A/N - Hello again readers! This is exciting.. a brand new story to share with everyone! And I'm mostly finished with the whole thing. That means minimal waiting for updates! Okay, so this story will probably have lots of triggers. I'll try and make sure to warn for each chapter that happens, but if I mess up and miss one, I'm terribly sorry. I will try to update a chapter a day once I get them all edited and acceptable.
So, first of all - these characters belong to NBC and not me and I'm just making stuff up about them for no monetary gain.
Next of all - Trigger warnings for the entire story - swearing, rape, attempted suicide, drugs, abuse, self-harm, discussions of sex, pregnancy, blood, violence, kidnapping, death.
(Monday June 3rd)
Enough is enough. Alex wipes the blood from her mouth, blinks several times at the burning sweat dripping in her eyes and stands up. A thousand needling pinpricks stab her feet, her numb feet she hasn't walked on in two days, and her legs shake as she tries to steady herself. She rests her hands on her knees for a moment, and a quick sweep of the room tells her what she had already guessed, that her shoes for some reason are gone. Her bare feet whisper against the dusty cement floor as she sways and wobbles precariously to the door.
It's early in the morning and the men were up late drinking the night before, their whoops and wild antics still pound in her ears. Her own body is suffering from the variety of alcohol they'd forced her to drink and it's no wonder they're all asleep right now.
They think she's unconscious, they've let their guard down for a rare moment, and her only opportunity to take advantage is right now. It's a risk. There's the possibility that someone might see her, that they might grab her and drag her back down here for more beatings and more verbal abuse and more . . . Alex shakes her head quickly, vowing not to think of that for now. But shaking her head isn't good. It hurts. Along with every other muscle and organ in her body.
She ignores the dried blood caked on the inside of her jeans and down the front of her once white shirt, focusing instead on the task at hand, on opening the door as silently as possible and checking left and right. The hallway is empty, but she can't help feeling this is too easy. It must be around six or seven in the morning and her stomach rumbles in response. It's been awhile since she's been given anything to eat. Glancing down at her watch, she remembers when she sees the bare skin, it's gone. They took that from her along with her shoes and almost everything else. But her wallet, now stripped of cash and her credit cards, is still in her pocket. In the main room, she passes several snoozing men strewn about on filthy couches and sleeping bags. The creaking fan spins uselessly overhead in an almost hypnotic pattern. That sight is something she won't miss.
Outside, still no one has stopped her and the sun is just coming up, just peeking its face over a distant hill to the east. And it's still. There's no wind and no sounds save for the Doppler effect-type sounds of the highway nearby. The caliche rock is unpleasant on her bare feet, but she ignores it, eyes focused solely on the cars haphazardly parked outside the forlorn building. She starts at the pickup closest to her, the one she was forced into a week earlier. And when she pulls the handle and it simply jerks back to its resting place, she's almost relieved that she doesn't have to get back in there.
The next car is locked too, but the dusty old Cadillac park farthest away gives her hope. The door swings open and she slides gingerly in, wincing at the strain in her muscles. And then, nothing. No keys. This place, although they blindfolded her on the way in, she has a good idea of where they are. Just on the outskirts San Antonio, they can't have driven more than 20 miles without slowling for stoplights. She glances up and sees the airplanes in the sky, military planes, so they can't be far from the air force base. Regardless, it's too far to get away by foot and she begins to panic, begins to formulate a plan for getting back inside the building to steal a set of keys.
And then she sees it.
It's propped up behind the Cadillac, closest to the road, and the sun sparkles off the key hanging from the ignition. A Ducati, from the looks of it, black and sleek. There's no helmet, though, and that's a problem. These things are dangerous enough with proper head protection. But a quick look back to the building shows a haphazard pile of gear near the door. She moves a quickly as she can back to the building, pulls on a pair of black-dyed crocodile boots two sizes too large and zips up a black leather jacket equally as big. The helmet, she carries under her arm back to the bike, rocks now crunching all too loudly under her new boots.
It hurts to straddle it, but Alex grits her teeth and shoves the helmet onto her head, folding her hair up under it. She turns the key, shifts it into neutral and flips the kill switch. The clutch depresses without much resistance under her hand and in this relative heat, the bike turns over easily when she presses the starter. But it's loud and potentially could wake everyone in that godforsaken place, so she wastes no time in hightailing it out of there.
The building is set about a mile back from the road and she kicks up a cloud of dirt on the way out; as she reaches the main road, her heartbeat slows down a bit and a soothing feeling of relief finally settles in. It's the first good feeling, besides when they left her along for several hours at a time, that she's had for a week.
She's made it. Alex turns around to look back, fully expecting that black pickup to be right behind her, but there is no one. "Thank you," she whispers to the heavens. Although after the week she's had, she's not sure if there's anyone up there listening anymore.
WHOOM!
A blur of motion, black with streaks of grey rushes through her vision. Olivia splutters into her lukewarm coffee, shocked at the sheer speed of whatever it was that just zipped by her cruiser.
"What the fu . .?" she asks no one in particular, not looking down as her hand instinctively nestles the half-full container back in its cup holder. The car groans in response as she throws it into gear, shoving her foot down on the accelerator. She'd been waiting here on Highway 90 just behind the overpass for people speeding by on their way to work. It sucks to get a ticket first thing in the morning, but ever since the Texas legislature raised the speed limit on certain stretches of road, the wrecks due to loss of control at high speed weren't getting any easier to work. The number of bodies was stacking up and stopping people for their speed proves to be one of the few ways to fight the growing problem.
Gravel spits out at the asphalt and the car lurches forward as Olivia flips on lights and sirens. It's a motorcycle, that much she can see from even as far back as she is. The radio crackles in her hand and she calls in her number and location and what's about to happen. It's not a pursuit yet, so she waits to tell the dispatcher that much.
The radar shows 105 and the guy is doing at least that half a mile ahead of her. Motorcycles are the worst. They're fast and maneuverable and their drivers are usually more reckless than their automobile-driver counterparts. And more often than not, these idiots try to get away.
But she gives chase anyway, accelerating up to 90, now 95 and finally she gains on the guy as an 18-wheeler tries to pass a double-wide trailer. The motorcycle's brake light glows red. Her pulse slows down a fraction. This might not end up badly. Maybe they'll stop.
Her cell phone buzzes in her lap. Now is not a good time, she thinks.
She does something she's really not supposed to do and grabs it, presses Accept and holds it to her ear as she's flying down the highway. But this could be important, and if she doesn't answer this particular caller. Things could get ugly. As she listens, voices on the other end of the line are yelling and breathing hard. Something's gone wrong. Shit, she thinks. And I'm not there to see it.
"Benson!" the voice yells out.
"Yeah? I'm here. Kind of in the middle of something right now, though."
"Shut the fuck up and listen!" he demands, his voice a little frantic. Olivia has to swerve around a truck who apparently doesn't know that you're supposed to pull over to the right and go slow when an emergency vehicle has their lights on. But she complies and stays quiet.
"She got away."
"What?" Olivia asked, although she hears him loud and clear. She just can't believe they let it happen.
"Bitch stole Vicente's bike and took off! We woke up and she was gone!"
"Vicente's bike you said?" She stares with wonder at the speeding biker ahead of her.
"Yeah. You gotta get her back. She's gonna take off."
"Good news. I've already got her. I'm in pursuit right now." Her voice goes low and serious. The words, she spits out.
"That's my girl. She went west then?"
"Yeah. I gotta go." She hangs up the phone and focuses on the chase.
Olivia closes the distance and the biker turns her head to the left, glancing back at the black and white and begins to slow down. She breathes a sigh of relief, knowing full well that this situation potentially could've ended in a bloody pile of twisted metal. The bike, a Ducati street model, all grey and silver and black and shiny pipes, pulls off to the shoulder. Olivia keeps eyes glued to the rider, making sure she doesn't try to bolt. Her voice turns metallic as she radios in the situation and simultaneously types in the license plate.
One second she's looking down at her computer screen and then next she looks back up and the rider is taking off her helmet. The long blonde cascading hair falling past slim shoulders catches her off guard. She's seen pictures of the woman before but never in person. It definitely appears to be Vicente's bike and the surprise she feels blindsides her. She was dead set on this biker being a man when the pursuit first started. Scolding herself silently, Olivia reaches over for her hat, pressing its soft straw to her head, and tells herself that men aren't the only ones who ride motorcycles like that. Incredibly fast and dangerously. Sure, women do that sort of thing all the time. Because of testosterone. Her lips press in a hard line.
A glance back down at the computer screen tells her the bike is indeed registered to a Vicente Velez. She looks back up. This girl doesn't look much like Vicente Velez, and she wonders what the woman will say. She steps out of the car, her black boots shining in the morning light and heat. And by heat, it must be made clear that this sort of heat is muggy and suffocating and typical of Texas in the summertime. But honestly, this temperature in the morning is staggering and downright ridiculous, she thinks as she steps towards the bike.
A bead of sweat trickles down her cheek and she slips on her shades against the sun. The gravel, like it flew backwards from her tires earlier, crunches now under her feet as she approaches the bike. The woman is still straddling it, her neck bent so that her face hides behind a veil of blonde hair. Olivia clears her throat and the blonde looks up; her blue eyes are the first thing Olivia sees. The next thing she notices is the state of this woman's appearance.
The thin woman is drowning in an oversized black leather jacket and there's no way it actually belongs to her. Looks like something that also belongs to Vicente. But that's not even close to the worst. She's hunched over on the bike, arms crossed on her chest, anxiety screaming from her every readable body expression. A blue-black bruise is blossoming around her eye and it clashes severely with her pale skin. The still bleeding scratches and busted lip aren't helping her appearance either.
It's obvious that she's staring and the blonde gives her a scathing look in return. Olivia finds her voice quickly.
"Ma'am, Texas Highway Patrol. The reason I stopped you this morning is for your speed. Will you step off the bike and stand over here with me? Go ahead and bring your insurance with you as well."
It's standard procedure to ask motorcyclists this, as there isn't any protection from fast-moving vehicles that might hit them from the road. She nods her head, wincing visibly as she picks a leg up and slowly moves her body to one side. She's obviously in a lot of pain. Turning back to the bike, Olivia watches as she rummages around in the small compartment, struggling for a moment to get the latch open. It releases and she pulls out the flimsy card, wincing again as she stands up.
"Ma'am, are you okay?" Olivia asks as they both step to the side of her cruiser, because this woman looks like she needs medical attention, and fast. But she only nods and looks up into Olivia's dark glasses after setting the helmet on the seat.
"May I have your license and insurance?"
The woman remains expressionless until she reaches back into her jeans pocket and pulls out a slim wallet, and just when her shoulder reaches a certain point, her face crumples in pain for a split second. Recovering quickly, she straightens her face and slides her license out of the leather and hands it over. What the fuck did they do to her?
Olivia looks down at it, biting the inside of her cheek The woman has already refused medical attention once and more than likely, she's too stubborn to ask for help. Alexandra Cabot, home address is a fairly nice neighborhood in San Antonio. All information she's seen already. Alexandra Cabot, she thinks to herself, why did you have to speed past me this morning? Couldn't you have gone a different direction?
"Insurance?"
She allows Olivia to take it from her outstretched hand. It's up to date and confirms the license plate information.
"Whose bike is this?" Olivia asks and Alexandra Cabot lifts her gaze from the ground. She hesitates, eyes going up and off to the left.
"My boyfriend's," she says confidently in a raspy voice, if a little too late to be entirely convincing.
"Your boyfriend's," Olivia repeats. Nice try, she thinks. Even if she didn't know all about the situation, she wouldn't have believed that one. She waves the insurance card in front of her. "Does he know you have his bike?"
Another glare flies at her. "Of course he does."
"And did your boyfriend do that to your face?" Olivia gestures towards the bruises and blood. Alex turns her head, eyes darting to the passing cars and she licks her chapped lips before looking back at Olivia without answering. If only she'd ask to be taken to the hospital. She might be safe there.
"Is there a reason you were driving so fast?"
Her shoulders shrug and the oversized jacket sways around her midsection.
"Out joyriding, then?" Olivia tries with a skeptical expression. "Ma'am, you know, I was surprised you stopped. We usually get in pursuits with bikes like this."
The blonde clears her throat and makes a pained expression. Something else that's hurting her. So her legs, shoulder, face and now throat are causing this woman pain. They had really worked her over.
"I'm not a criminal. I have no reason to run from the police."
It's the most she'd said the entire time. Olivia raises an eyebrow, visible even above her wide sunglasses. "Then what were you running from?"
Her eyes are darting along the highway, on the lookout for something. But at Olivia's words, she catches herself and tries to look normal. And again, she doesn't answer.
"Ma'am, I'm asking because you look agitated. If someone is after you, I can help. That's my job."
This only seems to make things worse. The blonde crosses her arms across her chest and a dark look passes over her face. "No one is after me. Look, can you just write me a ticket so I can be on my way?"
Olivia shakes her head and reflexively widens her stance. "I'm afraid it's not going to be that simple, ma'am. A woman, traveling alone on a motorcycle, going at a high rate of speed with no real reason, it looks pretty suspicious to me."
She reaches up and pulls her sunglasses off, looking the blonde directly in the eyes. It startles her, how captivated she is by the dazzling blue eyes, now that the sun is reflecting in them. Their connection momentarily leaves her short of breath, but she quickly shakes off that feeling, attributing it to the heat and her suffocating bulletproof vest.
"And on top of that, you've failed to give an answer to most of my questions. This makes me think you've got something to hide. Do you have something to hide? Drugs?"
She looks over at the bike and the blonde mirrors her movements before turning back to face Olivia. "I already told you I'm not a criminal, Officer . . ." she leans in, squinting at Olivia's nameplate. "Benson."
"It's Trooper Benson, ma'am." The blonde rolls her eyes at that and Olivia has to stuff her annoyance down deep. She has a duty, after all, to be polite and courteous to all motorists.
"Is it okay if I search your bike?"
The blonde stares at her for a moment, looking like she's considering it, and then her face twists in a grimace. "I don't think so," she says, keeping her arms crossed. "I'm well aware of my rights, Trooper Benson. You have no probable cause for a search and you'll need a warrant to do so."
Olivia nods and takes a step back, reaching over for her portable on her shoulder. The woman watches as she radios in for a K-9 unit. If they can find drugs and arrest her, she'll be much better off.
"What's that about?" she asks, when Olivia finishes with her call. She replaces her shades and begins to turn towards her car.
"Are you sure you don't want to let me search the bike?"
Alexandra Cabot frowns and shakes her head. "Why not let the government give the police complete control and allow them to search anything they want with no repercussions. Why not turn this whole country into a police state?"
"Okay," Olivia says, ignoring her rant. "We're going to conduct a free air search on your boyfriend's bike."
A scoff escapes that pert little mouth and Olivia is glad for a moment that she's put her glasses back on. "You're kidding."
"No, ma'am."
"This is ridiculous. Not to mention just barely skirting past my constitutional rights."
"Yes ma'am, but it is perfectly legal."
"I'm aware," she says succinctly and shifts on her feet. Olivia walks over to her cruiser.
"Wait right there for me please." The woman glares at her without further acknowledgement. She sits in the driver's seat and runs the license. And just like Ms. Cabot said, she's certainly not a criminal: no speeding ticket, no warrants, no priors, nothing.
She prints out the speeding ticket and attaches it to the little clipboard, and when she looks up to the rearview mirror, the K-9 unit pulls in behind her. The driver hops out, followed a large and sleek German shepherd, and Olivia steps away from the car to go and greet the handler.
They confer for a brief moment before Olivia crunches through drought-deadened grass and rocks back to Ms. Cabot, who has kept the heavy jacket on, despite the heat. It makes Olivia wonder what her arms look like beneath it.
….
"Okay here's how this'll work. The dog will sniff around the bike, in the free air surrounding it, not invading your constitutional privacy," she says that last bit with a smirk. She goes on when the blonde returns her look.
"And if the dog alerts, we'll do a search of your belongings now with probable cause."
The woman crosses her arms and stands, stance wide, and simply watches as Olivia waits a moment for an answer before giving up and turning her attention to the dog. She keeps her peripheral on the blonde, in case she decides to run. It's always a possibility, with any person the police stops, that they might try to get away. She hopes against hope that today will not be that day, because this woman looks athletic and it is too damned hot for any cross country adventures on foot.
The dog takes two slow, deliberate laps around the car, sniffing all the while and then looks up at his handler. He pants in the heat, his chest heaving and pink tongue wagging around. No alert.
"Nothing," the handler says, his eyes also hidden behind dark glasses, and Olivia inwardly curses. The handler and dog make their way back to their SUV and get in, waiting out of the heat for her to finish the traffic stop. She glances over, eyes still hidden behind glasses, at Ms. Cabot. She stands, still with arms crossed, staring directly at Olivia.
"No drugs?" She asks, her tone mocking and sarcastic. "May I go now?"
"Yes ma'am, just as soon as you sign this ticket." She pulls out her ticket book, having already written everything out that she needed to. "It will be a citation for your speed, traveling 105 in an 8o. What you need to do is get into contact with Judge Burns of Medina County on or before July 3rd here at this address." Olivia stands next to the woman now, pointing out different parts of the ticket while she nods her head impatiently. Her eyes are still busy, still roving the highway, looking for something or someone.
"And if you can't show up in person, you can call this phone number."
Alex takes the pen and signs it, albeit reluctantly, giving Olivia a hard glare, obviously hoping on some level that she wouldn't be getting a ticket, even though she was going more than twenty over and dodging through traffic.
"And now I can go?" Olivia nods and the woman steps away from her, tossing her hair back as she tugs on her helmet.
"Ma'am?" Olivia calls out before the blonde eases her leg back over the bike.
She looks back and Olivia wishes she would ask for help. Because in this case, she really does need it. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"I'm fine," she says, and Olivia can barely hear it through the wind and the muffling helmet covering the lower part of her mouth.
"Be safe," Olivia says and she watches as the stubborn woman puts the motorcycle in gear and accelerates away. She revs up the engine and powers quickly into high gear, shrinking smaller and smaller in the distance, eventually disappearing over a nearby hill.
Her radio squawks on her shoulder. Dispatch is calling for backup on I-35. She doesn't have to bother telling the brothers where the blonde is headed. They'll find her.
"Affirmative," she says into her portable and heads back to her car, giving the K-9 guy a wave.
The wind rushes over Alex, cool and a welcome respite from the suffocating heat from before. But there's little time to bask in this small happiness when so much has gone wrong. Every part of her life has gone awry, and the helplessness washes over her as surely as the whipping wind.
And still, the threat is ever present, knowing they could be two cars behind her or waiting up ahead around the nearest bend. It's disturbing and unsettling, not knowing where they are and her paranoia only increases as she reaches her exit. The plan is to loop back around to San Antonio, getting off the main highway as quickly as possible, but the inconvenient and troublingly curious Trooper Benson foiled that plan.
For a moment she allows herself to picture that inquisitive trooper and how much she'd like to punch her directly in the face, square in the nose. Just once, maybe twice for good measure, for pulling her over. Alex knows the woman was only doing her job, was trying to protect people from her high speed, dangerous antics. But that doesn't change the situation. If they saw her standing there, being questioned and 'free air' searched on the side of the road, they could be following her now.
A dragging weight at the back of her pants reminds her of the gravity of the situation. The overlarge boots and jacket and this motorcycle aren't the only things she took from outside the run-down house. A handgun, she has no idea what kind it is or what kind of bullets it holds, is currently in her pants and she thanks her lucky stars the trooper didn't try to search her person. It's stolen, and not first by her, she's sure of that. But it was in the jacket when she took it, and it's heavy against her back, full of bullets and in her now skittish mind, safety. That one would have been even more difficult to explain.
She's shot guns before, but a handgun only once. Mostly, she's fired shotguns and rifles, target practice with her friends out in the country during their long summers. So this loaded gun, she knows how to use, certainly, but hopes full-heartedly that she doesn't have to. Maybe, just maybe, she'll be able to reach the city with no encounters.
And with these thoughts flying through her mind, she feels uneasy, like someone's watching. When she looks in her side mirror, she sees the truck behind her. It's a newer model pickup, black with abnormally large tires and grill guard fit for a rancher. A vehicle she knows all too well.
Shit, she thinks.
There isn't any point in trying to run. She pulls over, downshifting the gears to one until finally she's able to put her feet down. Ignoring the ache in her thighs as her leg again swings over the side, her entire body seems to remember the pain these men have caused her. She prepares for the worst as she stands up straight and watches the doors open as three pairs of boots hop down to the gravel. The gun stays at her back, but she's not sure if she has what it takes to pull it out and start shooting.