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Part II, IMPASSE

Provenza was forced to watch, his mouth dry and his muscles slack from having tried to break free, beads of perspiration clinging to his back, his neck. There was nowhere else to rest his eyes and as much as he loathed to be made to watch in this fashion he could not look away either. Provenza was certain it was the reason the bastard had left him like this, so he was forced to watch his colleagues on the wide screens. As much as he was loath to do what the psychopath had intended it did not deter him from fastening his eyes on the screens and cringing.

The monitors flickered and in-between he caught the image of a room. There was Flynn slumped to the floor while the dark figure with the gas mask shoved him further inside the room none too gently. Provenza watched his buddy, watched as the black-clothed psychopath left with a heavy slap on Flynn's head. Flynn remained unmoving, body slack on the floor.

Provenza's eyes flickered to another screen, helpless to do anything as he watched Mike all alone in a room, struggling with trying to compress his leg, blood gushing. Provenza did not understand, what had happened to detective Reynolds?

The image flickered and this time Provenza followed the black-clothed figure moving along a hallway, a slow stride, arrogant in his pace.

On another screen Provenza found Sanchez and Sykes. He grimaced when he saw their predicament.

Andy quickly left the room he had been deposited in, finding nothing to help him in the empty, boarded up place. The door creaked on its hinges when he hesitantly opened it into a hallway, looking both ways. There was nothing distinguishing about the hall, nothing to point him in which direction would be most suitable. The wall tapestry was a dark brown color, something even darker emblazoned along in vertical lines. He noted a lot of other doors, the same half grizzled look in the wood.

Andy took a left turn, following the long hallway till he came to the end, another doorway. It was hard not to be a bit fearful when he had nothing to defend himself with, nothing that would in any way make an impact against whoever had thought out this whole little game. His fingers hesitantly closed around the doorknob and he turned it, the creak when the door opened into the room loud and unwelcome. The room was as empty as the one he had been in, almost the exact replica down to the boarded windows and the dusty floor.

Andy let out a breath, not sure what he had imagined would be on the other side. He closed the door again and walked back the way he had come, looking in through all the doors on his way. Every door led into a room, some small and some bigger. A broom closet and a pantry stocked with old canned food. He kneeled in the pantry, looking through the many boxes and what they contained. There was nothing in them bearing any resemblance to a weapon. He took an old rusty tin can with peas with him however, the bulk nice to have in his hand as he went on. It would hit hard if he flung it, and maybe it was just the reassurance of having something in his hand but it brought a little snip of relief.

Not enough to let go completely of his fear. This place seemed otherworldly, the walls rank and dark, the floor creaking as he stepped on it, the sight of the hallway nearing a corner looming in his sight. He turned around the corner and saw stairs at the end, leading both up and down before the hallway continued on the other side. The banisters bordered in what looked like faint ivory, smoky and faded, the mansion quiet as he approached the stairs, and what would most likely be the fastest exit to the outside.

Then there was the nagging feeling of being watched, a prickly feeling on his back but whenever he turned there was nothing. Shit, he wished they had waited for the feds. Or better yet, he thought darkly, blown a tire out on the deserted dirt road. Anything would have been preferable to this nightmare.

There was yet another door to his left, just before the landing and the stairs.

He decided to have a look; he had looked in through every other door and it would be stupid to overlook this one. The knob turned almost silently and the door flung inwards effortlessly.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

The room was as empty as every other but for the bound form of his Captain on the floor, her red hair leaving behind no doubt.

Before he could take a further step inside the room and help her, a foul cloth came over his mouth and nose, strong arms suddenly around him in a stronghold, forcing the cloth more forcefully into his face. There had been no forewarning sound.

Andy struggled, let go of the tin can in his hand and burrowed his fingers into two burly forearms, trying to break free from the almost suffocating grip the stranger had around his neck.

The cloth smelled sweet, almost nauseously so. It was the same smell, he realized, the one that the perpetrator had used to drug him with earlier. He struggled harder, tried to clamp down his mouth and not breathe. It was too late; he could already feel his strength leaving him, muscles weakening. Like a blanket of sleep steadily enveloping him, removing life from him.

The last thing Andy saw before everything turned black again was Sharon struggling on the ground, trying to slide away from the noise. He noticed she was blindfolded.

It was excruciating. Pain like nothing he had met before. Then again, Mike had never had the misfortune of being shot before now. It was searing, the muscles of his right leg torn apart in a gnawing rip; blood so wet and slippery as it gushed.

Methodically he tried to make it stop, the hand not handcuffed to the radiator pressed hard into the wound. However much force he put into it blood kept slipping between his fingers, slick and warm. The detective had left, not answering any of Mike's questions. Nothing made sense to Mike. What had happened? Reynolds had glowing records and the sudden change, why it bothered Mike.

If his femoral artery had been nicked he would bleed out in no time. Twenty minutes had passed on his watch and he had yet to slip into cardiac shock. It was blessedly not his femoral artery then. There was only the wound on the anterior of his thigh, no exit wound.

There was still a lot of blood and Mike knew it would only be a question of time before he did indeed slip into unconsciousness. He was already faint and so tired, the feel of his heart hammering in his chest doing nothing to calm him down. He wondered if the bullet would stay in its position wherever that was, or if it would travel. He feared it would end up in his bloodstream and kill him.

He tried to calm himself down, knew the calmer he was the slower the blood would seep.

Maybe he was lucky, and it was only the tearing of a muscle and fat. Fat bleed quite a lot, he tried to reason.

It started to smell, he found. His own blood, pooled under him, seeping into his jeans and staining his hand.

Lay down, he told himself.

He was able to lie on his back, his leg throbbing at the movement, his left wrist handcuffed to the radiator sore.

Supine he was less faint he realized.

Good, now what to do about the wound.

It felt like less of a flow when he removed his hand. He would be able to tear his shirt then, and not fear bleeding out while he tried to make a bandage out of his clothes.

His bloodied fingers curled around the edge of his shirt under the protective vest, and tried to rip the material to shreds. He wished the shirt was not as sturdy as it was. He wished he had worn one of his old shirts.

God, this would take forever.

Funny, there was less blood than he had imagined and yet his fingers slipped everytime he tried to get a grip on the head of the nail. Every little movement brought another tremor of pain along his arm, sometimes so piercing he felt faint and ready to throw up.

There was nothing else to do but to pull it up however, so Sanchez continued. His nails caught on the metal in his hand, tried to rock the nail up. It only hurt even more, the metal moving but a slight inside his hand.

"Shit," he cursed vehemently.

"I'm nearly there," Sykes panted in pain.

"Good Amy," he ground out.

She had fallen asleep and then woken again, her eyes clear. She had been more collected than him, still and unmoving as she surveyed the nail in her own hand.

It was better to get away than linger in the room, and whatever damage the nail had done and whatever damage it would do to get it out, well it was better than being sitting ducks.

"Do you think the others are okay?"

Sanchez looked up at her question, her brows knitted together in concentration as she dug fingers around the nail head. She was faring better than him he saw, able to get a firmer grip on the nail. Her face consorted in pain when she tried to budge it.

"I hope so," he told her, trying to keep his voice reassuring, "This was a planned attack on us. I hesitate to guess what's been planned and what they want to accomplish."

"Well, I'm going to kick the shit out of whoever planned this."

"Oh yeah," he agreed, trying once again to pull his own nail out.

Sykes cried, and he looked up.

Her eyes gleamed, her hand holding up a long rusty nail, her fingers bloodied. She scooted over to him, and her smaller fingers fit more easily around the nail and she tugged it free.

Shit, it hurt.

They cradled their injured hands to their chests, both breathing heavily with a mixture of pain and fear.

Now, they just needed to figure out where the others were. Or maybe they just needed to get out of here and call for backup.

Sharon was certain she heard a door opening, even if it made barely a sound. She was certain she heard footsteps and the rustling of clothes. She shied away from the sounds, tried to scoot away on the wooden floor, her hands tied behind her back making it difficult.

She heard a dump sound, as if something heavy had fallen to the floor.

She paused and listened again.

Still footsteps, she tensed when they approached her.

A finger suddenly traced her cheek; she sucked in a breath, flinching.

"Little captain," a voice slithered in a hoarse whisper. It was close to her ear, her hair moving at the breath.

She tensed further, a lump in her throat.

"I'm going to enjoy toying with you."

"Stay away from me," she bit back. Her voice sounded hoarse, it scratched as it went past her parched throat.

There was a small chuckle in reply.

"You stay away from me, goddamn, or I'm going to -"

A hand clamped over her mouth, cutting of her threat, her voice becoming but a muffle.

A big, rough hand – callused and smelling of sweat. Hard against her mouth, cutting off air. She tried to bite but the hand was hard and she could not work her jaws to open.

"I'm going to slit you up," the voice whispered, hard and breathy as another hand stroked along her throat, pressing down on her windpipe.

Still she tried to struggle against the shadow, the big man, but it was futile, the hand moving from her throat and to her hair, pulling the strands painfully till her head followed backwards.

"Stay still, little captain. Move, and I'll slice you into little pieces and send them to everyone you care about," the voice said.

She stilled until she felt the prick of something small sticking her in the neck, the stinging reminding her of the feeling of vaccinations. She struggled again, afraid of what had been in the injection.

"Sweet dreams," the voice said before it disappeared, the hands in her hair and around her mouth disappearing as well.

She lay still, barely able to breathe for fear. Her heart beat rapidly, erratically and almost drowning out the sound of someone moving away from her, something being dragged across floorboards, a door opening and closing.

And then nothing but her own heart, blood rushing in her ears and the sound of her own tentative inhalation loud.