Note: Spoilers for Backscatter, Counterfeit Reality. Thanks to WriterJC for the beta read.
What surprised Don the most was how cold he felt. It was Southern California, after all, but that's what two days in the dark on a cement floor will do to you. At least there was enough room to stretch out on the floor, and he was lucky enough to have his hands tied in front and not in back. His head and knee were still throbbing, and the plastic tie around his hands chafed.
Lifting his bound hands to his face, he rubbed his eyes. He'd thought about it over and over—Why did those thugs attack him? Why was he here? Could he have gotten away if he'd tried harder? They hadn't been that chatty, so here he was, stuck in the dark—both literally and figuratively. It's not like he had much else to do but relive Friday night in his head. An escape was next to impossible. His knee was definitely out of commission if it came to running, and after two days with no food and little water, he wasn't sure he had the energy even if he could get past the locked door.
He let out a deep breath, thinking about the three men who had jumped him outside the grocery store. It had been a long, busy week. They'd been hard at work on a case, and as usual, he hadn't eaten or slept properly in days. All he'd wanted was a frozen pizza and some beer, but what he got was a hard right hook across the cheek, a hefty punch in the gut and a kick in the knee. He'd swung back, but they were on him from all sides, much too quickly to pull his gun or do anything but go on the defensive.
Another blow across the back of his shoulders had brought him down to the pavement, and a kick in the ribs had left him gasping for breath long enough for them to pull him into the back of a white painter's van. They'd known what they were doing and quickly had his hands bound and his eyes blindfolded. The van started moving, and he kept struggling with the two thugs left in back with him until he felt a large hand press a wet cloth in his face, and the chemical smell made the sounds and motion blur until everything went dark.
When he woke up in the dark, he wasn't sure how long he'd been out. Even now, he wasn't really sure, but he was guessing it had been a few days since they'd grabbed him. A few times they had opened the door and thrown a bottle of water at him, but otherwise, he'd been left to his own thoughts. His stomach wasn't sure how to react—half the time, it was lurching from the pain of his injuries, and the other half, it was gurgling with hunger.
Did anyone even know he was missing? Certainly if he'd been called in for a case they did, and if it was Monday, someone would notice his absence. But otherwise, he couldn't be sure. He didn't have plans with his dad or Charlie for the weekend. It wasn't unusual for him to hole up in his apartment with some beer and old movies after a long week, just to recharge for the stack of cases waiting for him the next week. The thought of having dinner with his dad and Charlie had swung his stomach back to hunger.
He opened his eyes into the blackness of the room and listened to the sounds outside the door. It wasn't strictly true that his captors weren't talkative—but they weren't talking to him, and they weren't speaking English. If he had to guess, Don would put his money on Russian. He wasn't dead or maimed too badly, so they probably weren't pals with Koverchenko, but they certainly didn't have anything good in mind for him. But what? What were they waiting for? He could hear them now, talking quickly in low voices.
Their voices suddenly quieted down, and Don heard a new voice join the conversation—louder, but still in Russian. Thug One said something, and the new guy's voice got louder and angrier. Thug One responded in a cajoling tone. They went back and forth, and then Don heard footsteps approaching his door. It swung open, and the dark room filled with bright light. It hurt his eyes after so much darkness, and he squinted to block it. A hand grabbed him by the back of his belt and hauled him upright, slamming him slightly against the doorframe. He nearly collapsed at the pain of putting his weight on his injured knee.
Thug Two gave him a shove in the back, and he stumbled forward, hissing and wincing at the pain. As his eyes adjusted, he saw Thugs One and Three standing next to a metal folding chair. It wasn't that far of a walk, although the fire radiating in his knee made it feel much longer. Another shove sent him tumbling toward the chair, and he barely managed to hit the seat without falling to the floor.
In the full light of the large room, Don realized just how swollen his left cheek must be, as it pushed the bottom of his eye closed. He looked up at his surroundings. The room was huge and fairly empty, some kind of storage area. Thugs Two and Three stood on either side of him, while Thug One continued to talk with the fourth man. The newcomer had a buzz-cut of brown hair, hard blue eyes and wore a tailored suit and silk tie that said he wasn't hurting financially. He was a stark contrast to Don's grungy captors. Another man, bald and well-built, lurked in the shadows behind the man in the suit.
The man in the suit looked at him with a penetrating stare, then said something angrily in Russian to Thug One. Thug One replied, still in Russian, gesturing toward him. The lilt of his voice reminded Don of a slick car salesman trying to convince someone a car wasn't a lemon. With so little information to anchor him, Don almost felt like he was just an observer, watching something happen to someone else.
Then, he was back in the moment as the man in the suit turned to him and said in heavily-accented English, "What is the address of the Los Angeles FBI office?"
That was the last thing Don was expecting to hear, and his brain stalled for a moment in confusion. It wasn't secret or classified information—it was publicly available, so why were they asking him? Thug One waved, and Thug Two stepped forward and landed a blow at Don's stomach. Don groaned in pain as Thug One loomed over him and said, "Answer him."
Breathlessly, Don choked out, "450 South Bixel Street."
The man in the suit nodded to Thug One, and they stepped away to talk. Don watched as the man in the suit handed his silver briefcase to Thug One, and he caught a glimpse of cash inside when Thug One opened it. Now would be a good time to suddenly understand Russian, but Don had a sinking feeling he knew what was going on anyway. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, he thought.