Disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist or any of its characters. This was not written for profit, just for fun.
Patrick Jane had a knack for getting into unsafe situations with a regularity that surprised even him. This was ironic because he had, not long ago, made a living by claiming to posses psychic powers.
Exhibit A: recently, Jane narrowly escaped getting thrown off a roof by a colleague whom he was usually on good terms with. The other man was under the impression, thanks to a gifted yet misdirected hypnotist, that they were going for a swim. Incorrect as he was, the pair came close to taking a big dive.
Exhibit B: On a separate occasion Jane was temporarily blinded by a madman out for revenge (a long story, but related to the whole fake-psychic thing) and, while still blind, ended up making a hasty getaway with another colleague in her car. He had been in the drivers seat.
Continuing to exhibit triple Z, though tremendously possible, would be an exercise in redundancy. The man s work, and his own mouth, consistently got him into tight spots, though so far Jane had always been able to weasel his way out. Normally, if he solved the crime, caught the bad guy, rode off into the sunset, and annoyed Lisbon, he considered the day a good one. Upon reflection, Jane didn't think he would be able to do all four today, though three wasn't bad. The crime was solved and he'd caught the bad guy.
Though, Thought Jane. I will admit that, to the casual observer, it might look more like he caught me.
The third point hit a snag. Turned out that being duct-taped to a chair surrounded by the goons of a crazed drug lord in a poorly lit room of indeterminate location put a damper on the ride into the sunset thing. Jane could, however, say with absolute certainty that Lisbon would be thoroughly annoyed with him.
Hmm He thought with an effort through the cotton candy which seemed to have overgrown his brain. No wonder I bug her so much. Lisbon annoyed is actually pretty cu-
Jane was brought abruptly out of his musings by a blow to the temple and a sharp voice: "Where the fuck is our money?"
"What is this?" Jane asked, shaking the hit off like a boxer. "Let's play hit the prisoner until he's bleeding, dizzy, and can't think straight? I'm new to this game, but I think you're winning."
The CBI consultant smiled, which in his experience tended to disarm people like sharp-voice, and blinked blood out of his left eye. He also discreetly re-checked the strength of his bonds. Numbness was beginning to creep into his feet and left arm. There was a little more wiggle room for his right arm. Not enough to pull a Houdini, but almost enough to get his hand into his pocket and get the business card he put there earlier. A few more adjustments would do it.
"You have a nice right hook there. A lot of power behind it. A lot of rage," Jane said to sharp-voice, willing the goon not to see his hand reaching into his pocket and grasping the desired object. "Maybe some childhood trauma? Have you considered thera--?"
Whack. Jane felt his lip split as he took another punch, this time across the mouth.
Team goon scores again, thought Jane through more cotton candy. He inconspicuously drew his hand back out of the pocket. I'm getting too old for this.
He heard the click of a slide being drawn back on a gun, though he couldn't see whose hand the weapon was in. Maybe one of the goons behind him? He felt fear in his accelerating heart and the knots gripping his stomach. Was this it? The end? Thoughts of his family and of Red John flickered through his head.
"I'm not going to ask you again! Where's our mon--"
There was a bang. Not a loud one, barely a pop. It was no louder than a kid busting a paper bag, but Jane still jumped. The goon with the sharp voice looked down, having suddenly lost the ability to speak. His hand had instinctively grasped the left side of his chest, right over the heart, at the moment of impact. He drew it away to find the fingers slick and warm with a substance which, his mind protested, could not possibly be his own blood. He fell to the floor, produced a few agonal gasps, and died with a look of disbelief still on his face. The other goons exchanged glances, but remained silent.
Jane glanced up, hoping to see a familiar face. Lisbon, Van Pelt, Cho, or even Rigsby would have been a welcome sight, but instead he found a newcomer. The new man was tall, dark-haired, and apparently adept at entering rooms as stealthily as any Japanese ninja. He snapped his fingers, the sound crisp in the silent room.
This was apparently a command of some sort, because the sharp-voiced goons body was removed and a chair materialized, all like a cheap magic trick. Jane starred at the new, Rorschach blot smeared across the floor where the goon fell.
"Ivan there," The newcomer said conversationally, indicating the bloodstain on the floor, "was doing business behind my back, planning to overthrow me. He lied to me, which I found very distasteful. Unfortunate for him, but les cochons will eat well tonight. Not many people realize that pigs will eat flesh, but honestly, pigs will eat anything. Which comes in handy in my line of work. Makes cleaning up very simple."
The dark-haired man dragged the chair close to Jane's and straddled it, placing the back of his chair, Jane noted, like shield between them. The astonishingly silent gun was place under Jane's chin, lifting his bloody head. The man's name was Yves Defouque, and he was the biggest drug lord in California.
"Where is my money, Monsieur Baker?" asked Defouque. His voice was calm and steady, as if he were asking Jane what he thought of the latest twist in his favorite television show. "If that's even your name. I will only ask this once."
"Now that," said Jane, trying to keep his voice just as steady, though his words were slurring a little at this point. "Is an interesting question. Where is your five million in drug money? I'm starting to think I chose the wrong career path. You wouldn't know from looking at me, but there is not a whole lot of money in the consultant business..."
Jane's voice became more and more garbled right until the end of his sentence, when he slumped forward. The duct-tape across his chest ripped and he continued his slump right into Defouque, who hastily pushed him back into the chair. Jane returned his now empty hand to his side as the goons stepped forward to help. Defouque waved them off. The man was obviously not going anywhere. There was a click as Defouque prepared the gun to fire and pressed it into Jane's temple.
"My money, Monsieur Baker," Defouque said. "Please try to concentrate. Perhaps it would help if I told you I have no scruples about splattering your brains all over these walls. My cleaning crews are really quite efficient."
Jane licked his lips, probing the split with his tongue. He paused, took a deep breath, and then told the Frenchman exactly where the money was.
The gun was removed from his temple and his vision went gray and fuzzy around the edges as the adrenalin wore off. He heard a grating scrape as the Defouque s chair was drawn back over the concrete floor.
"Tie him up better while I m gone, he almost got his bloody hands on my new jacket," Defouque said to a goon out of Jane's eyesight. "Keep him alive until I get back. I want to check this out personally."
Defouque might not have been so eager if he had known the last thing to pass through Jane's head before he passed out.
Hook, line, and sinker, thought Jane. Then it was all cotton candy.