Officer Jamie Reagan chewed his lip worriedly, frantically.
He was in trouble.
He was in over his rookie's head and he couldn't see a way out. The cold drink in his hand felt like it was searing through his very skin, and the trickles of sweat that were streaming down his back tickled him uncomfortably.
He watched on in carefully concealed apprehension as the target of his unauthorised, unknown, and as he now had to concede, unwise undercover operation sat down at the table.
A haze of tobacco smoke hovered over the room, clinging to his clothes, rendering him mildly queasy.
A whimper was heard.
Jamie's stomach turned.
The star of tonight's spectacle sat bound to a chair at the table, a viscous trickle of blood running down the side of his head from his right temple. His eyes were bruised and badly swollen from the savage beating he had just endured, whilst Jamie had watched….just watched.
He was an informant, this bound man.
Therefore in mob terms, he was lesser than a direct son of Satan himself.
He was here to die.
Jamie didn't need anyone to tell him that. The looks of sheer, primal glee on the rest of the gathered mens' faces left no room for doubt.
His stomach did another turn.
How the hell did he get himself into this mess?
How the hell was he going to get the informant out of this mess?
These people thought he was a Benny Taylor, a connection of the DC Taylor gang.
He had convinced one of the guys in IT to remove any photos of him from any NYPD database.
These people had no idea there was such a person as Jamie Reagan.
His sergeant hadn't the slightest of notions where he was. As far as he was concerned, Jamie was probably relaxing after the famous Reagan Sunday dinner.
His stomach did another turn.
He had been so desperate to prove himself, prove to his father that…that he had what it took, that he wasn't just a Harvard boy, that he was a Reagan.
His father…
His stomach did another turn.
Police Commissioner Frank Reagan had seemed to accept his excuse of a nasty twenty four hour bug when he'd told him on the phone yesterday that he couldn't make dinner.
His dad thought he was at home, tucked up in bed with tissues and chicken soup.
Yet, here he was.
In an illegal bar with dangerous, sociopathic mobsters and a front row seat to his first execution.
His heart dropped when another vicious blow was landed on the informants bloodied face, sending spraying blood soaring across the table.
The jeers went up.
His stomach did another turn.
He had to do something. They were getting close to the final event.
The informant was lapsing into unconsciousness, and to the thugs around the table, that was just quite simply no fun.
He exhaled slowly, and forced himself think rationally.
His eyes flickered around the room, scanning for any other exit bar the main and heavily guarded one.
Nothing.
Gritting his teeth, he forced a bright and jeering smile as the guy on his left shot him a look as another blow was landed across the informants jaw.
The slow, almost absent smile that answered him assured the kid that this particular thug wasn't the sharpest scalpel in the torture kit.
The torture kit…that lay proudly in the middle of the table.
Jamie's breakfast threatened to make a reappearance as he ran eyes over that black, innocuous looking bag again.
The raucous laughter pierced his ear drums, as he forced himself to engage in the sickening joviality.
His own laughter sounded alien to him as he watched the puddle of blood on the table grow wider.
He was running out of time.
His leg twitched slightly, he felt his piece.
The cool metal calmed him slightly. His eyes flicked around the room again.
They narrowed on a peeling, rotted and thoroughly disused door in the corner of the room.
He'd missed it the first time; it practically melted into the shadows.
If his math was right, that door had to lead to the mouth of the alley that bordered this hellhole.
He felt his face curl up in the required unnatural and feral grin as the butt of his targets gun landed with a nauseating crash over the knuckles of the bound man.
He whimpered through a mouthful of blood.
Jamie could see he was fading, and fast.
If he was going to do something, it needed to be soon.
Real soon.
He eyed the door again.
He couldn't help it, he never could. The familiar question began to rattle around in his head; he one he hated asking but always found himself wrestling with.
What would Danny do?
He watched as if through a lens, the cocaine being carded out on the table.
The jeering was getting louder.
The clock was ticking.
He felt the smooth surface of his gun again as he flexed his leg surreptitiously. He could get to it.
His jaw clenched as his eyes roved over the door once more.
He suddenly knew what Danny would do.
Question was, was he, the youngest and level headed one capable of pulling off the brash, but effective plan of the oldest and hot headed one?
He wasn't sure, but, as he saw the pallor of the tortured man in front of him take another nose dive, he knew he had to try.
His eyes flicked to the door again.
There were five men between him and that door.
His eyes darted to the binds holding the borderline conscious man to his chair.
They were moderately complex.
He carefully moved his right leg.
The razor sharp flick knife, which had been his fathers, that was gifted to him on his graduation answered him.
He knew it would cut through the binds, what he didn't know…was whether the back of his skull wouldn't take a bullet before it could.
He rationally assessed his situation.
Five men, tight binds, and a decaying door.
He felt bile rise up in his throat.
Those were pretty bleak odds.
He had no time to dwell on his bleak prospects. It seemed as though the deranged group had had their fill of torturing their captive.
Jamie locked eyes with the target of the foolhardy operation that would be most likely be the cause of his very premature death.
The psychopathic killer grinned in his direction as he loaded the gun that would signal the end of the bleeding, and broken mans' life.
"Want to see how we do things in New York little Taylor?" he drawled, his cold voice raising the hairs on the back of Jamie's neck.
He looked into the steely blue eyes looking back at him.
He knew that the likelihood that these would be the eyes of the man that would kill him, he forced himself to plaster a manic lopsided grin on his face and raise his arm in an encouraging gesture.
"I'm always up for a little cultural development" he answered, amazed at how calm his voice came out.
The maniac on the other side of the table grinned straight back, his yellowed teeth bared in the feral gesture.
"Atta boy little Taylor, atta boy."
Jamie managed another grin, and felt his heart step up the beat as the man turned to his prisoner.
It was now or never.
He had probably two seconds at the very most, and the advantage of the surprise, to reach for his weapon, and…do whatever it took to get him and the informant out into that goddamned alley.
The frantic beating of his heart was now almost painful.
He took a deep breath.
The target was crooning to his victim, gently pushing locks of his sweaty hair out of his eyes.
Toying with him.
It was now. It was now or the man was dead.
Jamie lunged.
Within a millisecond he was under the table as he reached for his weapon in one smooth attempt.
He took a deep breath and prepared to resurface, but…suddenly found he could not.
Should not.
Above his head, all hell was breaking loose.
Chairs were scraping, glasses were smashing, men were shouting.
A deafening ban sounded.
Jamie froze.
Why hadn't they shot him?
They were scrambling, the whole gang, darting right and left.
Why hadn't they shot him?
An unmistakable gun shot rang out, a brief and stunned silence ensued before voices rang out straight after.
Jamie's frozen stance became instantly glacial.
He knew that voice, but…no, it made no sense.
He frantically scrubbed his shirt for blood.
Maybe he had been shot, and was in shock.
The voice rang out again, louder this time, over the din of some kind of upheaval above his head.
There were more voices, a confused babble of tones.
He scrubbed his shirt again.
He felt no blood.
No blood, meant no shot. No shot, meant no shock. No shock, meant that he wasn't delusional.
His limbs began to loosen as a reliable flow of blood began to flow back through them.
The voice rang out again and…it sounded frantic, hysterical almost.
There was no mistaking it. The kid took a deep breath, and willed his muscles to cooperate with him. After a moment, his legs unfurled and his arms gained enough strength to hoist him up from his impromptu shelter.
Standing to his full height, the young man felt the recent return of his blood flow begin to drain away from his extremities with immediacy.
He opened his mouth, to speak the words he had spoken thousands of times.
He might as well have been learning Mandarin.
He swallowed, and tried again.
This time, his rasping voice succeeded and a stammering , stuttering resemblance of his voice began to float upwards into the air.
"Uhh…hey Danny"
He swallowed again, painfully.
"Hey Dad."
…..
TBC
…..
A/N: First Blue Bloods fic, so please let me know what you guys think!