Author's Note: Before Kurt heads off into the night in the city that never sleeps, I want to caveat that any resemblance between my New York City, its neighborhoods and residents, and the real New York City is purely coincidental.

Chapter 4: Taxi to the Dark Side

Now some people, when racing to prevent the grisly death of an old friend, would probably just throw on any old jeans and t-shirt. But being Kurt Hummel carried with it certain obligations, and one of them was to look fabulous at all times. Besides, he needed to do something to calm his nerves while he waited for the taxi. So, yes – judge him if you dare – Kurt took a few minutes to select the perfect 'I'm going to rescue my ex-boyfriend' outfit. Slim-cut black slacks with black knee-high lace up boots – that was a no-brainer. Burgundy button-down with black checker-square accents on the collar, placket and cuffs. Red always complimented his fair complexion and dark hair. (The fact that it was Dave's favorite color had nothing to do with anything.) A fitted dark gray double-breasted vest to bring out the green-grey-blue of his eyes. It was still a little cool outside, so his long black cotton coat with the crazy asymmetrical zippers and a gray and red graphic print Prada scarf and he was done. Hair? Well, there wasn't time to do anything other than brush it, do a quick whip-around of hairspray and hope for the best. Phone, wallet, keys and out the door by 1:14 AM.

"How long do you think it will take to get there, Mr... uh... Adams?" Kurt asked, handing the heavy-set black man the address and noting his name on the license tag that New York cabbies were required to display. Kurt was in the habit of chatting with taxi drivers, to hear different people's life experiences, listen to their speech patterns and observe their mannerisms. Careful observation of people made him a better actor.

"This place is in the East Village, just on the border with Alphabet City. At this hour, maybe 20 minutes?" the cabbie replied casually. "But hey, man, call me Azimio. 's too late at night to stand on ceremony."

"Okay, Azimio. 20 minutes – that's not so bad," Kurt nodded, mostly to himself. He wasn't familiar with that part of the city, although he knew it was an area with lots of artist types and underground clubs. The sort of neighborhood that gave New York it's 24-hour, anything-goes, life-in-overdrive reputation.

"So you headin' to a scene down there or what?" Azimio asked, bringing Kurt out of his reverie. "I hear Club Wilde's opening tonight."

"No clubs, just going to visit a friend."

"That's good, man. Friends are everything. Friends'll save your ass when no one else gives a shit. Friends'll pull you to safety when all the bullets and shells in the whole goddamn world are raining down on you. Three tours, man, two in Iraq and one in Afghanistan, and my buddies had my back through a lot of shit."

"Which service were you in?"

"Marines. Made it all the way to Master Sergeant. Yeah, a lot of shit went down over there. Never knowing where the enemy was, 'cuz he was everywhere, all around you. What kind of bullshit is that, huh? Used to be a war had a battle line. Enemy soldiers wore uniforms. No one strapped a bomb to himself and blew up a fucking market place in downtown DC during the Civil War, y'know what I'm sayin'?"

"Um, Azimio? You don't have to drive so fast. I'm not in that much of a hurry."

Azimio didn't seem to be talking to Kurt anymore. Block after block went whizzing by. "No fucking battle lines, man. Just eight years of fucking sand and ambushes and people who don't even want you in their fucking country."

"Watch out!" Kurt yelped as Azimio turned a corner too sharply and the car skidded sideways a little. The seat belt locked uncomfortably tight around Kurt's waist.

"And then some jihadi assholes decide if they're going down, they're gonna take as many poor innocent bastards with them as they can. So first a car bomb goes off and that kills about 25 people, including Rudy and James. Carl's concussed and Tom, he's got shrapnel in his leg and he's screaming, screaming his head off. Women are shrieking, kids are crying. So you rush in, y'know, 'cuz you wanna do something for these people and you gotta help your buddies, and the locals come in to help and the ambulances come, and then WHAM!" Azimio slammed on the brakes at a red light and Kurt lurched forward, belt digging cruelly into his stomach. "A second bomb, even bigger than the first. And now there's blood and body parts and twisted metal everywhere you look. So you throw your men in the humvee and get the hell outta there." The light changed and Azimio floored it, throwing Kurt back against the seat cushion.

"Hey Azimio? Azimio, I can get out right here. This is great. Right at this corner coming up. Here's $20 bucks for – " Kurt hoped his voice, which was getting louder and higher with every word, would break through the cabbie's waking nightmare.

But Azimio hunched his shoulders further over the wheel. "NO! You stay with the unit, Private! We split up now and they'll just pick us off one by one." The corner came. The corner went.

Now the cab was tearing down East Broadway. In between praying he didn't die and going into shock, Kurt registered that they were in fact heading towards the East Village in lower Manhattan.

"How much ammo we got left, Private?" Azimo shouted over his shoulder, his eyes still glued to the road ahead of him.

"Uh..." Kurt had no clue what to do. He was an actor, for crying out loud, not a therapist. Just an actor... an actor... a damn good actor. Kurt raised his chin, squared his shoulders and improvised. "I'm not sure, Sarge," he answered, mimicking Azimio's tone. "If you stop the humvee I can check."

"We're not fucking stopping until we get to the safe zone, soldier!" Azimio bellowed. A sharp left. Two blocks, A sharp right, and they were heading south again, swerving and weaving through the (mercifully) light traffic. Kurt wanted to be sick, but he was damned if he'd ruin his Dolce & Gabbana jacket.

Angry motorists honked their horns in protest, stray pedestrians threw curses at the cab as it sped by. "Fuck, they're all around us!" Azimio screamed, dodging recklessly around the other cars. "We'll be trapped!"

"I have an idea, Sarge," Kurt tried not to sound frantic. "If you let me out, I'll lay down cover and you and the rest of the unit can get away." Thank you, Courage Under Fire!

Azimio shook his head and Kurt's heart sank. "Can't let you do that, Private. You'd be dead before you hit the ground."

Kurt poured all the conviction he could muster into his next lines. "I'm volunteering, Sarge. Tom is my buddy. He's my friend, Sarge. I promised his mom I'd watch his back, and you've got to get him to safety for me. Please, Master Sergeant. I can do this."

Azimio looked hard at Kurt through the rear-view mirror and Kurt did his best to channel Meg Ryan's steely determination from the film.

After a few agonizing seconds and another vicious right turn, Azimio nodded and the taxi screeched to a halt. Hands trembling, Kurt reached over and dropped the $20 bill in the front passenger seat. Azimio grabbed his hand and squeezed until Kurt's eyes were watering. "Semper Fi, Private." Then he snapped off a salute.

"Semper Fi, Sarge," Kurt choked out and returned the salute with considerably less precision. He threw the door open and practically crawled out of the cab. He stood in the empty street, uncertain, and looked at Azimio. The taxi driver stared back at him expectantly. Why was he still here? Oh, right! Cover fire. How was he going to manage that? In sheer desperation, Kurt lifted his arm as if pointing a gun and spun slowly around shouting "BAM! BAM, BAM, BAM!"

Azimio nodded grimly and hit the gas.

Kurt stumbled to the curb and fought the urge to kiss the side walk, instead grabbing a lamp post to steady himself as he watched the cab tear down the street and out of sight.

After several motionless minutes he checked the street signs. Unbelievable! He was only two blocks from Dave's apartment. And he'd made it there in just over 10 minutes and given an Emmy-worthy performance along the way.

But now Kurt's thoughts switched back to his mission, which was to save Dave from … something. He felt it again in the pit of his stomach, that sense of mortal dread, and the weight of it increased with each step. Now that he was here ... something just felt off. This threat, whatever it was, it seemed almost like a tangible thing that would reach out and crush him from the inside out. Kurt lost patience with his own slowness and jogged that last block. It would be such a relief once he knew Dave was safe. There must be some bars nearby. Once Dave (a) assured Kurt that no one had slit his throat, and (b) promised not to leave his apartment for oh, 24 hours or so, Kurt, who practically never drank, was going to get a good stiff shot of something. Or maybe ... maybe Dave would invite him in so they could catch up? Kurt got a little warm feeling at that idea. He hadn't realized how much he missed talking to Dave until he heard that voice again on the phone. They could just sit in the living room and talk until morning, like they used to when Dave was in school. That is, if Dave didn't slam the door in Kurt's face. If he even opened the door for him in the first place.

'Karofsky' wasn't listed on the outside directory, but the address from Dave's Facebook account said this was the right building. Kurt pressed the buzzer and waited. Nothing happened. He pressed it again, holding it a little longer this time. After an anxious few minutes, a sleepy male voice came over the intercom.

"Yeah?"

Kurt frowned. That wasn't Dave's voice. Did he have a boyfriend after all? Oh, that was probably the roommate, Gill or Finn or Flipper – some fishy name.

"Yes, hi. My name is Kurt. I'm really sorry to disturb you at..." he checked his watch, "...1:30 in the morning, but I'm looking for David Karofsky. It's extremely important that I speak with him. It's an emergency. Is he there?"

"Nah, man," the current occupant sounded sleepy and impatient. "Dave and that other guy moved out like four years ago."

Kurt's heart stopped and his mouth went dry. "D-do you have a forwarding address or something?"

"Nope." Kurt could hear himself being dismissed. "They could be in Timbuktu for all I know. Sorry."

The intercom clicked off and suddenly Kurt felt like he'd lost everything he ever held dear in this world. A wave of vertigo hit and as much as he hated getting his Calvin Kline trousers dirty, the wisest course seemed to be just to sit down on the front steps and breath until he regained control.

Dave was gone and Kurt... Kurt was running out of time.