I had a couple pages of this story riding around in a notebook for the past couple years; I finally got around to finishing it. Gordon may be my favorite, but I do love Scott and Virgil's relationship!
I don't own the Thunderbirds, and I am making no profit from this story.
"Well, I guess that's it," Scott said wearily, putting his hands on his back and trying to stretch sore muscles. "The local agencies will handle the cleanup."
He and Virgil surveyed the swath of destruction spread out before them. They would have been in awe if they hadn't been so tired. A tornado had leveled the suburbs of a small city in the American Midwest the evening before; International Rescue had responded to the call and searched for trapped victims all night long. In the end, there were only two deaths – a miraculous outcome, considering the scale of the storm damage.
"All right, we might as well head home, then," Virgil said, only to pause and turn around as he caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye.
Scott turned too, and they watched as a hover car whizzed in their direction at a reckless speed, occasionally sending bits of debris flying as it cut a corner too close around a destroyed building.
"Crazy idiots," Scott muttered.
Virgil just nodded in agreement.
The hover car whooshed to a halt at the bottom of the knoll Scott and Virgil stood on, a cloud of dust rolling away before it from the displaced air. A burly man leapt from the backseat.
"Hey, you gotta help my buddy here – he's hurt real bad!" He stumbled over the debris to Virgil's side and grabbed his arm. "Please! He's in the car! You gotta help him!" He tried to drag Virgil down the hill.
Aware that Scott had become tense as soon as the stranger touched him, Virgil gently but firmly pulled his arm free. "Relax. We can help." He slung on his medic backpack and followed the man, picking a careful path through the wreckage to the car. Scott followed at a bit of a distance, knowing Virgil would need to make an assessment before anything else could be done.
"It's Mike – he's in the back," the man said.
Virgil could have guessed that, as the two men in the front seats looked quite healthy. He ignored them – something about the way they were watching him gave him the creeps.
He poked his head in the backseat and saw Mike – another big, heavyset man – sprawled against the opposite door, clutching his leg, which was propped up on the seat.
"Doc, you gotta help me," he groaned. "I think my leg is busted!"
Virgil kept his face carefully neutral, even though the first thought that crossed his mind was that a mere broken leg was no excuse for the men's crazy driving.
"Take it easy," Virgil said calmly, leaning into the backseat. "Show me where it hurts." He put one knee on the seat to balance better as he reached forward, not thrilled at having to examine the man in the car, but long accustomed to working in tight spaces.
In the next moment, several things happened almost at once – a hand suddenly struck him in the center of his back, sending him flying across the seat. In an instinctive attempt to keep from landing on the injured man's leg, he ended up with his face near the floor – but then the supposedly injured man stopped groaning and instead grabbed Virgil's wrists, twisting them painfully behind his back.
He heard Scott's sharp, "Hey!" a split second before a heavy weight landed on his legs and the car shot forward, snapping the door shut.
"Hey!" Virgil unconsciously echoed Scott. "What do you think you're doing?" he demanded angrily, trying to pull free. "Let go!"
The men weren't paying any attention to him – one was crowing, "We got one! We really got one!" while another said, "I can't believe that really worked!"
Virgil grimaced – great. Just great – not only had he been kidnapped, but his captors were apparently some kind of opportunists.
"Hey, Jimbo, tie his hands together so I can let go of him, why don't you?" Mike said.
"With what?"
"Um…"
Virgil rolled his eyes. Okay, so not only opportunists, but idiotic ones. "You're making a big mistake," he growled. "Let me go now, and maybe you'll only get a few years in prison instead of a life sentence."
"Put a sock in it, kid," Mike snorted.
Virgil hoped that the man wouldn't fulfill that particular threat, but he refused to be quelled so easily. "This isn't just a regular kidnapping, you know," he said, trying to penetrate their thick skulls. "I'm International Rescue. There will be international outrage over this incident, and you guys are going to seriously regret trying to pull a stunt like this!"
"Hey, I found some duct tape in the glove box," one of the men in the front seat said. "You can use that on his hands – and maybe shut up his big mouth, too."
At that, Virgil put all his energies into an escape attempt, but Mike had good reflexes and managed to keep a tight grip on him. Jimbo wrapped multiple layers of the sticky tape around Virgil's wrists, and Mike slapped a piece over Virgil's mouth. "Ha! Try to give us lip now, kid!" he said, oblivious to the daggers Virgil's eyes were shooting at him.
Jimbo shifted to get at Virgil's ankles, and taped those together too. Then he shoved Virgil entirely off the seat and clumped his feet down on the captive.
"What you gonna do with your share, Big John?" he asked.
A fourth man, presumably the driver, responded, "How should I know when we don't even know yet who we're gonna sell him to? We gotta put out feelers and figure out how much he's worth first!"
Ice shot through Virgil's heart – these men might be bumbling idiots, but he had no doubt that if an International Rescue operative was offered up for sale on the black market, some serious baddies would be attracted.
C'mon, Scott, you'd better be above us right now in One, he thought desperately. Thinking of Scott calmed him down – his big brother would never let him be sold. Any time now, these four knuckleheads were going to rue the day they had been born. Hopefully Scott would leave enough of them to send to jail…
A bit cheered up, he wiggled into as comfortable a position he could manage in the cramped space on the floor. As he waited, listening to the men argue their way up to four million dollars – a million for each of them – Virgil began mentally drawing a police-artist-type sketch of each of his captors.
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Scott froze momentarily in disbelief as the man pushed Virgil inside the car and leapt in after him. "Hey!" Scott yelled, launching himself forward.
The vehicle jolted away just as he reached for the door handle, and he sprinted after it for a few seconds before recognizing the futility of pursuit on foot. He skidded to a halt and raced in the opposite direction, back toward where Thunderbird One was parked on the far side of the field of debris. Seeing how far away it was, he bit back a groan of impatience. Still running, he raised his communicator watch to his lips.
"Johnny, I need you to – " He cut himself off, remembering with a sinking feeling in his stomach that John was on the island, and Thunderbird Five was on auto. With Gordon and Alan down with a bad cold and Brains attending a conference, they'd needed John on the ground in case a rescue called for more than two hands. But that meant that John had considerably less technology at his fingertips than was usual.
"What's up, Scott?" John replied.
"Virgil's been kidnapped," Scott growled. Hearing John's incredulous gasp, he spoke quickly before his brother could start asking questions. "Some creeps just shoved him in a hover car and drove off. I'm on my way to One, but it'll take a few minutes. Can you get on the satellites and track them?"
Scott could hear furious typing at the other end of the line.
"I'm on it," John said, his voice distracted. "It'll take longer from here, but I should still be able to get through. I'll work on tracking his watch too."
"FAB," Scott replied grimly, then focused all of his energy on getting to Thunderbird One as fast as humanly possible. He had a brother to rescue.
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Virgil jumped when his watch suddenly started beeping. He grimaced as he remembered what it was for – a reminder to check on Alan and Gordon and see if they had recovered enough to go on rescues again. Well, he certainly hoped for their sakes that they were feeling better, because he was pretty sure that Scott would be mobilizing the entire family, sick or not.
"Hey, shut that sound off," Big John ordered.
A hand grabbed his arm and tugged at the duct tape wrapped around the watch.
"Here, this'll be faster," Jimbo said.
Virgil let out a muffled yelp of protest as Mike used a knife to slice the watch band, catching some skin in the process.
"Weird watch," Mike grunted. "I can't figure out how to turn this alarm off."
"Then throw it away," Big John said. "It's driving me batty!"
Virgil heard the window open and close, and his heart sank – his captors had just unwittingly disposed of the one thing that almost guaranteed Virgil a quick rescue. It seemed that these creeps had some kind of idiots' luck on their side. Now unless Scott had a visual on him – and that seemed unlikely, as the men gave no indication that a huge rocket plane was landing in the roadway in front of them – his brothers were going to have trouble following the hover car.
Mike stomped down on Virgil's back, and Virgil winced as he thought of the delicate medical equipment in the slim pack he still wore…but then his eyes blinked wider as he remembered something. In an effort to keep from losing some of his favorite equipment at chaotic rescue scenes, he'd installed low-powered tracking beacons on a few objects in his pack. It was normally only good for short distances, but John was the master of tracking down weak signals. If only Scott would remember – Virgil was sure his older brother had seen him using a handheld tracking device to find a dropped tool before. In fact, all his brothers had teased him about it at different times, although Virgil usually had the last laugh when inventory was taken and he had the fewest number of items missing.
His captors were talking again; he forced himself to pay attention, in case anything they were saying would be able to help him escape.
They were discussing various contacts they had who might be able to put them in touch with more important criminals. It was becoming increasingly clear to Virgil that his kidnappers were a bunch of petty criminals who had never before dealt with such an epic crime, and that they really had no idea how to proceed now that they had him. He really, really hoped that they wouldn't figure it out. His hopes were dashed, though, when the front seat passenger – McGrath, one of the others had called him – spoke up thoughtfully.
"Hey, I know a guy who knows a guy who works for some creep called…what is his name, anyway? The Helmet? No… Maybe the Hat?"
Virgil's stomach clenched, and he closed his eyes, knowing exactly what McGrath was going to say next.
"No, wait – the Hood! Yeah, that's it! Dumb name, but a real nasty crook."
"Oh, yeah, I've heard about him," Jimbo said. "He's not real big-time, but word is that he's got it in for International Rescue. I bet he'd pay up in a hurry for this kid!" He kicked Virgil in the leg.
Scott, where are you? Virgil thought, trying to keep his breathing calm and hoping the men wouldn't notice his slight shiver.
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"Scott, Virgil's watch has stopped moving," John snapped. "I'm sending you the coordinates right now."
"FAB," Scott muttered tightly, easing Thunderbird One above the wrecked suburbs and then whipping it around to face the correct direction. He had only just strapped himself into his seat after a fifteen minute trek through the tornado debris, and was chafing at the time already wasted, but he made himself keep One at a fraction of her normal speed. Virgil's watch had stopped only a couple miles down the road, and he didn't want to overshoot his goal.
The roads were treacherous at first, even for a hover car, and Scott hoped that that might have slowed the men down a bit. He noted that based on their trajectory, the kidnappers must be heading into the main part of the city a few miles distant – in fact, they could already be there. The question was whether they still had Virgil with them, or if he had somehow escaped and was waiting for Scott to come pick him up.
But if Virgil had escaped, why hadn't he called? Was he injured? Tied up? Or – it was unthinkable, but the word refused to be ignored - dead? Scott's hands trembled on One's controls, and he shook himself, sternly packing his worries away for the time being. He couldn't afford to let his emotions take control of him. His hands steadied, and he watched the ground below with a steely glint in his blue eyes.
His computer beeped at him, indicating that he was coming up on the watch's position. He tensed as he looked down, and he wasn't sure whether to be relieved or dismayed when he saw that the roadway was empty of human figures, as were the ditches on either side. The men must have simply figured out that the watch had a tracking device and discarded it.
He landed briefly and quickly found the watch, his hand clenching into a fist as he saw that it was plastered with duct tape.
Hurrying back to his Bird, he took off again and continued to follow the road. "John, they cut his watch off and threw it away," he said grimly.
John growled in frustration. "Well, that was the best way to track him, but there are other possibilities. I'm working on tapping into security cameras all along the likeliest routes. Everyone here is helping so that we won't miss anything. Dad's been on the phone this whole time, calling up the police, the FBI – I think even the President. We'll find him, Scotty."
Scott's fist tightened around Virgil's watch. "Yes, we will," he agreed, his voice soft but firm. "I promise."
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After a time, the hover car began making frequent turns, and Virgil could hear the sounds of traffic and activity around them – they had clearly arrived in the city. He wondered if Scott would try to follow them in, and decided probably not. A Thunderbird trying to navigate through the narrow streets would cause quite a commotion and attract too much attention.
A few minutes later, they pulled into a darker area and halted. The hovercraft rocked as the men stepped out.
To Virgil's dismay, they didn't cut the duct tape off his ankles and let him walk; instead, Mike grabbed him by the feet, and with one hard pull, dragged him out of the vehicle. With a supreme effort, he managed to keep his head from hitting the door frame or the concrete floor, but he couldn't prevent landing hard on his hip and shoulder.
"Toss him in the corner over there," Big John grunted.
Mike grabbed his arm and dragged him across the floor, propping him up in a dark, musty corner inhabited only by a pile of rough crates and pallets.
Virgil studied the room with narrowed eyes, glad to finally be able to see something other than the carpet of the hover car. He was in a large, multi-bay garage, half-filled with moldering old vehicles and a scattering of tool chests, car parts and rotting crates. In this bay, a narrow space had been cleared for the hover car. The building was lit by a few almost-obscured windows – small and high on the walls – and a row of bare bulbs strung from the metal ceiling girders.
"So what do we do with him now?" Mike asked, nudging Virgil in the leg with the toe of his big work boot.
Big John shrugged. "Leave him – he ain't going nowhere. Let's get some breakfast, and then McGrath can start working on getting in contact with this Hood guy."
They trudged toward a small side door.
Jimbo cast Virgil a glance over his shoulder. "Think we oughta feed him?"
Big John dismissed this idea with a snort. "Nah – not unless we have to keep him around for more than a couple of days."
They disappeared through the door, turning off the lights on the way and plunging Virgil into a sort of twilight.
Virgil's stomach chose that moment to growl loudly. With a long sigh, he let his head fall back against the wall and closed his eyes, allowing himself one moment of utter discouragement. If his morning had gone as he had imagined, at this very moment, he would be freshly showered and enjoying a huge breakfast with his family. After that, he would take a nap, and then maybe play some relaxing music on the piano, or hang out by the pool, or start a new painting. Instead, here he was – hungry, dirty, bruised and tired, sitting on a cold, concrete floor in a dark room, entirely at the mercy of four men who probably couldn't even define the word "mercy." Not exactly the best day ever.
He sighed one more time, and then decided that that was enough self-pity. Squaring his shoulders, he sat up straight, looking around the room for inspiration. His brow wrinkled in thought – there was plenty of stuff in here that could help him escape his duct tape; the problem was that the duct tape prevented him from getting to it. He needed to get to one of those tool chests somehow…
Bracing his hands against the wall behind him, he carefully positioned his feet, and, with a heave, shoved himself up into a standing position. He wavered there for a moment before he knew that he had overbalanced and was definitely going to fall. Oh, rats, this is gonna hurt! he thought, a split second before he crashed to the floor again.
He lay still, hip and shoulder throbbing, listening to see if the men had heard his movement. A minute passed, but there was no response from behind the small door. With an effort, he rolled himself back up into a sitting position, although he was now several feet away from the wall and had to brace himself awkwardly with his hands on the floor behind his back. As he did so, though, he thought he felt the tiniest of tearing sensations in the duct tape around his wrists.
His heart leapt with excitement, and he leaned forward, trying to pull his wrists apart. He was rewarded with another small tear. When Mike had cut his watch off, he must have started a rip in the layers of tape. Now if Virgil could just find the right angle…
A few minutes later, Virgil had to pause to catch his breath, his tortured arm muscles trembling and almost cramping from the strain of their awkward position. He figured that the tape was torn about halfway, and that if he steeled himself for one final effort, he could finish the job. He made himself sit still until he could breathe freely and some of the strength had come back into his arms.
Three…two…one…go! He jerked his arms apart as hard as he could – and felt the tape resist for a second, and then snap. His arms fell limp at his sides, and he huddled there, breathing heavily again, before reminding himself that he didn't know when his captors might come back, and he still had some tape to remove before he could make his escape.
He reached for the strip across his mouth, and hesitated for a moment – should he pull it off slowly or quickly? Quickly, he decided, and did it before he could change his mind.
"Yee-owch!" he muttered, gingerly touching his lips; his finger came away spotted with blood. "Nasty!" He was never again going to threaten to duct tape Gordon's mouth shut, he decided – no matter how annoying his redheaded younger brother could be sometimes.
He turned his attention to his ankles; he brightened as he remembered that he had a small multitool in his pocket. Fishing it out, he quickly opened the knife blade and cut through his bonds. Stiffly, he pushed himself back up to his feet, wincing at the soreness in his left hip and shoulder.
Shuffling along in the dim room, trying not to kick anything noisy, he made his way as quickly as possible to the big garage door and tried to figure out how to open it. He couldn't find the door controls in the darkness, but then it occurred to him that the hover car might have some sort of remote control. Hurrying back to the vehicle, he opened the door, and blinked as its interior lights came on automatically. He spotted the remote control at once, and was reaching for it when the overhead garage lights suddenly came back on.
"Hey! Stop!" The harsh words were followed by thundering footsteps.
Without taking the time for more than a split-second glance at his pursuers, Virgil snatched up the remote control and sprinted back toward the door, pushing the button as he ran.
The door rose ponderously, obviously a relic from a bygone era; it stalled slightly when it was only about eighteen inches off the ground, the motor whining as if in pain. Virgil, racing for freedom and fueled by pure adrenaline, threw himself to the ground when he was six feet away, sliding feet-first for the small opening. He was halfway out when a hand snatched at his collar and jerked him to a choking halt. He tried to twist away, but was dragged to his feet.
Big John glowered at him from a few inches away, holding Virgil up off the ground with one hand entwined in his collar. "Nice try, kid," he said. "You got more spunk than I was gonna give you credit for."
Rage billowed up inside Virgil – he'd had a taste of freedom, and he wasn't giving up that easily! The way Big John was holding him made the man's sensitive shin a perfect target for a kick, and Virgil did not waste the opportunity, lashing out sharply with his foot. When the crook doubled over in pain, another kick to the back of his knee sent him to the ground, Virgil wrenching his collar free as the man fell.
Virgil looked around wildly. Mike and Jimbo were trying to rush him from either side; he smirked – this one was almost too easy. He waited, pretending to hesitate, until they were almost on top of him, then ducked out of the way and listened in satisfaction to the resulting crash. Both men staggered away, Mike clutching a bloody nose and Jimbo holding his jaw.
A quick glance around revealed no sign of McGrath. Virgil frowned, but deciding not to look a gift horse in the mouth, he ducked down under the garage door, which had finally worked its way up to about waist height.
With eyes only for the narrow alley ahead that led to freedom, he never saw the movement to his side; the last thing he was aware of was a sudden sharp pain in his head, and then everything was dark.
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"Nothing yet, Scott," John told him, meeting his gaze seriously over the vid-comm. The rest of the island residents were visible behind him in the den, hunched over computers.
It had been an hour since Virgil was kidnapped. Scott had flown in circles over the city a few times, watching for the hover car – though he knew it was like searching for a needle in a haystack – and waiting to see if John could turn any clues up from the island.
John said, "We've been keeping an eye on multiple hover cars based on your description, but most of them have been dead ends. There are still a few we're watching." He paused, looking thoughtful. "Why don't we wear more than one tracker when we're in the field, Scott?"
Scott shrugged. "When has something like this ever happened before? Up until now, the watches seemed sufficient, especially since they're practically indestructible." Some thought tickled the back of his mind, triggered by John's question. Something to do with multiple tracking devices…he snapped his fingers. "Johnny!" he exclaimed. "Virgil did have other tracking sensors on him – those little things he sticks on all his tools! He had his med kit with him, so he probably has several trackers on his person right now - or at least, nearby!"
"Oh, yeah," John murmured. "I don't know, Scott – those are really low-powered. As in, you have to be within a few yards of them to get a reading."
"So what do I need to do?" Scott demanded. "If I have to, I'll fly over every part of this city at a few yards off the ground."
John rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Yeah, and fry half the cars and pedestrians in the city? I think we'll save that as a last resort." He drummed his fingers on the desk top, clearly thinking hard. After a moment, he looked up, resolve hardening his blue eyes. "I need to get back up to Five," he said. "I think you're on to something with those trackers, Scotty, but I need the scanners up on Five for it to work."
"All right, then, go ahead," Scott said. He raised his voice and called, "Alan! Gordon!"
His two youngest brothers stepped up to the vid-comm. Scott studied them with a critical eye, then nodded in satisfaction – they might not be up to a hundred percent after being sick, but they were obviously both ready for action.
"I'm coming to pick you two up and bring you here," Scott told them, dialing in the coordinates automatically as he spoke and accelerating to full speed. "Alan will take Two back home-"
Alan cut him off with a loud, "Wait, why do I have to take Two back?"
"Because I may need Gordon's particular skills on this rescue," Scott said quietly.
Alan looked mystified. "Particular skills? You mean submarines? Gordy, what…?" He glanced at Gordon, and then did a double take – gone was the mischievous glint normally present in his brother's eyes, and without it, Gordon looked like an entirely different person. He never talked much about his time in WASP, and often his brothers forgot that he had once been highly trained in skills that weren't used often in the rescue business.
"We didn't always stay on the submarines, you know," Gordon said quietly.
"Oh. Okay, then," Alan replied, uncharacteristically meek.
Scott met Gordon's gaze, and waited for his brother's slight nod. "Good. Be ready to head out as soon as I get back. And keep watching those security cameras in the meantime."
"FAB," they chorused.
Scott turned his full attention back to flying, tweaking several controls to get a fraction more speed. We're coming, Virgil. Just hang in there!
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When Virgil woke up, he wished he hadn't – he had a truly splitting headache. Things gradually came into focus around him, and he stared at the cluttered garage, confused but too tired to think of why he was there. Was it for a rescue? It looked like the sort of place where plenty could go wrong.
He tried to reach up to touch his aching head, and frowned when he couldn't move his arm. Looking down, he saw that both of his wrists had been duct-taped to the arm of a chair. Well, there's your problem, he thought blearily. He frowned again – was that blood dripping onto his leg? Where was it coming from? Had he been injured? That would explain the headache, but not the duct tape.
Then McGrath walked into his line of sight, carrying a small, portable vid-comm device, and it all came back to Virgil in a flash – his kidnapping, the escape attempt, and the sudden burst of pain in his head. McGrath must've been waiting outside the garage door with a length of pipe or a crowbar or something.
Big John was approaching him too. "Glad to see you're awake, kid," he sneered. "We got a special call for you – all the way from Malaysia!"
McGrath turned the video screen to face Virgil.
Virgil barely kept from flinching – he was face to face with a man he recognized only too well, not so much by the shape or color of his face, or even the lack of hair, but by the hatred clearly visible in the darkest, coldest pair of eyes Virgil had ever seen. The Hood.
"As you can see," Big John was saying, "he gave us a bit of a run for our money, but we showed him who's boss. He won't try that again."
"You are certain you have not impaired his brain function?" The Hood asked in a cold, quiet voice. "I need him in good condition."
Virgil couldn't suppress a small shiver as he tried not to imagine why the Hood needed him to be healthy – was he to be tortured for information?
"Eh, he's fine," Big John said. "McGrath here didn't hit him too hard, right, McGrath?" He nudged the smaller man in the side.
McGrath shrugged. "He's probably got a humdinger of a headache, but hey, that'll just make him easier to handle. By the time you get him back to Malaysia, I'm sure he'll be right as rain for whatever you got in mind." He turned the screen back around to face himself and Big John.
There was a pause, then the Hood said, "Very well. I accept your terms. Meet me outside Hangar 37 at the airport, tomorrow at noon. And I do not need to remind you to be cautious in the meantime. The local authorities will be searching for the prisoner."
"Yeah, yeah, we know our way around them," Big John assured him with a wave of the hand. "We'll be there."
They turned off the vid-comm, and evidently in a celebratory mood, cut Virgil's right hand free for a few minutes to let him eat a sandwich and drink some water. He was too nauseous finish the sandwich, but the water made him feel some better.
He was surprised but relieved to discover that he was still wearing his backpack, although his hope was gradually diminishing that the trackers would be helpful at such a distance. It'd be a miracle if anyone even thought to try.
Eventually the men taped his arm down, shoving his chair back against the wall before they left.
"Hope you like Malaysia!" Mike called in a mocking tone, shutting off the light and slamming the door behind him.
Too exhausted to think straight, much less worry about what the next day would bring, Virgil leaned his head back against the wall and was asleep almost instantly.
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Scott and Gordon, after dropping Alan off at Thunderbird Two, left One under police protection, hidden in a large hangar at the airport. Renting a hover car, they changed into civilian clothes and made their way into the city.
Too restless to wait for word from John, they spent the remainder of the day cruising through the city, just keeping their eyes open.
Near nightfall, when they had stopped to quickly grab a meal, John contacted them through Scott's watch. "I'm starting to get something, Scott," he said, his voice sounding tired. "Unfortunately, the computers have only narrowed it down to the Midwest so far, but they should eventually be able to pinpoint the signal to within a quarter mile or less. It helps that he has several trackers on the same frequency – kind of boosts the signal a bit."
"Why aren't you using video?" Gordon asked curiously.
"I've diverted all the power sources I can into the search," John replied. "Ooh, I gotta go – I just thought of some other things I can shut down to get more power!"
The radio clicked off, and Scott and Gordon glanced at each other with raised eyebrows.
"I hope he doesn't accidentally turn off anything too important," Gordon snickered, with a flash of his normal good humor.
Scott managed a wan smile. "He knows what he's doing. No one else but our Johnny could pull off what he's doing right now."
"That's for sure," Gordon murmured.
They agreed to take turns getting in cat-naps every once in a while throughout the night; Gordon insisted on Scott sleeping for longer since he'd been up the entire previous night. It didn't work very well, though – Scott would jerk awake at the slightest noise. Eventually they gave up, and passed the rest of the night driving systematically through each street of the city, chafing as they waited for an update from John.
As the dawn light began creeping in between the skyscrapers and apartment buildings, they finally pulled off in a restaurant parking lot. Too tired to actually get out and buy food, they both dozed off after a few minutes.
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"Scott, Gordon, come in!"
John's excited voice snapped his two brothers instantly awake; they glanced at their watches and saw that it was eleven am.
"What's up, John?" Scott asked, rubbing his face to get rid of the last traces of sleepiness.
"The computers have narrowed down Virgil's location to the 57th street block. I've scanned the buildings there, and most of them are old office buildings, but there's a promising garage on the east side. I've got one really poor quality security video showing a hover car that may match your description entering the garage yesterday, forty-five minutes after Virgil was kidnapped."
Scott was already driving; after the ground he and Gordon had covered the night before, he knew exactly which building John was talking about. It was a half-hour's drive from their present location. "Great work, John! Let us know if the signal starts moving."
"FAB!" John signed off.
They drove mostly in silence, Scott drumming his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel whenever the city traffic held them up, and Gordon occasionally pointing out a possible shortcut.
At 11:30 on the dot, they pulled up to the end of the street the garage was on. Scott scooted the vehicle into a parking space, and they surveyed the building from a distance.
"Looks like they only use one bay door," Gordon pointed out. The other doors all had junk piled in front of them. "There's probably at least one side or back door too."
"If it's that junky outside, the inside's probably gonna be hard to move around in," Scott added.
Gordon shrugged. "More hiding places for us. I'm more concerned about – " He cut himself off abruptly. "Look, the door's opening!"
The door gradually jerked its way open, pausing several times along the way. A hover car backed out, and Scott's fingers tightened on the steering wheel until they were white. "That's the car!" he hissed. He hit a button on his watch and barked, "John! Quick – is the signal moving?"
The hover car was halfway down the road; Scott and Gordon waited with bated breath for John's response.
"Um…yes! Yes, it's moving!" John finally replied. "Scott, what…?"
"Just keep tracking it," Scott told him, putting his vehicle in gear and following the other hover car at a distance. "It's the same car that took Virgil yesterday. They just left the garage. We're following them, but I don't want to risk losing them."
"But what if they don't have Virgil with them?" John asked. "They could have taken his backpack off in the car."
"I'll have Dad call the police and get them to search the garage," Gordon said, activating his own watch.
Once Gordon finished talking to Jeff – who had advised his sons to be careful, but in a voice that meant, Just get Virgil back – the car was quiet again for a few minutes.
"The airport," Gordon suddenly said, making Scott jump.
"What?"
"I think that's where we're heading."
Scott glowered. "Well, if they think they're getting Virgil on an airplane, then they've had the wrong thought!"
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Virgil shifted uncomfortably. He was back on the floor of the hover car, with Mike's feet on his back and Jimbo's on his legs. His heart was fluttering in his chest – it was less than half an hour until he would be transferred to the Hood's possession, unless he figured out some way to escape before then.
Escape seemed unlikely, though – his hands were taped behind his back again, and the men had used tape to make a pair of ankle shackles too. If he took small steps, he could walk, but he couldn't run or kick. Even if he hadn't been constrained, he wasn't sure he'd be able to run after his night strapped to a chair. His knees had nearly buckled under him when the men had marched him to the car.
At least his head was somewhat better – it still pounded when he moved it certain ways, but it seemed that if he had a concussion, it was not a severe one.
"Here's the airport," Big John announced. "What hangar did he say?"
"37," McGrath replied. "All the way in the back – nice and private."
"Good," Big John grunted.
Virgil thought about trying one last time to convince them to just let him go – but knew that it would be fruitless, as they were all visualizing the fat suitcase full of money that the Hood was supposed to be bringing. He wondered if the Hood would actually pay them, or just use his weird mind powers to knock them out and disappear with Virgil. He wouldn't put it past the man to pull a double-cross.
The hover car slid to a halt. Big John got out first.
"All clear," he called. "Bring the kid!"
Mike and Jimbo each hung onto one of Virgil's arms as they marched him toward the huge open door of Hangar 37. Virgil dragged his feet, too tired to put much energy into resistance but unwilling to give in without any fight at all. Mike cuffed him on the back of the head and shoved him forward.
A figure stepped out of the hangar and walked toward them – the Hood.
At that point, Virgil planted his feet and refused to go any further, fear lending him strength, even as he knew that it was hopeless. His brothers hadn't found him in time, and he was going to Malaysia in the possession of International Rescue's worst enemy. It couldn't be happening – and yet it was.
A flicker of movement to one side caught his attention briefly, and he frowned – someone had just slipped into the hangar from around the far corner, and he could've sworn that the person had red hair.
The Hood stepped up in front of him with a triumphant smile, and Virgil pulled his mind back to his predicament.
"Well," the man said softly, his voice laced with menace. "I have to say that I am quite pleased to see you for once, and I am quite looking forward to getting to know you better."
Virgil made himself look the man in the eye. "You won't get away with this," he snarled. "International Rescue will find me, and they'll make you pay!"
The Hood snorted. "If they were going to find you, they would have done so by now. I think that you have been forgotten by your beloved International Rescue."
Even though Virgil knew the words to be untrue, they still stung. He pushed aside the hurt. "Never," he said.
Big John shifted impatiently, shoving Mike and Jimbo aside and grabbing Virgil's arm himself. "So we gonna get to see that money sometime here?" he demanded.
The Hood spun on him. "Silence, fool! You will have your money in good time!" He suddenly stopped speaking and turned an ear toward the hangar – men were screaming inside. He shot a glare toward Big John. "What is this? This had better not be some kind of a trick!" He trotted away toward the open front door of the hangar and disappeared inside.
"Hi, there."
The sudden voice from behind them, spoken casually but with an underlying note of steel, filled Virgil with such a rush of relief that he couldn't breathe for a second. As the men whipped around, Big John jerking him around too, he knew who he would see – and he knew that everything would be all right now.
"Scott," he breathed, drinking in the picture of his big brother leaning casually against the side of the neighboring hangar fifteen feet away, arms crossed over his chest. To most, the lanky pilot would appear completely relaxed, but Virgil could clearly read the tension in his older brother's body language.
Their eyes met, and Scott's mouth quirked in a small smile. Virgil got the message – that Scott had a plan – but he couldn't help but frown in response as he saw that Scott didn't have a gun. The four men surrounding Virgil had guns and knives, not to mention the Hood's freaky mind powers.
Virgil frowned again, suddenly remembering the red-haired figure that had entered the hangar – and the screams a minute later, which had distracted the Hood. Could it be…Gordon?
"Who are you?" Big John demanded, his grip on Virgil's arm painfully tight.
"He's that guy who was with this one yesterday," McGrath exclaimed. "He's International Rescue!"
Big John suddenly wrapped one thick arm around Virgil and jammed his gun up under Virgil's jaw. "Well, there ain't gonna be no rescuing today!" he snapped. "Back away, or this one gets hurt!"
Scott straightened up, his eyes blazing with fury. "I don't think so," he said quietly. "You got away with him once; I'm not letting it happen again."
There was a gasp from behind them, and then a strange thumping sound, as if something heavy had just fallen to the ground. Keeping a tight grip on Virgil, Big John swung around.
Virgil blinked. Gordon was standing over the unconscious figures of Mike, Jimbo and McGrath, casually dusting off his hands. He grinned at Big John, though the expression was a far cry from his normal happy-go-lucky smile. "Trust me," he said, his tone dangerously low. "You don't mess with International Rescue." He pointed just over Big John's shoulder. "Um, you might want not want to turn your back on that guy."
Big John jerked around one more time – and let out an involuntary gulp as he found himself face to face with Scott.
"I suggest you let him go right now," Scott ground out.
Big John hesitated for a brief moment, then lowered the gun and took a step away from Virgil.
"Good choice," Scott said – and lunged forward, downing Big John with a punch that came all the way from his toes.
"Nice one," Gordon said, his grin looking more Gordon-like than before, although his eyed were still uncharacteristically hard. He whipped out a pocket knife and quickly cut through Virgil's bonds. "C'mon, let's get outta here before the Hood comes back!"
He and Scott each grabbed one of Virgil's arms and hustled him away between the hangars.
For a couple minutes, adrenaline kept Virgil going, but then he began to falter, his head pounding and his whole body aching.
Scott glanced over at him. "Almost there," he said encouragingly.
A minute later, they paused beside a hangar door, and Scott let go of Virgil to fish around in his pocket for keys. He opened the door, and they ducked inside.
"Who's there?" a sharp voice demanded. A police officer stepped up to them. "Oh, it's you. Found him, did you? You all right, young man?"
"I am now," Virgil said quietly, leaning comfortably into Gordon's strong grip as his head spun.
"Thanks for your help," Scott said, shaking the man's hand. "You, uh, might want to check over by Hangar 37 and see if any of the kidnappers are still, uh, hanging around." Scott rubbed his skinned knuckles self-consciously.
The police officer hid a smirk. "Will do. It's been a pleasure." With a salute, he exited the building.
Scott flicked on a light switch, and Virgil started as he suddenly noticed Thunderbird One looming over them, taking up most of the space in the hangar. Tilting his head back made him dizzy, though, and he felt Gordon tighten his hold on him.
"Whoa, there!" Gordon said. "Scott…"
Scott took his other arm again, and together they guided him into a chair – probably where the police officer had kept his watch.
Scott gently turned Virgil's head to inspect the nasty gash on his forehead. "Concussion?" he asked, his features carefully schooled, but fury still simmering in his eyes at the mistreatment his little brother had received.
Virgil shrugged, wincing at the aches that flared up at the movement. "A mild one. I don't think I would even do a scan."
"Unless it was one of us," Gordon muttered.
Virgil pointedly ignored that comment. "Other than that, just bruises, really. Plus I'm kind of hungry." He gave Scott puppy dog eyes.
Scott laughed, finally starting to relax. "Well, I've got some power bars, and I think even a couple chocolate bars. You can have them all if you want!" He rested a hand on Virgil's shoulder. "You ready to go home?"
"FAB," Virgil said fervently, wearily pushing himself upright. "I want a hot shower, a solid meal and then sleep!"
They climbed into Thunderbird One, Gordon and Virgil having to fold down jump seats. Scott passed Virgil a couple water bottles and a small bag full of snack food, snagging a power bar for himself.
"You want to call home, or do you want me to?" Gordon asked him, as Scott guided One out of the hangar opening and up into the clear blue sky.
Virgil washed down a bite of chocolate bar with some water. "I'll do it." He started to open a vid-comm link to the island.
"Add Five to the loop," Gordon told him. When Virgil sent him a questioning look, he explained, "John went up because he needed his technology to track you."
Virgil grinned – and then flinched as his lip cracked. Dabbing at it with a tissue, he asked, "So you did use those little tracking devices in my med kit? I wondered if anyone would think of those – or if they would even work at a distance."
"Johnny made it work, although he had to shut down most everything on Five to get enough power."
Virgil added Five into the video and hit the button to start the transmission. There was a clamor of voices at the other end as everyone realized who was calling.
Jeff overruled the others. "Son, are you all right?" he asked.
Virgil nodded. He couldn't help smiling, even though his lips were chapped from the duct tape. "I'm great, Dad."
Jeff smiled back. "I can't tell you how good it is to see you, son. John kept us updated until Scott and Gordon reached the hangar. We were starting to get a little concerned that the rescue had gone wrong."
Gordon leaned into the video frame. "We had to deal with the kidnappers." His face darkened. "And distract the Hood."
The family was instantly serious. "The Hood?" Jeff repeated. "Was he the one behind this?"
"Actually, no," Virgil said, surprising everyone. "These guys contacted him."
"Why?" Scott interjected. "I mean, what was in it for them?"
"Monetary gain," Virgil replied distastefully.
Alan's eyes were wide. "You mean – they were going to sell you to the Hood?"
"Almost did," Virgil said softly. "They were about to make the exchange when Scotty and Gordon showed up."
"Whoa," Alan breathed. "How much were they going to sell you for?"
"Alan!" their father exclaimed sharply.
Virgil laughed. It was a fair question. "Five million," he said.
"Huh," Alan said. "That doesn't seem like very much."
"Um, thanks, I guess," Virgil said, not sure if that was a compliment or an insult. He leaned back in his seat with a sigh, suddenly very tired.
His father studied him. "Get a little rest now, Virgil, and we'll look forward to seeing you in a few minutes. Scott, fly that Bird as fast as she'll go!"
"Yes, sir!" Scott acknowledged with a laugh.
They turned off the video screen and sat in silence for a little while. After a few minutes, Virgil turned his head to look at Gordon. "Hey, Gords?"
"Yeah, Virg?"
"Back there – what you did to those guys…" Virgil fumbled for the right words.
Gordon's expression grew reserved – clearly he didn't like to talk about his hand-to-hand combat skills.
"I mean, can you teach me some of that? Obviously, I'm never going to be at your skill level, but I'd like to at least know a few more self-defense moves other than just being able to throw a punch or kick somebody in the shins." He certainly wasn't a wuss in a fight – he had a nice right hook, but that hadn't been able to help him in this predicament. He'd never really thought about his brothers' skills before, but seeing them demonstrated had been rather compelling.
Gordon considered his question seriously, his face relaxing. "Yeah, I think that could work. What do you think, Scott? Shall we teach Virgil – and Alan and John while we're at it – a few fun tricks?"
Scott nodded. "It's a good idea – and something we should have done a long time ago. We'll schedule it to begin once Virgil is feeling better."
Virgil waved a hand. "Oh, I'll be fine in a couple days." He yawned and leaned his head back again.
"Yeah, sure," Scott replied, amused. "Hey, you probably shouldn't go to sleep yet – we'll be home in just a few minutes."
"Okay," Virgil replied. His eyes drifted shut anyway, and the next thing he knew, Gordon was shaking his shoulder to wake him up.
"C'mon, sleepyhead," Gordon said. "We're home!"
He helped unbuckle Virgil when his fingers fumbled, and pulled his older brother to his feet.
Virgil let out a very sincere groan. "Can I go to bed now?"
Scott was suddenly at his side and helping Gordon guide him out of Thunderbird One. "What about that hot shower? And the solid meal?"
"Later," Virgil murmured. He shook them off, trying not to look too pathetic, as he saw the rest of the island residents coming to greet him – John had even come back down, looking very tired but happy.
Jeff wrapped him in a warm embrace. "It's great to see you, son. C'mon, let's get you to the infirmary."
Virgil shook his head emphatically. "I'm fine," he said. "I just want to go to my room and sleep. You can poke and prod me when I wake up; there's nothing that won't keep until then."
Somebody whispered, "Double standard!"
Jeff glared at Gordon and Alan, not sure who had spoken. Both wore innocent expressions, though, and he let it go. He looked at the gash on Virgil's forehead. "Brains? Is he okay to sleep without a checkup first?"
Brains shrugged. "I, uh, trust Virgil's self-diagnosis," he said.
Jeff sighed. "Very well, then. To your room it is."
Feeling rather like part of a parade, Virgil let himself be steered to his bedroom, but he drew the line at letting them in. "I'm just going to sleep," he said. "I think I can handle that on my own!"
They trickled away with quick hugs and pats on the back – all except for Scott, which didn't really surprise Virgil. Ignoring his older brother, Virgil stripped off the outer layer of his IR uniform and crawled into bed in his shorts and T-shirt. "Night, Scott," he murmured, already beginning to drift off. "Thanks for rescuing me."
"Always," Scott whispered.
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Two weeks later, when Virgil's bruises and concussion were healed and he was cleared for active duty, self-defense classes began.
Scott and Gordon had spent many hours working together on a plan, and the other three were surprised to find that they would each be learning slightly different moves, tailored to fit their skills and personalities – for example, Virgil's were very similar to many things he'd done back when he played football.
"The only trouble will be if you ever play football again," Gordon told him. "You'll have to be careful not to accidentally throw people over your shoulder."
For a while, life on the island was occasionally interrupted by shouts and loud crashing noises as Scott and Gordon tested their pupils' skills in surprise attacks. One of the proudest days in Virgil's life was when Gordon leapt toward him from some bushes, and he effortlessly sent his red-haired brother flying over his shoulder.
"You're really getting the hang of it, Virg," Gordon had told him. He had clambered to his feet – and then swayed.
Virgil panicked. "Oh no – did I hurt you, Gords? Is it your back? Did you hit your head?"
Gordon dissolved into gleeful laughter. "Got you!" He dashed away, still laughing.
Later that same day, he managed to throw Scott too. His older brother looked chagrined at first, but then smiled and gave Virgil a hearty slap on the back. "Great job!" he exclaimed.
That night was the first night that Virgil didn't have nightmares about being imprisoned and tortured in the Hood's Malaysian hideout.
He knew things were truly back to normal when Scott stopped sleeping in a chair by his bed. He had tried talking some sense into his older brother, and Scott had listened and nodded a lot – but every morning, Virgil had awakened to find Scott asleep in what had to be a really uncomfortable position in a chair. Finally, one morning, he woke up alone in his room.
He smiled as he got dressed. He was planning on starting a new painting today – and playing the piano – and hanging out by the pool. He could do all those things because he had a family who didn't give up on one of its own, who would go above and beyond the call of duty to protect and care for one another.
A shout echoed down the hallway. "Gordon! Get these frogs OUT of my shower!"
He shook his head and left his room, sidestepping a frantically-hopping frog on his way to the kitchen. Frogs or not, it was going to be a good day.