had helped to wake up a little, but not enough that her attention was full on. Not like during a normal day, when she observed details around her, was aware of people on the street, cars, sudden noises. Today she put shades over her eyes and plugged ear buds into her ears, pouring colorful music intended to wake her up even more. It might be the reason why she didn't hear the car, or see it out of the corner of her eye. It's the last thing she remembers when the world goes black.
When she regains consciousness she is dimly aware of someone's hands under her arms. There are people talking but she can't understand a word. A sliding door opens and she is put on the car floor, at least she think so; her eyes opened in slight slits show only shadows around. Then, there is blackness again.
Another spell of consciousness came with pain, tearing and stabbing icepicks pain. She didn't even get to open her eyes; the quick and instinctive body check results in a short list. Headache, probably concussion, tearing pain in her right shoulder, and shortness of breath, caused by stabbing pain each time her ribs moved. When she tries to move her arm to lessen the pain, she blacks out again.
Christie checked her phone for the fifth time in the last ten minutes; she knew it was quite early, and Diana was probably still asleep, but something kept nagging at her. She'd sent her a message during a short break she'd caught over an hour ago, but still there was no answer.
Diana was still asleep, for sure. She was so tired when she came home this morning...
"Paging Doctor Wilkins to trauma one. Doctor Wilkins to trauma one, please." The page diverted her attention from the phone. She rushed out of the break room, the rest of her snack and phone forgotten, her attention only on the possible new case.
The next spurt of awareness came slowly and at first less painfully than the last. First to come back was smell, the smell of wet concrete with a side of mold. Her process of discovery was quickly disturbed by coughing, dry, hurting coughing; her ribs screamed in pain. She tried to stop, swallow to clear her throat, but the coughing spell continued. By the time Diana finally managed to swallow and stop, she found that her hands were bound behind her back, the metal of handcuffs not as cold as she would have imagined. Each time she pulled her arms, she was made painfully aware that cracked ribs were not her only problem.
She didn't know how long it took but after a while, when there was no cough and no movement, with lots of shallow breaths, she opened her eyes. Only to meet darkness, or what seemed like darkness in the first little obscured view. Her left eye was swollen—or maybe it wasn't the eye, maybe her cheek—nevertheless it was impossible to fully open her eyelids. The right one was in much better shape; after a moment of looking into blackness she started to recognize shapes: chairs, possibly an old couch, and stairs. No windows, or maybe she was just sitting with her back to them, with no other obvious way out.
Come on, Diana, think! she scolded herself internally.
She shook her head in a simple attempt to clear her head, and that was a mistake. Bile rose in her throat, followed by nausea; in the last moment she spread her knees to avoid—as much as it was possible in her position—vomiting on her pants. The hurling made her feel even worse, the uncontrollable muscle spasms shaking her whole body. This time she couldn't stop a scream.
At the top of the stairs the door opened with a squeaky noise of rusty hinges; a second later the room was filled with light from a lonely lightbulb directly above Diana's head. Despite one swollen eye and the other filled with tears, she couldn't help but notice that her attempt to save her pants had not really been successful. Cream-colored spots were on her thighs, plus part of the left pant leg was wet. She closed her eyes.
Diana jerked her head when she felt a touch on her cheek. That wasn't a smart move to make. The nausea came again, but now her stomach was empty and she could only pant heavily, her ribs screaming with pain. Her mind must have switched off for a minute, as she didn't hear or feel anyone coming down.
"Look who's woken up. Here, take this and drink." Something was pushed into her lips and without much resistance she opened her mouth to take whatever it was. A pill and then a plastic bottle with water. She drank greedily, enjoying the cool liquid, washing down the aftertaste of vomit, moistening her tired throat. She ignored the little voice of reason that suddenly popped up in her head, that she shouldn't just accept something from her kidnappers. That she couldn't have known what was she given, some drugs to kill her or keep her memory of the event blank. But then if they'd wanted her dead, they'd had several occasions when she was unconscious, and if they gave her something, they obviously wanted something in exchange.
She opened one of her eyes, the only one she actually could, and saw not one but two men. The first one stood just before her, a water bottle half full in his raised hand. He was short and slimly built, his sandy hair were thinning, and he wore a pair of thin glasses.
"That was Tylenol. You want some more water?" His voice was smooth, with a slight hoarseness making his voice sound tired.
"Yes, and thank you." She was surprised when her voice didn't waver.
He put the bottle against her lips again and helped her drink. The second man moved restlessly on the stairs.
"Dave, come on, stop playing nurse; we're on timetable here. Ask her!" She couldn't see him very well. A muscular arm clad in a checkered flannel shirt, part of a square jaw, and one dark eye. He seemed angry.
"Shut it, Jeremy; it's your fault she's concussed. You were supposed to hit her lightly, not drive over her!" Dave's voice was still calm but with a hint of desperation.
The situation didn't look good. They clearly wanted something from her, bad enough to care for her well-being till she was able to answer their questions. She just hoped that the FBI was on her track already, because, really, with a concussion, cracked ribs and probably a dislocated shoulder, she had fewer options than ever. So, for now she would play along, try to get the information out of her captors, and then hopefully she would feel better and be able to flee. Or wait for her team to bust her out. It was the last thought she had before the darkness claimed her again.
Sunday morning, in contrast to beautiful Saturday, brought rain and wind. Christie was changing her clothes when the first lightning stroke streaked through the gray skies. She swore softly under her breath when the light rain changed into a storm; she'd left her umbrella at home. Getting her phone and dialing quickly, she observed the rain. Diana was not answering; her brow furrowed—come to think about it, she hadn't answered the message Christie sent her the other day either.
The voice mail answered instead. "This is Diana; I can't answer my phone right now. Please leave a message and I will get back to you as soon as possible."
"Hi, beautiful; can you please pick me up in the car? I left my umbrella at home, and it looks like I'll be drenched if I try to run for the subway. If I don't hear from you by nine thirty, I'll go ahead and take a taxi. Bye, love you!" Christie was slightly worried, but not fully worried yet. With Diana's unpredictable job, she might have been called in, even on her day off, but then she usually left her a message. Of course sometimes she didn't and it wasn't so impossible this was one of those times.
Getting her things together, Christie left the locker room with the coffee bar on the ground floor in mind. Even if Diana could come for her it would take at least twenty minutes before she arrived, just enough time for a coffee. She was as exhausted, or even more so, as Diana had been the day before. Getting into the elevator, she was stopped before she was able to enter fully by a call from a panicked nurse.
"Doctor Wilkins, we have code red in room two-one-five; can you come please? Doctor Merrick is tied up in the operating room." The nurse was young, visibly shaken, and on Sunday shift they were a little short-handed.
With a soft sigh Christie turned back and followed the young woman. She had some time to spare anyway.
Diana's night wasn't very comfortable. At least after the first introduction to her captors they basically left her alone. She was given more water. Jeremy cleaned up the floor, grunting under his breath about not being a maid. But then she was left on her own.
She wasn't sure what time it was when she woke up again. The Tylenol had helped a little with the pain, but it had already stopped working. Her body was one giant screaming mass that woke her several times during the night. Every time she relaxed and her head fell forward, pulling at her shoulders, she woke from pain. Diana was tired, cranky and hungry. And worried. If her sense of time was correct, it was Sunday already. Christie would be worried, and she hated to worry her.
It was time to find a way out of the mess she was in. Her captors might have been careful and friendly so far, but you never knew what was part of the game, and when it changed. Somewhere above a door was slammed, then voices filled the space. She hadn't even been aware before of how much she could hear what was happening around the place she was in, too concentrated on her pain, too out of it. Now with a cleared head and a little bit of rest, she could concentrate better. There was a light shining from behind her, and when she moved her head to the right there was a blinding rectangle of a window just in the corner of her eye. She could also hear the faint sound of traffic, the swoosh of cars driving by, steps above her head, and voices.
Diana concentrated on the voices. She couldn't make out the words, but it seemed they were arguing: the rapid exchange, the rise and decline of tones. If only she could hear better what it was about. The speakers moved somewhere out of her hearing range, angry steps on the floor walking away. There was silence again, a car drove by, a dog barked, another door slammed. The steps this time were close to the door at the end of the staircase; the voices were also much easier to hear. But still Diana was able to make out only a bit.
Good ... her ... money ... care ... damn ... today ... Halden ... enough ... kill...
A few words, even out of context, that made her blood run cold.
Her.
Halden.
Kill.
Her mind went over the possibilities of why they would have taken her, and came back empty. The door opened with a piercing squeal. It was time to decide on a game plan; she was running out of time.
Peter was actually enjoying his time off work. No one to disturb his breakfast, no one to call in the middle of the game, with questions that never could wait till Monday, about an ongoing investigation. Just him, Satchmo, beer and the game.
El had taken off early in the morning to San Francisco, leaving him with only a kiss and advice to really rest, at least on Sunday, before he started looking for Neal again. He agreed; the last week had been exhausting—it might have been only eight days since Neal had run, but the fallout made it feel like months. Months of close scrutiny, interrogations, and finally, only three days before, a suspension.
His phone rang; it was too early for El. But not too early for the FBI or anyone else; irritated that they couldn't leave him alone on Sunday, he barked into the phone without looking at the caller ID. "Burke!"
"Peter?" The voice on the other side of the line was feminine, worried and familiar. For a second he just couldn't place it. Then it clicked: Christie, Diana's fiancée.
"Christie? How can I help you?" He never was a person to beat around the bush, and her voice was worried; his agent instincts took over.
"Have you seen Diana today? I had a long shift, and left her home yesterday, but now she is not answering the phone, neither the land line or her cell. And I tried the office and they haven't seen her since yesterday, and I thought..." She was speaking too fast for him to understand.
Peter quickly put the game on mute, trying to hear her better, to no avail. "Christie? Christie? Slow down, calm down." She was repeating herself now, but second by second he was able to get her calmer and to actually stop talking.
"Christie?" he asked, worried, when the only sound on the other side was ragged breathing.
"I'm sorry..." He could hear her taking a deep breath to calm down. "Okay, so you probably want me to start from the beginning." She laughed nervously, still obviously worried.
Peter smiled slightly that his efforts had had an effect. "Yes, from the beginning would be perfect."
"Diana came back yesterday morning, exhausted. I think Kramer is pushing them too hard to find Neal. Anyway, she promised to rest as I was leaving for a 24-hour shift; I thought she would sleep for half of the day at least." She was starting to speak faster again, but stopped to take a deep breath.
Peter switched off the TV, the game no longer important. Rising from the couch, he pressed the phone closer to his ear with his shoulder and fished his laptop out of its case.
"You tried to send her a message, right?" he asked while the computer booted.
"Yes. I knew she might still be asleep, so wasn't really so worried at first. The night was crazy, as it usually is on Saturday, but then in the morning when she still didn't answer the message..." Christie trailed off, uneasy.
"If she could answer a message, she would. It's not like Diana to not answer without a reason." Peter divided his attention between the conversation and checking his work email. Despite the suspension they didn't cut him off fully. There was nothing about actual operations that would require Diana to be out of contact. Especially if she already spent the night and day before on duty, hence her being exhausted in the first place.
"Yeah... And then I called her for a ride and the call went straight to voicemail. I got pulled into an emergency, and two hours later there was still no answer. I came home, but she's not here either. I called the FBI and they told me they haven't seen her since yesterday. Her badge is still on the nightstand. Peter, please tell me you spoke to her," she pleaded.
"No, I'm sorry. I saw her last on Thursday... I'll call Jones, and if he also hasn't seen her we'll call Rice, and get the Bureau to find her. I'll let you know as soon as I know anything." He put his best calming voice into play. "We'll find her and bring her back to you safe and sound."
"Can I help? Anything you need?" She sounded a little bit calmer.
"Just stay home in case she comes back or tries to call. Let me know if anything changes, okay?" His mind was already flying through next steps, who to call, what to check.
"I will. Thank you, Peter." Christie paused again, not really wanting to end the call that was currently serving as a lifeline, the only anchor of calmness.
Peter could read her worry well; he'd been beside himself when El went missing, but at least he'd known what had happened. Christie didn't have that luxury. "We take care of our own, Christie; there is nothing to thank me for. I'll call you as soon as I have some news."
As soon as the connection was broken, his finger hovered over a speed dial; he stopped and toyed with the phone for a moment before deciding to make the call, one that went straight to voicemail.
The second meeting with her captors was oh so different from the first one. Not that she expected the good-cop/bad-cop, or rather good-criminal/bad-criminal act to continue, but still, a girl could hope.
Today both men were wearing scowls on their faces, and stormy looks. Dave took a stand two steps to her right, leaning on a support column. Jeremy stood directly across from her, his legs set apart, hands on his hips. He was close enough that if she kicked high she could do some serious damage to his groin. Diana put that thought into her ways out of here mental folder.
Dave didn't waste more time than necessary. "Now, Missy, it's time to talk. Where is Halden?"
She eyed him like he was crazy. "I don't know who you're talking about." If this was one of Neal's old cons coming back and biting her on the ass, she would find Caffrey first—as soon as she was out of here—and kill him for it.
Jeremy was a little bit slow on the uptake, or he was waiting for the little nod that Dave just provided. The heavy open hand landed on her already-painful cheek, her head spinning from the force of the slap. Previous injury combined with a new one intensified her pain.
Damn it. Diana, keep it together. She scolded herself to keep from crying out.
"Now, why don't you just tell us what we want to know and you can get out of here. And stop lying; we know you work with Halden. He pointed you out to us last week, Miss Brown." Her head must have been hit much harder than she'd thought at first.
Missy, Miss Brown, last week, Halden.
Crap. Now she knew very well what they were talking about. Not Neal's shady past coming back to kick her in the ass. Their own FBI-organized sting, a sting they'd used in the past trying to drag Caffrey out—one of her first cover operations. A week ago they'd used the identities again, this time with the real Mr. Halden (as real as an alias can be) and Melissa Brown.
As Halden wasn't a forger but a money laundering specialist, and the operation need a forger, Ms. Brown came into play. An established cover, maintained regularly, with a good but sparse reputation, ideal for working on the latest scam with such an established persona as Nick Halden. The case started as a simple, and therefore boring, mortgage fraud. It had started to grow when Neal, bored and too wired up with the commutation hearing, actually noticed ties to other cases. Within two days they had connected five others, ringing up the total financial damage to over three million dollars, and a short list of possible suspects. They had additional luck when, while they were trying to come up with an idea on how to get more proof or send someone undercover, word came from the street that their suspects were searching for a cleaner. There was no better opening than that.
Neal beamed with joy at the prospect of another undercover assignment, and spun the story of how it should go, so fast it made their heads spin. He first called for Jones to go undercover as the forger, but this time Peter intervened with a smile that said payback. And when they introduced Missy, Caffrey looked at her with an astonishment that made her blush.
"I've heard about you! You're goood!" he commented, then of course he got into stories of her alleged work and advice how she could improve. She had to silence him with the killer look to stop him talking. But a plus of working with Caffrey was that he was fully professional. As soon as he got over that he'd actually heard about her cover persona, he got to testing her skills, and offered to teach her a few new ones. Just to keep up appearances.
The meet with the suspects was supposed to be one of several to put them at ease and ensure all pieces of the puzzles were in place. They managed to arrange only one meeting before Neal disappeared. She wasn't even supposed to be there, but with the commutation hearing just around the corner and Kramer on their necks, Peter had asked her to keep a closer eye on Neal. Especially as they were supposed to go undercover together. The meet was in a small cafe; she took a table outside while Neal met with the potential clients inside. They must have see her there; Neal didn't mention anything about pointing her out or mentioning her by name at all. They must have done some research by themselves—good that her cover had held up.
She sighed. "I really don't know what this is about," Diana answered carefully. No need to give up her knowledge too soon.
"Halden? Where is he? We were supposed to meet Tuesday and he was a no show, and we get very unhappy when someone takes our money and doesn't show back up with it..." This time the blow was to her gut, a little to the right, to not touch her already-tender left side, but still one that left her panting hard to catch her breath. "Now, where is he?"
"I don't know where he is. He didn't take your money; I would know." There was certainty in her voice that she didn't really feel lately. No, he wouldn't jeopardize the operation and his commutation to do something like that. But on the other hand Caffrey had run: he needed money; could this be part of his plan?
Jeremy's voice was suspicious. "And you would know it how, Missy?" He raised his hand and she couldn't suppress a flinch. A sunbeam shone on a metal circle on his hand, blinding her for a second; when his arm moved again her eyes caught the time. Eleven forty three.
Stall was her next thought. Sunday late morning: Christie would have noticed her gone already, and hopefully the FBI was on her track. She just need to stall long enough for them to find her, and to come up with a plan to help them out.
Money laundering and financial fraud 101: she chose her answer to redirect a little."Cuz the papers weren't ready. You can't just take three and a half million of dirty money without proper paperwork to make it clean..." The paperwork had to be good.
"Bull!" Jeremy snarled and a fist connected with her stomach. This time she couldn't stop tears and the gasp of pain.
Dave caught Jeremy's arm when he raised it again. "Stop it, idiot. She has to be able to answer."
They gave her some time to calm down, leaving her alone and moving into a corner to talk. She was too busy trying to get a good breath to try to listen to them. When they came back, Jeremy took Dave's position, leaning on a support column, and Dave stood closer to her.
It seemed they'd changed tactics again. "Now, Missy, we don't want to hurt you..." He paused at her raised eyebrow. "Too much... The accident was just that, an accident. We just want to know where your partner is."
"He's not my partner," she spat with anger, anger she really felt for her kidnappers. "And I don't have a freaking clue where he is."
They stared at each other in silence. Jeremy murmured something under his breath and reached behind his back. A gun. "Let's just kill her and finish this farce. We can find Halden another way."
"No. We agreed, no guns!" Dave was making a stand, eying Jeremy with a scowl on his face. Tension between the two men rose, and Diana for a second thought that this would not end well. Jeremy's finger moved on the gun's handle, back and forth from the safety.
Click. Clack.
Click. Clack.
Click. Clack.
Searching for a possible solution, she blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "I need to go to the bathroom." Caffrey would be proud of her, thinking out of the box.
Both men looked at her with the same annoyed expression. She looked at them with all the innocence she could muster.
"Please?" she tried again. Not begging, just asking politely.
Dave scowled but went behind her, and a moment later the cuffs on her hands were open. "Go on, Jeremy; you take guard upstairs. I'll take her."
She actually needed help standing and walking. The busted shoulder and obviously broken ribs were no help at all. Plus from sitting so long her butt was numb, and her legs were trembling.
Sunday is Clinton's favorite day of the week, well, usually. Especially if he doesn't have van duty and can spend the morning at the gym, hitting off his frustrations on a punching bag. After a few hours he is absolutely ready to spend the rest of his day just relaxing.
The phone in his pocket started ringing exactly at the wrong moment: he'd just put the key into the lock, and his other hand was full with his gym bag and mail. He should have emptied his mailbox yesterday, but it had been beyond his powers just then. Quickly opening the door, he fished his phone out of his pocket, setting the gym bag by the door, and putting the mail on the counter.
"Yeah?" he answered, a little bit distracted, trying to sort spam from normal mail.
"Jones, have you seen Diana today?" Peter's voice was laced with worry.
"Peter? Diana, no. Why would I?" Paying a little bit more attention to the phone now than to the papers in his hands, he still moved them around; he suddenly felt a sharp pain in his finger. A damn paper cut.
"Have you talked to her at all since yesterday?"
"No. What's happening?" Clinton's curiosity just piqued a notch.
"Christie called me. Diana is not answering her phone and is also not at home. No one seem to have seen her since yesterday morning when she left the office and went home."
"Did she arrive home?"
"Yes, and that's it. Christie is worried. I'm worried."
"You want to go to the office with me and try to find her?" Jones offered without a second thought. Peter is suspended so he actually can't coordinate the search, but Jones can get him in. Besides, if he doesn't do it, Peter, just like Neal, knows how to get things going his way. Badge or no badge.
He can almost see Peter grin when he answered, "Yes, please, and call Rice. I think she might be a big help."
"What about Hughes?"
"He is not answering, I left him a voicemail."
"You didn't tell him you're going to look by yourself, did you?"
"Nope, I told him I'm gonna call you and Rice, and then if neither you answered I would start looking by myself."
Jones snorted; that was a response he usually expected from Caffrey, not Burke.
"Okay, I'll meet you in the lobby ..." He considered logistics: shower, change, quick grab of something to eat, traffic. "... in half an hour."
"Thank you, Clinton."
Twenty minutes later, with a sandwich and bottle of water in hand, freshly showered, and in casual but clean clothes Jones was shutting his door closed.
The bathroom was only few steps away from the basement she was being kept in. But far enough away for her to note the layout of the house. And it is a house, a small suburban one-story house. On her right was the entrance to kitchen, where Jeremy was standing by the side door, on her left a longer corridor with three pairs of doors, and window at the end. There must be a connection between the kitchen and the living room but she couldn't see it. She was pushed into the bathroom and the door closed with a snap.
"Don't take too long or I will get you out of there," were the last words she heard before the door closed.
The room was big enough for a shower, toilet and small sink, and—she noticed with a smile—a window. Unfortunately it was small enough to allow air in but not allow her to escape. Nevertheless she used the occasion to look around; outside was a lone alley that didn't seem to help at all in figuring out where she actually was. She used the toilet, and fumbled around for anything that could help her run.
A knock on the door stopped her just as she finished and turned the faucet on to wash her hands.
"You have one more minute!"
She froze, her eyes locked on the mirror and her own face. Battered and bruised, with dried blood and an already-visible shiner on left cheek. Her hair was in absolute disarray; she slowly moved her hands to smooth it over, when she found the hairpins she'd forgotten about. Quickly she washed her face, rearranged her hair, and hid the pins on the back of her pants. She was rearranging her blouse when the door opened and Jeremy dragged her out.
"Come, you've wasted enough of our time already." She was pushed forward, and fumbled a little, hoping that he wouldn't find the pins. Dave was waiting for them downstairs, his gaze locked on the window, his eyes unseeing.
She was back in the chair and her arms were again cuffed behind her back. Jeremy was roughly pulling on her bad arm which made her moan with pain. Behind her Jeremy smiled a shark smile; he'd just found another way to make her scream.
Dave doesn't even move his eyes from the window when he started speaking again. "Now, where is Halden? When were you supposed to meet him?"
Jeremy's hand pushed hard on her bad shoulder and she screamed.
"You see, I'm a very patient man, but my buddy Jeremy is eager to get out of here. He's not a fan of New York, and your little accident already delayed our plans for a day."
"And whose fault is that...?" She couldn't stop herself.
This time she was sure she passed out from pain. When the world was back to normal colors instead of black, Jeremy was gone and Dave was looking at her with amusement.
"Well, still feisty after all this time. Do you really have a death wish, Miss Brown?" There was something other than amusement in his eyes; this time she stopped herself before saying the first thing that came to her mind.
Do you? Jeremy would kill her without a second through, but Dave seemed to be the man calling the shots, and it seemed that he was ready to do just that. She had to think of something.
"We met after your meeting and agreed on the details. We were supposed to meet on Monday again." There it was, a flicker of attention. "I might know someone that knows where Halden is..." Ah, yes, that was the right answer.
"Who?"
And she knew that if she gave up a name, any name at all, she was dead.
"I don't know his name, but I do know where to find him. I can bring you there." Now she gambled. Anything to either get out of the house or to be left alone.
There was appreciation in his look now; he knew what she was playing at. But he didn't know if she was telling the truth or not. He nodded a little. "I have to think about it."
When he left, her arms and hands were numb. Diana was not so sure that she would be able to pick the lock now.
"Well, if that works I'll owe you a bottle of fine wine, Caffrey," she murmured quietly, while she extracted the pin from her pants and start fumbling in the lock. Neal's words, when he was teaching them to open the cuffs quickly, were quite strong in her mind. Pull up, feel the edging, a little bit down and then up and right. After three attempts, in less than two minutes, she could feel the lock give.
It took them three hours to piece the puzzle together. Well, part of that was taken by Peter and Jones finding and getting Rice to agree that she and her department would help. Before she came they obtained a list of possible directions in which Diana could have gone, a statement from Christie, and a green light from Hughes for Peter to join the search. Not that anything could have kept him away.
They found Diana's phone, broken and with torn earphones, under a car parked only two blocks away from her apartment. There were no traffic cameras around, no business that needed security cameras, and no witnesses. They knew she hadn't arrived at the market that was her most probable goal, according to Christie, and the camera one block away showed her walking in this direction. They had two more blocks that could be the crime scene, and no possible new leads.
"Excuse me..." A tentative voice behind Rice's back got their attention.
"Yes, ma'am?" Rice was taking point in talking with all the people that were around. There stood a young woman, with light brown hair, thick red glasses, in a stretched washed t-shirt, white shorts and red sneakers. A messenger bag over her shoulder had the NYU emblem on the top.
"Are you looking into the accident that happened yesterday?" the woman asked, shrinking slightly under Rice's scrutiny.
"Yes, do you know anything about it? Anything that could help us?" Peter jumped in, eager for answers, ignoring Rice's raised eyebrow at the ignored protocol.
"Sure, I should have it on my camera. Everything is upstairs." She indicated a nearby brownstone with her chin.
"And how come you have photos of the accident?" Rice asked, suspicious.
The girl blushed. "I... Homework..." She stuttered; taking a deep breath, she tried again. "It was a homework assignment in time-lapse photography. I left my camera set up yesterday and it was supposed to be going for 24 hours. I can give you a copy of everything that was captured."
"Jones, you go with the lady and get the evidence. We have to move fast."
The photos were not ideal—with the focus set to capture everything, the details were smudged or simply not sharp enough for high zoom. They watched in morbid fascination as the events unfolded before their eyes. Diana walking on the sidewalk, then crossing the street and being hit by the SUV. They winced in sync the moment of the hit. Then they observed a driver and passenger getting out, gesticulating and finally taking Diana with them and putting her in the car. The plate was not fully visible, only half of it. But the color, brand and model helped finding the rest. It must have been their lucky day: there were only two cars with that set of common elements, one belonging to a family in Brooklyn that had taken the car for a trip outside the city and weren't back yet. The other belonged to one Jeremy Campbell, one of the suspects in a recent mortgage fraud case.
When Jones connected the dots and showed them the data they sat in silence for almost a minute. Shocked that someone who'd managed to defraud people out of over three and a half million in mortgages would be so stupid as to drive someone over with their own car.
It took about an hour to gather the tracking evidence of where the car had driven after the accident. The address was in the suburbs, one of the houses on which the fake mortgage had been taken. The SWAT team they borrowed from NYPD was already on site when they arrived, setting up silently and observing the situation.
There was movement in the house, someone standing by the side door, probably in the kitchen, someone moving around. Closing doors, water running, then silence, and again movement. They couldn't get much more from the directional mic, but it was enough to confirm there were at least two people inside.
Now there was one last question to be answered. Was Diana in there too?
She had no idea how long she'd have before the bad guys were back, and little to no power to search her not-so-little prison cell. Diana decided, instead of hiding, to stay on the chair, with her hands behind her, armed with part of an old armchair.
Her plan was simple: knock the two out as soon as they came back. Get the gun she'd seen in Jeremy's hand, and if possible close them both in the basement. Call for help. And maybe her team was right outside waiting to storm in and take the matter in hand.
She snorted; right, if they were they probably would've entered already.
The next few minutes were full of anxiety; on one hand she wanted them to come down right away so she could get away, on the other she needed a few more minutes to gather her strength. In the end it was somewhere in the middle.
She almost sighed in happiness when she saw Jeremy coming down first, the gun tucked in the waistband of his jeans. He stood in the exact right spot that she'd found ideal to strike. Dave took the last step on the stairs and then Diana launched forward. She used all her strength to coordinate three moves at once; her head slightly bent targeting Jeremy's chin, her right leg bent and raised with knee hitting his groin, and her left arm—the only one she could use—armed with the wooden chair part hitting Dave and then the back of Jeremy's head.
They all stumbled; she screamed when she grabbed the gun with her right hand, the pain not important in that one moment. Jeremy and Dave fell on the floor in heaps of crossed limbs and curses. It seemed her kick was still powerful as Jeremy curled in, shielding his stomach, his eyes bulging out and tears on his cheeks.
Diana was halfway up the stairs, gun in left hand, when Dave caught up with her. He grabbed her foot; she lost her balance and landed on the stairs on her good side, thank god. Her arm was twisted painfully but the gun, still firmly in her hand, was pointed directly at her attacker.
"Don't move or I will shoot!" she warned, but he ignored her, raising his leg to take another step.
The shot sounded awfully loud. Their screams mixed together, hers because the recoil of the gun in such a position was more painful than normal, his because his knee was now a bloody mass.
"Sonuvabitch!"
Outside, as soon as the shot was fired, a bunch of cops and FBI agents moved forward on all entrances.
Diana didn't wait, just scrambled up, put the gun into her own waistband and ran toward the kitchen exit.
Stumbling on the threshold she pushed the screen door with her only good hand and landed face down on the stairs. The sound of weapons being cocked, several weapons, was a welcome one. She lifted her head a little, just enough to see Jones and Peter pushing their way forward in the sea of SWAT members.
"Why does a girl always have to make the first move?" she complained, closing her eyes. Finally safe.
"We didn't want to piss you off by getting in your way," Jones answered, while the SWAT team swarmed inside to arrest the kidnappers.
Peter tried to help her up, but she just gave one short "No." He just sat beside her, draping his jacket around her arms.
"I want a stretcher, and lots of drugs, and three days off..." she mumbled before closing her eyes and losing consciousness.
When she woke up again, it was to the smell of antiseptic and the beeping of a heart monitor, and wonderfully painless. The first thing she noticed was Christie sitting on the side of her bed, holding her hand and looking at her with amusement in her eyes.
"What?" she rasped.
Christie grinned and gave her some water. "Is that the first thing you want to say to me after being missing for over a day? And unconscious for another?"
Diana smiled sheepishly. "Hi, darling..." Her smile changed into a cheeky one. "What's got you so amused?"
Christie laughed, grabbing her hand again and raising it to touch her cheek.
"You know how you talk in your sleep sometimes, when you're very tired?" Humor twinkled in her eyes.
Diana let her eyes close, embarrassed; oh, yes, she knew...
Christie continued without waiting for her answer. "Should I be worried about Neal?"
Diana's eyes, or rather that one not-swollen one, opened with a touch of alarm in her gaze. "Caffrey? What are you talking about? No, absolutely, he's not even around..." She stopped for a moment; Christie was grinning. "What did I say?"
"Let me quote: 'and buy for Neal his favorite wine'..." Christie was obviously amused by the situation.
Diana smiled slightly but after a moment she squeezed Christie's hand with a more sober expression. "I'm sorry."
Christie's brow raised. "What are you sorry for, love?"
"For worrying you.…"
"Di..." Her girlfriend sighed, then with calculation in her eyes she stood up and went to Diana's right side. "Scoot over." Sitting at the head of the bed, Christie gently helped Diana to move a little to make space for her. Then she sat, as comfortable as possible while avoiding all cables and call buttons, and cradled Diana in her arms, allowing her to lay her head on her breast.
"Di, I always slightly worry when you go to work. You're an FBI agent; it's unavoidable..."
"But—" Diana tried to add her two cents.
"No buts, we talked about it." That closed Diana's mouth; they did talk about it. "And to make you and me feel better you will not leave my sight for a whole week."
"Are those doctor's orders?" Diana murmured, suddenly tired again.
"Absolutely." Christie kissed Diana's head, resting her cheek against her hair and listening to her calm breathing. She was happy to have Diana back, happy to have her alive, even if the worry would be there every time Diana left the house.
The End