The Spider's Web

Chapter 4

Ed stared at the receiver in his hand, vaguely surprised it hadn't snapped in two from the force of his grip.

Those. Bastards.

The Betterton address. The Valera nurse. The fact that they'd called the phone in the barracks right in the middle of the day, apparently flaunting their confidence that the call would go unmonitored.

So this was the doing of the syndicate. Had to be.

And if that was the case, then Ed didn't doubt for a second the threat to Mustang. These people had been under the military's radar for years, and if Hughes, who had discovered Bradley's plot ages before anybody else, couldn't get any dirt on these guys, then Ed knew there had to be rats. Rats who'd been well-established in Central for years, and who were obviously alive and well in the wake of the Promised Day, under the guise of allies.

And what better time to arrange an unfortunate accident for the Colonel than in the chaos of an overturned government.

Ed slammed the receiver back onto its hook.

Why, though? What the hell could the Valeras want with him, and why now?

What was perfectly obvious, though, he thought, as he trudged numbly back to the dorm, was that they weren't giving him a choice.

They were hurting Al.

At the sound of that woman's flat voice, completely indifferent to his brother's cries, which carried clear as day over the phone, Ed had thought he was going to throw up then and there. His hands were still shaking.

Well fine, they could have it their way. There really was nothing he could do but walk right into whatever trap they'd concocted for him. He'd be on the first train south, tonight.

But they were going to regret it. He'd make damn sure of that.

…

A few hours later, Marie made good on her word, re-entering the cell with a bundle of sheets and blankets under one arm and a thermos and box of saltine crackers under the other. Al had tried to sleep, but anxiety for Ed, and pain, had made it impossible. He'd spent half the time with his eyes half-lidded, taking shallow breaths, trying not to be sick on Marie's coat as the throbbing in his bound arms worsened. It was better that they were immobilized, he supposed, but he felt nothing but heat and tightnessand wrongness as a constant hum that under-rode the pain. He wondered if they'd swollen beneath the ropes—wondered if there was even enough of his arms to swell.

Marie set him down in a corner of the cell while she worked, making quick work of the sheets. Al nearly rolled his eyes at the sight of the neat hospital corners she'd made. The blanket was folded at one end, and, in the apparent absence of an available pillow, she'd rolled up her coat for him. She said nothing, even when she knelt next to him and helped him eat one or two of the crackers and take a few sips of what proved to be lukewarm chicken broth. His stomach was too queasy for anything else. It was only when she produced two small white pills from her pocket, and he eyed them suspiciously, that she broke the silence.

"They're just painkillers, I promise," she said. "Acetaminophen."

"And why are they letting me have these?" His voice was raspy—it was the first he'd spoken in hours.

She dropped her gaze. "Because Uncle wants you to be able to listen when he talks."

…

"You should rest," she said, sometime later, when she'd lifted him back into the cot, pulled the blanket up to his chin, and perched herself on the edge of it, near his head. Her hand lighted in his hair, shaky fingers petting it softly, somewhere between a nervous gesture and a motherly one. He wanted to turn away from her, but he didn't have the energy. He didn't especially want her here at all—no amount of taking care of him was going to make him forget that she'd kidnapped him, let him be imprisoned and badly injured, and without any explanation whatsoever, called him a murderer.

But he didn't really want to be alone right now, either.

He felt his eyelids getting heavy.

…

Damn it all.

Edward was gone. Roy stood in his empty dorm as dusk fell outside, and with it, the tenacious, lingering chill of the retreated winter months.

Hawkeye was at his heels, her eyes wide and lips pressed together tightly, failing to hide her own concern behind her usual mask of unflappable calm.

He'd obviously left in a hurry—bureau drawers stood open, sheets and blankets in a tangled, unmade heap hanging half-off the bed, papers littering the desk and floor.

Edward wasn't stupid. Sick with worry for Al or not, he had far better sense than to rush in and try to take on an entire syndicate by himself in some half-assed attempt at a rescue mission, especially now that sans alchemy, he was virtually powerless on his own.

Which meant that he'd been coerced somehow.

And Roy didn't even know where to begin to combat this.

Okay, that wasn't technically true—the first logical step would be to sic an investigative team on Ed's trail, to at least figure out where he'd gone, though if the Valera name was stamped on all of this, the first place to check would be Betterton.

But Betterton was a big city.

And that aside, by sending one of their own people to kidnap Al—Marie Valera had indeed disappeared from her apartment the night of Al's disappearance, leaving a bewildered elderly neighbor to look over her toddler son and daughter, twins—weren't they being kind of obvious about it?

Too obvious.

It was like they were rubbing it in their faces. Taking advantage of whatever invisible strings they were still pulling to whip the famous Elric brothers right out from under their noses. While the entire government was in shambles. When they didn't have the energy, personnel, or organization for anything more than a shoddy investigation. This Valera girl hadn't even bothered to hide her identity.

Either they were flaunting their complete untouchability for its own sake, or they were trying to make some sort of sick demonstration out of Ed and Al. Or both.

A growl of frustration came unbidden to his lips. He felt a dull pounding behind his eyes.

"Sir?" From behind, Hawkeye's hand touched his sleeve.

He shook his head, though it wouldn't help. Since the transmutation that had restored his eyesight, he'd been prone to frequent headaches, and with a country to rebuild and miles of rubble and red tape to wade through in the process, it had done nothing to improve his patience, or his temper.

And now that Ed and Al were gone…

Agitated, he let out a breath. "Coffee," he grumbled, resignedly, knowing she was about to drag him out and insist that he take some sort of break anyhow. "I need coffee."

Or something stronger.

She nodded her approval and practically steered him out of the room. She was looking a little pale herself, dark smudges under her eyes, a gauze bandage still peeking out under the collar of her uniform. She was very recently out of the hospital herself, and while Roy wasn't exactly thrilled with the fact that she wasn't at home recovering as her doctor had prescribed, he quite sure he'd be floundering without her right now. It hurt his head to even look at paperwork most days, and the still-healing wounds on his hands made it hard to hold a pen. He must've looked pathetically grateful her first day back, when she'd strode into his office, given him a salute and the tiniest of smiles, and wordlessly taken an enormous stack of files from the "to-do" pile on his desk.

Fifteen minutes later found him slumped over on the couch in his darkened office, his arm thrown over his eyes, the cleansing burn of liquor in his throat. Hawkeye had gone to fetch some of the older intelligence files on the Valera family, and apparently sensing his mounting headache, had refused to allow him to accompany her. And for the time being, he was all too happy to comply. "At the end of his rope" didn't begin to cover the way he was feeling at the moment.

He'd almost nodded off when, with a long, sharp, jangling noisethat seemed to bounce around like angry hornets between his ears, the phone rang. Force of habit had him bolt upright at the sound, but he regretted it at the immediate stab of pain in his head that nearly doubled him over.

By the second ring, he'd stumbled over to his desk.

"Mustang," he groused into the receiver.

"Yes, I'm aware," said the voice on the other end. It was a woman's, smooth and matter-of-fact, with a touch of the Southern urbanite accent. It made Roy's hair stand up on end.

"Who is this?" he demanded, eyes narrowing at nothing in particular.

The woman ignored him. "Consider this just desserts for the Anthony Valera affair," she continued, tone turning to ice.

Venom.

"Anthony Valera?" he repeated, blinking. Didn't matter that he hadn't dealt with a Valera case in ages, something about the name tugged at his memory in an unpleasant way…

And then he remembered.

Oh.

Oh.

Shit.

The woman must've taken his lack-of-response as understanding. "If you and your people leave well enough alone, then maybe at least one of them can make it back to you alive."

Roy's hand tightened around the receiver; it pulled at the stitches. The vague dread that had been eating away at him for days solidified into something solid, tangible. Terrible. "Define 'leave well enough alone,'" he growled.

"You halt your investigation, as of this very moment. You stop looking for them altogether, or your little prodigies die tomorrow. Count on it. And if that's not incentive enough, I'm holding the lives of your other subordinates as collateral on this promise." A pause. "Do I make myself clear, Colonel?"

A roaring silence.

Then, "Yes."

Through gritted teeth.

Because he couldn't very well say anything else.

"Excellent."

The line went dead.

Tbc~