Chapter Warnings: Violence, very mild language, Tony and Abby being raunchy, and a description of sardines that may ruin them for you forever.
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"I never make a trip to the United States without visiting a supermarket. To me they are more fascinating than any fashion salon."
—Wallis Simpson, American Socialite and Duchess of Windsor
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Abby wished she could jam her fingers in her ears like used to do whenever her parents argued. She wished she were dreaming. Mostly, she wished that Gibbs were here, to wrap her up his endlessly safe arms.
Pepper spray. To the eyes. She understood, from her mental encyclopedia of chemicals, exactly how much that might hurt. A textbook had once described the sensation as akin to rubbing one's eyeballs with steel wool—a description so vivid that, at the time, it had half-horrified, half delighted her with the terrifying power of the humble pepper.
In person, she was finding, the effects of capsaicin were nothing close to delightful.
Abby wept silently as the man in front of her cried out in agony, the price for her stupid attempt at heroics.
"Hey." A touch brushed her shoulder. She looked into the face of her rescuer. Already his skin was swelling, but he half-smiled anyway. "What's your name?"
The husky whisper...the steady gaze...were strangely comforting. She found herself answering in spite of herself. "Abby."
"Abby," he repeated after a moment, still half-smiling. "When I move, you get everyone else out the door. Alright?"
She wanted to demand to know what he was going to do; tell him not to be reckless; insist illogically that Gibbs would be here any moment. But there was a thread of command in his voice that she couldn't ignore. She found herself nodding.
As if on cue, the gunman turned on her companion. "Looks like we've got some whispering over there. I'm getting tired of this. Have you got something to share with the class, Tony?"
To Abby's horror, the answer seemed to be a very impudent "yes."
"Yeah, actually. You've got a booger, right about...there. Sorry."
Was this his plan? A nervous giggle bubbled in her throat, stopped only by a matching sense of protective indignation. This is a terrible plan, Tony-whoever-you-are!
Abby watched anxiously as Tony continued to mock their captor, waiting for either the "move" that would spur her to action, or for the sound of a gunshot blowing his head off.
"There's just one thing I think you should know before you shoot me," the cop said finally. There was something different in his tone. Abby tensed.
"And what's that?"
"Did you know your fly's down?"
Instantly, Tony attacked. Both men were a flurry of action. The gun went off, almost stopping her heart, but Abby leapt to her feet. The others stood frozen, like deer crossing a highway. "Run!" She bellowed, more grit than she knew she possessed filling her voice. "Go, go, GO!"
The trucker was the first to move, surprisingly agile for his bulk, bolting over and scooping up the little boy one-armed. The child screamed, frightened, but no one stopped to sooth him. The mother lifted her daughter with a strength surely born of adrenaline, and grabbed her still-blinded husband with the other hand, dragging him along.
Abby ran to the door herself, yanking it open, and ushering them through. "Get far enough away from the cell jammers, and then call for help!" she snapped, the intensity born not of anger but insistence.
The sickening noises of flesh pounding flesh from behind her made her stomach roil—but she'd promised. "Run!"
The cashier was the last to make it, casting frightened eyes over his shoulder. He shoved his way past her without a second glance, sprinting into the night.
The figures vanished around the corner.
They were safe!
Abby wheeled around, half-expecting to come face to face with an equally triumphant Tony.
Reality was not so kind.
The two men wrestled still, caught in a battle of resolve. Teeth bared like wolf at the kill, the aggressor let fly a brutal punch, and then another, landing each solidly on the cop's face. Blood dribbled down Tony's chin, from his lips, given him the look of a vampire after a feast. Though his hands were locked stubbornly on the gun, he drooped, barely conscious.
Clinging, but fading fast.
Abby's heart leapt into her throat. As though in answer, her gaze lit upon an abandoned grocery cart. No time to consider its appropriateness as a weapon. She charged, powering into her opponent with frenzied strength.
The unexpected attack threw the man sideways. The gun soared away, landing in a bin of overripe tomatoes.
Beside her, Tony hit his knees.
Ferociously, Abby attacked again. And again. The unoiled wheels shrieked an Amazonian battle cry.
But the element of surprise was now over—and Tony was still too out of it to help—
Fingers closed on the front of the cart. The gunman's muscled bulged, and he wrenched her makeshift weapon from her grasp, sending the cart—wailing its lament—into the wall. Free of impediment, the man stepped forward, hand held high.
Slap.
It was an open-handed strike—the sort to hurt, not shatter bone. Still, pain exploded across her cheek, the force hurling her sideways. She collided with the counter, and scrabbled for purchase, accidently pushing half of its contents off. Bins of bubblegum tape and key chains scattered, sailing across the floor into chaos.
Abby fell heavily into a sitting position, dazed and winded. Her eyelids drooped for a moment, lashes veiling the unpleasant scene like a curtain closing off a play. She blinked heavily, just in time to witness a boot flicking forward casually, snapping her new friend's head back. The cop crumpled, an unmoving heap in a blood-dotted tee.
He looked younger, lying so still.
Immediacy and breath roared back in tandem, fueled by rage. "You bastard," she spat, launching to her feet. She hurled herself towards the pepper spray lying abandoned a few feet away, fingers extended, grasping—
"Oh, I wouldn't do that, if I were you."
The cold voice stopped her mid motion. Slowly Abby lifted her head. Her opponent stood ten feet away, arms dripping with rotted tomato pulp, gun firmly pointing at Tony's unconscious head.
Carefully, Abby retracted her hand, feeling her eyes grow wide with fear.
A smile split the man's face. Pleased, at her submission. "That's better, little lady." His voice rang soft, mocking. On his skin, the tomato bits looked like shredded innards. She'd seen enough of them to know. "Now. See that display of zip ties there? Grab a package and bring it here."
She hated him. She'd never hated anyone more, not even the catty girls in junior high. Not even the day she sprayed their prom dresses with a homemade stink bomb. Her veins fairly thrummed with it, a heartbeat of hatehatehate. But she was powerless.
Doing her best to set him alight by the loathing in her eyes, Abby did as she was told, moving as slowly as she dared.
She hoped the Peoria cops were in a hurry.
Her captor twitched. He was, it seemed, thinking along similar lines. "Hurry up!"
She moved very slightly faster.
"Good. Put one around your boyfriend's wrists, then his ankles."
"He's not my boyfriend," Abby said coldly, stalling at her task as much as she dared.
"No?" The man sounded slightly entertained. "Well, he wanted to get in your pants. Of course, wearing an outfit like that, you wouldn't ask for anything else, would you?"
Her skin crawled at the oily words. She would have spat at him, if his gun weren't still pointing at Tony's head. Limbs shaking with fury, Abby sank to her knees next to the unconscious cop. He still hadn't stirred. Biting a lip, she slipped a ziptie around his wrists, and pulled.
Each click rang with betrayal.
I'm sorry, Tony person.
"Good. Now, your wrists. Tighten it with your teeth. No, more than that."
Trembling, Abby did, taking away the last vestiges of her own control.
The gunman stowed the extra zip ties in his pocket.
"Time to go," he announced, gesturing toward the back door. "Walk."
Did that mean they were leaving Tony here? Abby allowed herself to feel a sliver of hope, mingled though it was with fear of being alone with this man. She didn't know how badly the cop was injured, but if the police arrived soon, he could get treatment quickly—
The criminal herded her through the door, and towards a dented navy van, and threw open the back doors. "Get in."
Abby's heart was sinking towards her stomach. She knew the statistics of kidnapping. By now, they were emblazoned in her mind with indelible ink. She stared at him, green eyes wide—a final, unspoken plea.
"Get in," he repeated warningly, "Or I go back and plant lead in your dear friend's head."
Eyes burning, she did as she was told, wobbling for lack of balance. The gunman yanked off one combat boot, tossing it onto the floor, and cinched a zip tie around her right ankle and a small metal loop rising out of the floor.
The doors slammed shut, suspending her in darkness. But the truck didn't start.
Abby waited, swallowed up by silence. You're going to die, it whispered. You're going to die alone, and they're never going to find your body. Gibbs is going to hire a new forensic scientist. You're never going to go clubbing again, or bowl with Sister Rosita, or see your family, or solve another crime.
You're going to be another statistic, the body rotting in the river, the bloated corpse in the woods, eaten on by foxes and maggots—
No!
Something in Abby snapped, freeing her temper. Making her reckless. Making her brave. "Help!" She screamed, pounding the back doors with her bound fists. "Help!"
They held firm. Tears of fury overflowed as she screamed and pounded, past caring whether her captor heard her or not. She was not going to die this way! She refused.
Suddenly the doors swung open. Her scream died in her throat.
The gunman heaved Tony's limp body onto the van floor.
"I thought you might like company. Oh, and your groceries, of course." A familiar bag of celery and a can of sardines thumped by her feet, a mockery in limp plastic. "Though you can't really eat too well now, can you?"
Abby ignored him, chin held high.
Tony's unmoving face was an abstract painting of rapidly darkening bruises.
Hatred, it seemed, was capable of multiplying.
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The engine roared to life, the van's swift acceleration tossing Abby sideways like a sack of potatoes.
She scrambled back upright, yanking experimentally on the bond that held trapped her right ankle to the floor. Nothing. It held firm.
Somehow, now that she was no longer alone, the all-consuming fright and rage that had led her to pound on the doors was cooling, allowing logical thought. "You're good at thinking logically," she reminded herself out loud, just to hear a friendly voice. "Now, what would Gibbs do?"
It wasn't an immediately helpful query. Gibbs, of course, would probably have hit their assailant over the head by now and made him cry like a baby, because Gibbs was only spared from being superman by his refusal to wear tights.
But what would Gibbs tell her to do, if he were on the phone?
Of course!
She could have smacked herself. Abby stretched out sideways, to the limit of her bonds, and gripped his shoulder awkwardly, dragging him near her. "Breathing, then circulation," she muttered. To her relief—not that she'd been expecting otherwise, but such a prolonged unconsciousness was concerning—his breathing was even, his pulse steady.
Abby let out a breath she hadn't been aware she was holding, and cushioned Tony's head on her lap. Her eyes were slowly adjusting to the light, and she could tell that his right eye was already swollen almost shut. She brushed his forehead gingerly with her fingers. "You're a strange person, Tony boy," she informed the limp body, lifting the hem of his shirt to gently wipe the blood off his chin. "Pretending to be all normal on the outside when you're really all brave and snarky and badass on the inside."
In a highly cumbersome maneuver, she wiggled both of her hands into his closest jean pocket, searching for his cellphone. Nothing. She made a face, blushing slightly, as she leaned over him to reach into the other. Nothing there, either.
Wonderful.
"This would be a good time for you to wake up," Abby informed the cop a little crossly. How many turns had they made by now? Three? Four? One left, three right? One left, two rights? She'd forgotten to keep count—
A deep groan.
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Tony returned to awareness slowly. "—wake up," a vaguely familiar voice was saying.
That seemed like a bad idea. He hurt. But some stupid part of him seemed to agree with the voice.
He tried to inform the speaker that he was alert, and could he just sleep now, thank you very much, but the noise that came out of his mouth sounded oddly unlike any language he knew.
A piercing shriek. "You're awake!"
Well, at least he'd communicated, but—oh, God, volume. Volume. It shot through his brain like an electric jolt. He wanted to clap his hands over his ears, or throw up, but moving enough to do either sounded untenable.
"Ow," Tony rasped, voice so dry it felt like sandpaper. His head was resting somewhere soft.
"Sorry!" The voice dropped to a whisper. "Sorry. I'll whisper now. It's just that I'm really, really happy about that. Now, we have to do a concussion check, so you need to open your eyes. I think I'm supposed to shine a flashlight into them, to check how your pupils react, but we don't have a flashlight. Unless you have a flashlight hidden somewhere, but I already felt you up so I don't think so—"
What?
Tony tried to squeeze open his eyes. One of them refused, only opening a sliver. "I'm sorry I missed that," He ventured. There was a face floating above him—definitely female—but trying to focus on it made his stomach lurch. It seemed to be moving. Were they in a vehicle?
"Maybe it would help if you sat up," the figure said worriedly. Hands pressed on his sides, tugging at him.
Obediently, Tony poured his strength in sitting. The moment made his head swim, pushing his weak grip on his nausea to the limit.
And past it.
Tony twisted sideways and vomited repeatedly, the urge so violent that it felt like his intestines were trying to join his lunch. When everything he'd eaten that week and everything he'd even considered eating that day had propelled itself out of his body, he slumped against the wall. "Sorry," he managed miserably, head pounding like Thor had used it for target practice.
"Don't apologize. It's a sign of weakness," the girl piped up after a tiny pause, with what sounded like manufactured cheerfulness.
It was hard to be certain when he felt like this, but hadn't just she apologized a moment ago?
"Now," and her voice was businesslike, "Do you remember what happened?"
What happened? What an odd question. He'd been looking at sliced cheese, and he'd argued with that girl about her sardines—
Abby!
Memory returned in a Technicolor rush, bringing with it the identity of his mystery companion—and a sense of urgency powerful enough to force his eyes open again. Tony blinked, swallowing rapidly against the rancid taste still lingering in his mouth. "Yeah, I remember," he said grimly. "And I'm guessing we're not in the back of an ambulance. You should have run."
"Don't be stupid," Abby ordered briskly. In the dim lighting he could see that her eye make-up was still smeared dramatically, but her earlier tearful reaction seemed a thing of the past. "Do you remember your name?"
"Tony DiNozzo: Big D, little I, Big N, little OZ-ZO," he rapped out automatically. "Okay? Can we stop now?"
The question was sharp-edged. Didn't she see they had bigger problems?
She crossed her arms over her chest. "Don't be short with me, mister—thirty seconds ago you were spewing your guts out."
Tony winced at the reminder, and found himself apologizing for the second time in as many minutes—probably a record. "Sorry."
It was a strain to think, but he had to. They were in the back of a vehicle—a van, from the look of it—and from the mild pain in his ankles, they were tied too. His cellphone was gone, and there was no sign of her purse; so no help there, either. "Do you know anything about where we're going?"
Abby shook her head. Like his, her wrists were bound. In addition, her ankle was cinch-tied to a metal loop in the floor. "No. I lost count of the turns pretty early on, and then you woke up, and that was distracting too—"
And his father thought he talked too much. Tony was vaguely impressed. Didn't she have to breathe?
Apparently not. "—but we've been driving for at least fifteen minutes, and even if they called the cops immediately, they won't know where we went—"
Her voice was rising.
"Well, I wouldn't worry about that," Tony said easily, grinning at her, though he really couldn't think of a good reason not to worry. Especially as he couldn't think any good reason for either of them to still be alive, much less kidnapped. They'd both seen his face, after all. The fact that they weren't dead yet ought to be comforting, he supposed, but he didn't like not being able to understand what was going in a criminal's head.
Abby didn't look entirely won over by his attempt at comfort. In fact, she looked downright skeptical. Belatedly, it occurred to the cop that a grin from his battered face might not have quite the usual effect—and that it might not be wise to underestimate this particular civilian. Hastily, he soldiered on. "We'll just get you another grocery cart and he'll be a greasy spot on the pavement in no time."
She laughed; a throaty, surprisingly sexy sound.
Encouraged, Tony continued, searching their surroundings for something sharp. He wished desperately for some aspirin, but his mind was gradually clearing. "This reminds me of a movie. Fortress. 1986. This teacher—the very hot Rachel Ward—and a bunch of schoolchildren get kidnapped, but they turn it around on their captors—"
For some reason, that blasted bag of celery was in here with them, as was the can of sardines.
A can?
He interrupted his own stream of words. "Hey, toss me those sardines."
"Hungry, are we?" Abby teased unexpectedly. She crawled forward, pleated skirt draping the curves of her rear in a way that made him think of something other than his pounding head. Clumsily, she gripped the can between her palms and actually tossed it; a forearm pass with a more hazardous projectile. "Maybe you'll find you like them once you've actually tried them."
He glared, by some miracle catching the can in his own hands before it nailed him in. "I have, thank you very much. There's nothing more putrid than oily fish bathing in their own secretions."
"Nothing?" The innocence in the tone boded ill. "Did you know that some cocktail recipes call for the addition of semen?"
Tony gagged, dropping the can. What in the name of— "Okay, okay. Geez. Queasy here, remember?"
She giggled. "Sorry, Tony." Of all the things she sounded, apologetic wasn't one of them. "The medical examiner I work with tells me worse stories all the time."
Tony picked up the sardines again, and twisted his fingers around the little metal tab. The angle was awkward, and he was going to pour fish oil all over his pants, but it might just be worth it. "You work with a medical examiner?"
"Yup! I'm a forensic scientist," Abby informed him happily.
That explained...a lot more than it didn't.
Tony tugged, hard. Instead of opening the can, the metal tab snapped clean off.
The cop cursed colorfully. He'd wanted the sharp metal edge of the lid to act as a knife. He took a deep breath, trying to suppress a surge of panic.
Worried eyes stared at him, unexpectedly childlike in the pale face.
Tony stared back, startled to see fright written so freely across her face. But of course she was frightened, he berated himself. She'd been so feisty that he'd let himself forget; let himself treat her like a partner instead of a responsibility. Plucky she was. But Abby wasn't a cop.
She hadn't signed up for this crap.
It was his job to get them out of here, and his job to keep her calm in the meantime.
Slowly, Tony let a rueful grin spread across his face. It hurt, and he tasted blood, but her expression eased slightly, so it couldn't have been too ghoulish.
"You look like such a vampire," Abby blurted.
Well, so much for that hope.
"With, like, the blood down your chin and all. Well, except for the bruises, because vampires can't bruise, because that wouldn't make any sense—"
Tony recognized the nerves fueling the express train of rambling speech, but he still didn't want to wait until it ran off the rails completely. "Abby!"
She blinked, falling silent.
"I need you do something for me. Do you have anything on you that's sharp or pointy? A bobby pin, even?" Tony eyed her pigtails hopefully, as though she might have stowed a razor in their jet-black depths. He didn't see anything out of the ordinary. But then, female hair rituals were a mystery that even his own dedication to hair gel couldn't help him unveil. Not even exploratory forays into his partner Alicia's purse had managed to unravel the secret of her intricate, twisted knot of hair.
Though it had granted him knowledge of an emergency store of elastic missiles.
"I don't use bobby pins," Abby protested, patting herself down as though hoping to find one anyway. "Old Victorian ladies use bobby pins to tame their hair. My mom uses bobby pins." Judging by the faintly horrified emphasis, sharing fashion choices with a mother was infinitely more disturbing than imitating century-old looks.
Granted, judging by his companion's Gothic attire, it was easy enough to imagine a teenage version inciting stylistic disputes. But conversations about mothers had little do to with Tony, so he returned his focus quickly to the matter at hand. "Even something with an edge might work. Like a credit card." He flexed his own cuffs experimentally. Could he snap them? He knew it was possible, but he couldn't quite remember how. Did he have to tighten them first? Or was it better to have them looser, and try to slip out a thumb?
"I don't—waitwaitwaitwaitwait!" The words ran together, tumbling head over heels in their enthusiasm. "I'm wearing my clubbing boots!"
And he was wearing his I'm-off-duty-and-ready-to-pick-up-college-girls t-shirt, but he wasn't sure how that helped solved their current dilemma.
A boot shoved towards him, the spikes gleaming in a way that promised to gouge out his eyes if she kicked him in the face. "Open the compartment at the bottom," she demanded.
A compartment? Clever.
Still… "Bossy little Goth," Tony muttered, just under his breath, because he really didn't want to have his eyes stabbed. Women liked his eyes. And he wasn't sure he could pull off an eye patch. He wasn't that much of a bad boy.
Her eyebrows lowered anyway, furrows of impatience. "Openopenopen, cop person!"
"I'm trying." Tony's fingers found a slot in the heel, and tugged. A panel opened, to reveal—
Nothing.
Just an empty compartment. He shook his head wordlessly, and Abby slumped.
Tony felt like slumping, too.
"I must have taken it out," she said unhappily. "Oh! I switched my emergency stuff to the other pair, because this pair was getting a bit worn, but then I decided I liked this one better, so I wore them instead—and now I've wasted our time—"
Wait.
"Your boot," Tony exclaimed. He sidled sideways, and the movement made his stomach lurch, but didn't bring anything else up. Not that there was anything else to bring up. But it was nice that his stomach didn't feel inclined to try, because dry heaving wasn't much more fun that vomiting in the first place.
More importantly, he had a job to do.
Abby's spare boot lay a few feet away, discarded. Tony grabbed it gingerly, half-expecting—considering its owner—to be weaponized. To spit acid on him, maybe. Or, at least, to bite him.
It certainly had plenty of teeth.
But, perhaps recognizing his benign intent, the boot merely rested tranquilly in his hands. Tony scooted over to where Abby's ankle was trapped. "I might scratch you," he warned apologetically.
"I don't mind a little pain towards a good end," she purred, so huskily that his face actually flushed. She snickered at his discomfort, not in the least flirtatiously—more like she'd said it purely to make him squirm.
For possibly the first time in his life, Tony took refuge in professionalism. "Shhh, I need to focus." Press. Jiggle. The spikes were bigger, duller, than the task really needed, and his bound wrists made him clumsy, but Abby was the priority. If he could only break the little locking mechanism, then she'd be able to make a run for it, if the opportunity presented itself.
He intended it to.
Snap.
Ha! DiNozzo: 1, kidnapper: 0. Okay, it was more like DiNozzo: 2, kidnapper: 3, depending on how you counted the scoring, but at the moment, he felt he deserved the overall win. Best four out of seven, maybe? Tony grinned cockily, hooking his fingers through the plastic strap, and pulled. It tugged free easily, sliding free of the metal with a shivering sound.
"You did it!" Abby yanked her ankle free, and rubbed the reddish indentations. She beamed at him. If he and the kidnapper were actually opposing teams, Tony though, he would have at least one cheerleader. Well, more like cheerleader-slash-linebacker, Tony admitted inwardly, recalling her valiant grocery cart charge. Hot enough to distract the competition, and fierce enough to mow them down herself.
"Now, your hands!"
Tony shook his head firmly. "Yours first."
She frowned. "But—"
"I don't need my hands in order to be…effective," Tony informed her, grinning his most arrogant grin.
She chuckled throatily, eyebrow lifting. "Big words, Mr. Tony." But she held out her wrists, so he counted it a triumph.
It was harder at this angle, but he also had the trick of it now. Press, press.
Was it just paranoia, or was the van beginning to slow?
The thought spurred him on. Twist. Break, damn it!
Snap.
The satisfaction was muted by adrenaline. The van was definitely slowing—whether because they were stopping, or because of a lower speed limit, it was hard to say. Either way…that meant it was time to move.
He shoved the shoe at her as she rubbed her wrists. "Put that on. Quickly!"
Abby followed his order without argument. He could track the moment she noticed the van's decreasing speed by the way her already pale cheeks tinted whiter.
There were no handles on the doors, but there were two tinted windows. It wasn't ideal. But then, kidnapping scenarios tended that way. If more five star hotel owners chose abduction as a part time business, the experience would probably be a lot more agreeable. As it was...you just had to use your guts and your street smarts and make a way out.
Fortunately, he was good at that.
"Okay, Abby." Tony smiled, as reassuringly as he knew how. "Here's the plan. I'm going to smash one of those windows, and I'm going to push you out of it. Then you're going to run like hell. I'll follow."
"I can't leave you in here!" To her credit, her indignant protest was a whisper.
"Yes, you can. You're going to. When I say go, go. That's an order."
Her lips quivered, but she didn't move. "I'm not a soldier," she whispered, jaw setting mulishly. "I don't have to follow your orders.."
He locked eyes, pouring every ounce of will into his gaze. "Go." A pause. "Please, Abby. I'll be right behind you."
The request succeeded where force had failed. "Okay."
Tony nodded. "Be ready," he whispered, grin falling neatly back into place. "Stand back." He pulled himself upright, lurching unsteadily. Taking a deep breath, he lifted up his heel, and struck the window with all his force.
The glass fractured, a brilliant spider web of cuts. Weakened. The van lurched, and Tony stumbled, but struck again.
This time, the window shattered fully.
"Now!" He swung Abby up in his arms, grunting at her unexpected weight, and pushed her feet first through the window. The remaining glass scratched the pale skin of her legs, leaving behind bloody tracks, but that was preferable to a bloody body.
She dropped free.
The van lurched again—was the driver deaf, not to have heard the shattering glass?
With his wrists pinned, Tony couldn't pull himself through the window, a detail that Abby had helpfully overlooked. He hoped the girl was running, and running hard. Gritting his teeth, Tony planted his elbows on the rough glass edge, and jumped, thrusting head and shoulders through the opening.
Glass ground into his arms, and he strangled a cry, but he was hanging half out now. He wiggled, like a seal on a land, trying to tip the balance.
The van slammed to a stop.
Tony fell face first, slamming into the ground. He hit hard, scraping on gravel; but apart from breathlessness, he was unhurt.
Abby was nowhere in sight, but she needed more time to run, or the ploy wouldn't be enough.
Adrenaline lent fire to his limbs. Drawing on a speed and reaction time that had made him one of the best athletes at Ohio State, Tony leapt to his feet, and heaved himself onto the bumper. The van sported a ladder; he scaled it, ungainly, teetering, and clinging to the bars with clumsy fingers—
A mere second before their assailant stormed around the corner of the van gun raised.
Tony leapt. It was an insane, reckless, improbable move, the sort that only really ever worked in movies. Yet desperation, it seemed, was almost as good as fiction. Somehow Tony landed, his legs jarring with the impact, successfully hooking his linked arms around the man's neck. The gun hit the ground, skittering a few feet out of reach. Snarling, Tony pulled the nylon of his bonds tight against his opponent's jugular, not caring as the plastic bit deep into his own skin. The gunman staggered, choking, and stepped backwards with the impact.
Slam.
Tony's body hit the van, and his air vacated his lungs. What Tony had mistaken for a natural reaction was actually a calculated attack; like a unbroken horse afflicted with a rider, the man was trying to unseat him. Slam. This time, the back of the man's head hit his forehead, and Tony saw stars. Against his will, the strength in his arms lessened as the world spun. Still he clung.
Slam.
Tony fell backwards, still fighting—
And then his weapon fell away altogether, as the zip tie snapped neatly in two.
Wheezing, the other man turned. In his hands balanced a pocketknife, blade gleaming red-tipped silver in the muted twilight.
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Chapter notes: Well…hi, everyone! Remember me? Goodness. I'll try to be more reliable. Hope I came back with a bang, at least. ;) Let me know if you enjoyed, please!
For the record, this is not a Tabby fic. Just Tony/Abby friendship. Though you're welcome to see it through whatever lens you like; I certainly don't care.
P.S. It is, apparently, possible—though not easy—to kick out a car window.
P.P.S. Four years ago, I planned to keep this entire story set in the grocery store. :P It didn't quite work out that way…forgive me my artistic license?