Woot, Jason and Ray reunited. Yay!
Now, let's not build conflict between Ray and Clay or Sonny and Clay, ya hear me show?
And if there is yet another death – it better not be one of the six, Eric, Davis or Mandy, ya hear me show?
When this story line was suggested, I was like, sure! I can work with that. Then, I found that..…torture squicks me out…so took me a few days with this chapter!


"Eric." Commander McCall set a take-out cup of coffee on the table in front of Eric who was dozing, head on one arm stretched across the table. "You sleep here all night?"

Eric stirred, rubbing his chin against his elbow. His eyes, dry and scratchy from lack of sleep, burned and itched and even though he could close them, they were so tight, they felt like they were wide open. With a yawn and a grimace, he lifted his head, ran a hand through his hair. His mouth was dry, his teeth fuzzy and he wondered when the last time was he'd seen a toothbrush.

"Good morning." McCall greeted. "Were you not provided with a bed?"

"McCall." He pushed off the table, sat up, stretched. "The hell are you doing here?" He'd put in several calls to McCall as well as others in command above and over and beyond him, but hadn't received one single response. Well, until now.

"How are the guys?"

"How do you think they are?" Eric snapped. He reached for the coffee. "They're worried, scared, pissed."

"And they want to go looking for him."

"It's Hayes." Eric said. "Of course they do. I do. We all do. This sitting around here doing nothing, sucks. No reason we can't be out there instead of sitting here with our thumbs up our ass."

McCall handed Eric an egg and ham sandwich, took a seat opposite Eric. "They can't lead a search mission." He set a bottle of orange juice next to the coffee. He waited for Eric to look up at him. It took several minutes. "But, if you wanted a change in scenery, you could request a transport vehicle."

And there it was. Finally! McCall's unofficial permission for Eric to take Bravo and go look for Brock. They wouldn't have Davis or Mandy in command to assist them and they wouldn't be able to interfere with the Marines search units, but as long as Eric was with them, they wouldn't be reprimanded for being off base.

He reached for the sandwich, opened the juice. He wasn't hungry and he didn't want to eat, but he had to swallow something.

"If they happen to stray?"

McCall shrugged, eyes averted. "If they, uh, happen to wander, I should eventually be notified."

"Davis?" .

"In the field?" McCall blurted in surprise.

Eric held the sandwich, mouth opened for a bite. He just looked at his Commander.

"You want to take a woman out there? Off base? Jesus Eric, are you fucking nuts? It isn't safe."

"She has a way with them sir."

"Is it worth the risk?"

Eric shrugged. It was his job to get permission to take her with them, it was Jason's decision whether or not she would accompany them. She could remain in the transport vehicle with a member or two of Bravo support while Jason and his men cracked skulls and kicked down doors.

"Make sure they eat something." McCall suggested – ordered. "No one has been sleeping, they won't see the, uh, 'pretty scenery', they're sleepy and muddle-headed."

Eric nodded and with a firm slap on his back, McCall departed. Well, that was unexpected but Eric was not going to question it.

He quickly ate, finished the coffee and juice, then went to shower and change. They wouldn't be able to take Alpha and all of support with them, but a team of 8 would be acceptable.

As expected, Trent, Ray and Sonny were with Jason when Eric finally tracked them down in the quarters where support bunked down. Sonny was the first to glance up, then did a double-take when he noticed Eric was showered, hair combed, dressed in civvies.

"What do you want Blackburn?" He was doodling with colored pencils – huh, red blood splatter on grey stick-figures. Eric kinda hoped one wasn't supposed to be him. "Haven't thrown a punch, lemme alone."

"You need to eat….." Eric began, waited patiently while he was interrupted.

"Not hungry."

"Later."

"Not now."

Eric held his hand up. Patience was needed when dealing with this team – all the time, but damn today was hard to keep his temper. They all sported the same look: red, dry eyes with dark circles beneath, unshaven – well, they always were, so, unkempt beards – hair at odds with their heads.

"Let me finish." He paused. "You need to eat, then shower and dress in civvies. I have permission for a," he made air quotes with his fingers, "change of scenery. The transport vehicle can comfortably fit 8."

Jason, slumped against the wall on a bunk, whittling a stick into a smaller stick, mentally counted as he sat up; him, his three men, Eric, Derek from Alpha, Kenny and Karl from support.

"Off record." Ray turned off his music, pulled the ear buds from his ears.

"Nice day to sightsee." Trent said and walked out.

Eric held a grin. No need to twist anyone's arm. Sonny and Ray followed Trent.

"Jay? Hey." Eric held Jason up. "They in control? No one has slept or had a meal."

"And you have?" Jason growled. "They're good."

"Are you?"

"What do you think?"

Eric nodded. "Gotta keep control…Call Clay?"

"Tried, no answer. Told him to call me." He started to follow his men but Eric caught his arm.

"Hey, I'll be right there next to you, I'll hold whoever so you can break knee-caps, but Jason, within reason."

Jason stared until Eric nodded. "Won't kill anyone."

()

"You're letting them go?"

McCall shrugged, cast a look at the Naval Commander seated opposite him. "Best Tier One unit the Navy has sitting idle makes sense to whom?"

"Emotions McCall. They're highly strung on a good day. Loose cannons every damn day. Destructive doesn't begin to describe that team when they're after someone who hurt them. One of the own held captive? Come on. Quinn will bust heads. Will be hard to cover up, he burns a village to the ground."

"Marines have found nothing, learned nothing. Been four days. Much longer and we get Reynolds back…." McCall paused. "We're pushing it now."

"What do you think they'll be able to find no one else could?"

"They're emotionally invested, determined. Hayes has the damnedest luck, let them see what they can turn up."

***000***

Brock paced, rubbing his thumbs over his eyebrows. Christ, he had a headache. He hadn't slept because Clay hadn't settled down. He was passed out, unconscious, unresponsive…whatever, take your fucking pick, because Brock sure as hell didn't know. He tried to bring Clay around, but this time, he didn't get a response to repeated name calling, shoulder-shakes or gentle face slaps. Not even tickles to the scars.

Within minutes of Brock sitting down next to him, he was stirring. Brock didn't know what it was that Clay didn't like about being tied down on his back, but he thought being wrapped in the blanket was making the kid uneasy, so he pulled it loose and just laid it over him, but it didn't make a difference. Clay was still uneasy.

Brock next tried pulling Clay into his lap, a movement, a gesture that had always worked in the past, but not this time. Clay squirmed and wiggled and twisted. He didn't thrash or fight or flail, but he just would not lie still. When Brock finally gave up and put him on the floor, Clay turned from his right side to his back, to his belly, to his side…not still longer than a few minutes before bringing his knees up or digging his heels into the floor, knees splaying, legs spreading, thighs clenching together. A whine, a whimper, a moan, a groan, a cry, he just didn't stop.

So Brock paced, hands clasped together behind his neck. He stopped and knelt every fourth time he passed the kid. Felt for a pulse in Clay's left hand, thanked God when he found it. Felt his elbow to reassure himself he had indeed popped it properly back into place. Then he paced some more.

He sat down a time or two, waited to see if Clay would move close, settle down like he usually did if he had someone to hold on to….He didn't.

Brock finally halted, back slumped against the wall near the door, hands shoved into his front pockets. This was not how captivity was supposed to go. This, this, this…..scenario had never been addressed in training. Ever.

This reaction from a dislocated elbow? Brock snorted. Not bloody likely. What then, was the kid's problem?

He rhythmically bumped his head against the wall….for how long he had no idea. Didn't help his headache abate - he didn't care. He thought about the months since the kid had joined Bravo. The incidents, the injuries, the reactions, but nothing like this. Aw hell! He just didn't know.

Was a dislocated elbow that painful? Brock didn't think so. Was Clay's threshold for pain compromised? Brock wouldn't know. Was Clay still suffering a reaction from being drugged? Brock thought he was through it. How fast had the truck been going when he'd jumped? Was he injured internally? As far as Brock knew, the kid hadn't reacted violently to any sore spots, hadn't vomited blood.

He was too tired, too mentally weary to move when he heard the lock in the door being turned. He slowly slid down the wall, buried his head in his arms folded over his knees and waited, breath held.

He felt sick. He wanted to beg for help to make Clay feel better, all the while knowing they'd likely…..Brock swallowed hard, gulped…..torture him to gain Brock's cooperation. He would have to sit there and watch them hurt the kid because whatever they wanted from him, wouldn't be something Brock would willingly do.

And knowing Clay, sick from pain, still feeling the after-effects of being drugged, he'd be cocky as all hell and be able to tolerate more pain come morning, or whenever. Maybe now.

The door opened and light flooded the room. One man, no guards this time.

Brock sighed, shuddering as shivers ran down his spine. Fuck. Clay hadn't responded to the noise, light or the door opening. Brock weighed his options, came to a conclusion all in less than 3 seconds. Rushing the man and getting Clay shot was not going to happen, so he stayed where he was and waited.

A tray was set inside the door. The light went out, the door closed, Brock heard it lock, and they were left in silence and darkness.

He pushed to his feet, turned the lantern on and went to see what they'd brought him: tin cups of water…..a bowl with handles that held some kind of hot liquid and a blanket.

Wow, way to be generous.

Brock took the blanket tangled around Clay and tugged it free. He folded it over a couple times, laid it on the floor, sat down on it, reached up, grabbed Clay by the shoulder and dragged him close.

"Clay, kid, you with me?" He felt for the pulse in Clay's wrist, had to feel it every time he touched the kid to reassure himself that it was still there, then ignoring Clay's whimper and cry of pain, made him sit up. "Just water, sip it, okay? Hey….Clay, open your mouth…." He waited. "Come on here kid, open up."

But Clay wasn't responsive, didn't react to Brock's light jostling or repeated name calling. Brock got on his knees, lifted Clay's head from the floor and put the cup to his lips, hoping once Clay tasted the water, he would drink it.

"That's it. Good, huh?" He took a drink then offered more to Clay, who sipped, licking with his tongue as long as Brock held the cup for him. "No more? Okay." He wished Clay would have accepted more but he wasn't going to force it on him. He let him lie down, set the cup aside and picked up the bowl. His nose told him it was supposed to be some kind of soup, maybe just broth. He wasn't used to the spices used over here to flavor food, so couldn't even guess what the hell it was. Doubtful it was chicken noodle, sure as hell didn't smell like it.

He took a sip, shrugged. Not bad, nothing he would ever make or even order in a café for himself, but he was hungry and would eat it, would try and share it with Clay.

"Okay, come here." He pulled the kid across his lap to get him off the damp dirt, spread the second blanket over them both and patiently shared the bowl of soup with Clay, who didn't really want it but when Brock gave him the order to swallow, he did.

He chuckled softly at the face Clay made. Apparently, the soup or broth, whatever the hell it was, was not to his liking so Brock didn't force him to eat any more.

"No? Okay, I'll drink it, you can have the water." He continued to offer Clay sips of water, let him squirm and fret until he finally, either exhausted or feeling relief, laid quietly in Brock's arms, drinking the water as often as Brock tipped the cup to his lips.

"Trent, dude, I owe you a bottle of Macallan Scotch, dealing with him like this all the time." Brock set the cup aside after finishing the water. "Boss, you can come get us anytime now."

()

Clay woke up, stiff and sore. He was on his right side and his hip ached, his legs cold, his head was on a pillow and his arms covered with a blanket. He stretched, blinking to bring the dim room into focus. The light was weak, casting a poor glow that extended no further than his feet.

Sighing, cramped and uncomfortable, he pushed with his right hand, managed to sit up and just sat on his hip, waiting for his head to clear, the pain in his left arm to subside…..one out of two wasn't so bad. The pain didn't ease but his memory came back.

Clay looked at Brock who still slept, remembered being sent to find the Seal who had gone missing, not knowing it was his own teammate – friend – brother. He wondered if Brock had any idea what the hell was going on. Did it matter? Probably not.

He felt he should get up, see where he was, inspect the room, seek weaknesses. Wake Brock, discuss their options, but he was so tired and sick to his stomach that it actually hurt, yes hurt, to breathe. What was up with that? His chest was tight, his stomach knotted. Right, drugged. Fuck.

He just sat, licked his lips, tried to rub his eyes but his left arm didn't move, only his right did and when he raised it, he missed his head completely. Christ, he couldn't ever remember a time when he felt like this. Wasn't much he could do about it, not like he could get up and go find Trent.

Feeling like he was going to be sick, he tried to get up but the pain from his fingertips to his shoulder took his breath, his balance, his ability to move. He groaned, stifling a yelp but Brock was awake, sitting up, an arm around Clay's shoulders.

"Hey, you with me?"

Clay shrugged, tried to move his hand, cried out.

"Your arm's gonna ache for a while, nothing I can do for you."

Bottom lip trapped between his teeth, Clay hunched his right shoulder up to his ear, tried again to move his left arm, raised watery eyes to Brock, shook his head.

"Easy." Brock told him. "Pulse is strong, hand's warm, so yeah, it hurts, but you're okay."

"Fuck me." He blew his breath out. There were questions he wanted to ask, things he needed to know, but he felt his mind wander, his attention divert and desert. Surrendering to pain and the pulling darkness would soon happen.

"What the hell's wrong with you?" Brock demanded. "You should have slept the drug off or come out of whatever reaction you might have thrown by now, you were okay before."

"I dunno." Clay began to shake and couldn't stop. "Don't feel so good." He made an effort to pull it together. "Who are they? What do they want?"

"My cooperation but I don't know for what."

"How long have you been here?"

"Dunno, three days, four….might be five."

"How did they get you?"

"Showed me a live video feed of Sonny, I went with them willingly." Brock pulled the blanket around Clay's shoulders, hugged him close in an attempt to offer him warmth and ease his shaking. "You?"

"Aah, on my own….. there were four of them…."

"The rescue unit left you on your own?"

"Don't think they wanted me with them."

"Jason's going to have a fucking fit." Brock shook his head. "And Trent, Christ he's not going to let you out of his sight for a month, and...Sonny...oh man."

"Someone's….gonna…" He swallowed hard, breaking out in a heavy sweat, suddenly clammy. "….explain that…..ugh…..water's not gonna stay…."

"Right, okay, up you go." Brock got to his feet, pulled Clay to his, led him over to the corner where he'd been sick before, knelt down, kept a hand on the back of Clay's neck and just waited for it pass. "Jesus Clay….breathe."

"Mmmm…tryin'…..hurts."

"You feel hot. Do you feel hot?" Brock frowned. Why the hell would the kid be running a fever?

"I feel…awful."

Kid might be in a world of pain, but circulation in his arm was fine and Brock was encouraged, that with Clay's history of quick recovery time and ability of avoiding serious injury, there wouldn't be any permanent damage from the dislocation.

"Yeah buddy, I know." Brock ruffled his hair, felt Clay relax, then finally go limp. Here's one for you Trent; kid screams if you touch him, are dislocated elbows really that painful?

Brock again dragged Clay away from the corner, let him down on his side on top of one blanket, covered him with the other. They were both asleep when the door opened and both men who had greeted him previously entered the room.

"Time to talk."

Brock surged to his feet when Clay was picked up and carried away but when he tried to intervene or follow, he was held back.

"You will come with us."

His hands tied behind his back, Brock was led from the room. He stumbled, blinded from bright, unprotected light bulbs as he was led up a flight of wooden steps, through a kitchen, down a hall and into a room with a laptop on a table. As his eyes adjusted he recognized he was in a house and outside the window, daylight was waning.

Clay was held by a large goon, his arms held behind his back. Force wasn't needed, the mere bending and restraint of his left arm had him fighting to stay conscious and on his feet. In fact, he was only on his feet because he was held up.

"What do you want?" Brock asked, looking away from Clay, hoping he successfully kept the wince and scowl from showing on his face. He wanted to demand they release Clay, but he couldn't do that. Not yet.

The goon, tired of trying to keep Clay from collapsing to the floor - he wasn't the biggest guy on Bravo, but he wasn't light to hold or carry either, oh how well Brock knew that - soon sat Clay down on a wood chair with arms.

Brock, hands released and sitting on a wood chair, kept his gaze on the window, studying and mentally judging the terrain; rocks, dunes, hills - all sand. Even if he could run, here was no where to go without a truck. And he wasn't going anywhere unless he could take Clay with him. There were seven people in the room with him and Clay, one the woman who had led him away from Ray.

Not good odds.

They could shoot Clay in the arm or leg or shoulder...it wouldn't be fatal. Just painful. Infection. Loss of blood. Possible damage to muscle or tendon or bone...Brock shook his head, dislodging that line of thought. He continued to stare out the window but his peripheral vision was damn good and his eyes had completely adjusted, so yes, he knew they tied Clay's hands to the arms of the chair, his feet - minus his boots and socks - to the legs.

What he couldn't see is whether or not Clay remained conscious.

The two men exchanged a look. They thought several days of isolation with limited activity and interaction, minimal food and water would have weakened their captive, but it didn't appear to have had any effect on him. They'd also left him and Clay unattended until now because: 1) they were scared of Brock and 2) they hadn't wanted him to attempt and succeed with escape and 3) the job they wanted his help with would go down tonight.

"Do you know what this is?"

An image was displayed on the laptop when it was turned around to face Brock. Aye, he knew. An ammunition supply warehouse – not theirs, but it did supply American troops. He'd been to it, had an idea of what all it contained within its walls, but wasn't sure of its entire inventory either.

He had a sick feeling they wanted his help to get in and steal something. That place was guarded by American Army troops. Could he hurt, injure, sacrifice even one to save Clay some pain and discomfort? He swallowed hard – once, twice – save him from torture?

"You can make this easy on us and him. Just agree."

A hand tangled in Clay's hair, pulled his head up, forced his neck back. Brock was ready, nerves taunt, but not stretched to his breaking point. This was going to be hard, damn hard. Watching them hurt Clay to gain his cooperation would test his training, his own endurance. He knew that kid so fucking well…..knew when he was joking or teasing or playing or being stupid and annoying, deliberately acting like an ass. Knew when he was upset, hurting, scared, intimidated, out of his comfort depth, uncomfortable in a situation or social setting. Knew when he was mad, angry, pissed off, pushed too far, sad, grieving, sick, not feeling well….in pain, out of it and not with them.

"We want something from inside this wing. We want you to tell us about security, cameras, guards. We have blueprints and floor plans. We know American soldiers will not immediately fire at you. We want in and out."

"No." Whatever they wanted, it couldn't be good.

WHACK! CRUNCH! WHACK!

Despite Clay's grunts and muffled cries, Brock remained still. So, they were going for the toes first. Fine, that was fine, broken toes healed without surgery - usually. Walking might be a bitch, crutches would help if only the toes on one foot were broken...just, Please God, let them stay away from his left hand.

Pliers.

Brock squirmed. God please, not his teeth...that goon was going to die. Brock wouldn't wait for Jason or Sonny to get their hands on him. He'd gut the man and leave him to die a slow, painful death staked out on a sand dune. No one needed to know and no one on Bravo would stop him.

Clay tensed, curled his fingers into a fist. Didn't matter, they went for his left hand and the mere pull on his wrist to get at his finger made him see black dots...he didn't even really feel his fingernail pulled off with the pliers...in too much agony from his arm for that 'minor' pain to hit him.

Brock did though, saw Clay's reaction, heard the yelp of agony, silently vowed death to everyone in the room.

"We want in and out. No one needs to get hurt."

Brock shook his head. Jesus Christ, no.

"We can do this all night."

The goon had fists the size of hams. Clay could take a beating, had before, would again, but a broken jaw here? Broken ribs? Christ, he wasn't a punching bag, he'd suffer internal injuries...the goon was pulling his punches, but still, the kid would be one huge bruise.

THWUMP! WHUMP! THUMP! THWUMP! WHUMP! THUMP! WATHUMP!

Brock licked his lips. Grunts and groans were manageable, whimpers and whines made him wince, cries and yelps made him tense, his knee jounced. Despite his best efforts, he couldn't help but cringe, flinch a time or two, blanch when blood from Clay's nose splattered across the table holding the laptop.

"I can break his knees, he'll never walk right again."

Brock breathed out through his nose in relief. Once more punch to Clay's face or chest or stomach and he would have been out of his chair after the big ass goon.

The goon held a steel baton, smacked it repeatedly against his palm. Brock hid a wince, that would do some serious damage.

"I can break his thigh bone, you people call it the femur, do you not? A year long recovery, hmmm? Complications easily arise, blood clot, infection. And oh, the pain."

Brock struggled to keep horror from showing on his face. Could a femur actually be broken by such a method? Repeated blows from that baton? Hell, it was a weapon. He should know...he did know...but thinking was beyond his abilities right now.

THWACK!

Brock jerked, Clay yelped. It was a hard hit, but not hard enough to do any damage other than cause pain and a bad bruise, still Clay reacted as expected, tugging instinctively on his bonds to escape the pain. All he succeeded in doing was pulling on his left arm, and he choked, tried not to puke.

THWACK!

Same leg, same spot, a bit harder.

"What do you want?!" Brock asked, jaw clenched.

"A small canister. It will fit in your pocket."

So, not ammunition or grenades or any kind of weapon...unless...no...not possible.

"A nerve agent."

"No."

THWACK!

Clay screamed this time. Brock truly believed the goon had the strength to break whatever bone he wanted to and he dug deep to discover whether or not he could let that happen.

"You can kill him," Brock said, proud his voice was steady, no emotion reflected. "Won't matter, I won't help you destroy innocent people."

"Oh no. Not kill." The laugh was sadistic. "Blind, deaf, mute. No fingers, no feet...how would he like to live like that? Hmmmm? Your fault. So, perhaps an eye."

The goon had a knife...Brock paled, felt his stomach knot, flop, settle wrong side up. Clay wasn't with it, but wasn't unconscious either. Would he even know?

The goon tangled a hand in Clay's hair, pulled his head up, laid the blade against his cheek, very slowly nicked his skin just below his eye. The trickle of blood brought Clay's eyes into focus.

"No." he muttered, tensing. He squirmed in the chair, stinging pain in his thigh forgotten. The pain in his left arm rendered him briefly unconscious. Another THWACK to his thigh brought him around.

"Or his tongue."

The tip of the knife pricked Clay's bottom lip, nudged his teeth, gained entrance...he'd been tasting blood for awhile now, but the invasion into his mouth was one taste too much. He vomited, knife slicing his tongue when he choked, stomach clenching. Brock swallowed hard, struggling not to choke along with Clay.

"He has stamina. But we will break him."

Brock looked away. He simply could not help these people steal any kind of nerve agent. He couldn't. They didn't want it for anything good. Hundreds, maybe thousands of innocent people would be killed, die needlessly. Hell, it could be used against Americans on American soil. And why the fuck was any such 'weapon' stored in an ammunition supply warehouse? And how would these people know about it?

"Your weak spot, yes? Your fellow soldiers." He smiled evilly. "You came with us when we threatened to eliminate your teammate."

THWACK!

Brock cringed, shoulders hunching up to his ears. Would he feel differently if the man across from him being beaten and all but tortured wasn't someone he knew? Wasn't Clay? Could he let any soldier, human be maimed for life?

"No." Brock managed to repeat.

Several quick hits just above Clay's knee, then another THWACK to his thigh and if Clay hadn't been tied to the chair, he would have slithered right out of it, landing on the floor in a heap.

The next whack would likely crack a bone...how many hits had Clay taken so far? Brock had lost count. He took a deep breath, thought he was prepared to let that happen. Clay's head rolled, fell back, dropped to his chest...Christ, he was still conscious. Brock bit his tongue, waited...saw the rise of the baton...

"ALRIGHT!" He yelled, coming out of his chair and lunging for the raised arm. "ENOUGH! STOP! JUST STOP!"

The goon lowered his arm, didn't deliver that final blow. Brock whirled away when hands reached to grab him.

"I'll do what you ask." He swallowed hard, felt sick. "Just, stop. Leave him alone."

He was committed now. That warehouse was under both armed guarded and video surveillance. All he could do was find a way to let Jason know what was going on and hope Bravo would be able to rescue them before he was forced to actually steal anything.