"Unh, my head," are the first words to escape Tara's mouth as she comes to. It takes a few seconds to realize that she's moving, and a few seconds longer to realize that she's not alone. As she opens her eyes, all she can see is fuzzy red carpet and a bloody leg visible through a tear in some incredibly loud pants. She tries to move her hands to push herself up into a better position, but realizes she can't move her arms. As she fights to move her arms, she can feel that her wrists are bound.
"Fuck," she mumbles under her breath.
"Oh look, the pain fairy is coming to," a cool, rough voice purrs from somewhere to her left. The cold flesh of a leather glove takes her by the bare skin at the back of her neck and forces her upright. It is not a pleasant experience. As she finally is sat upright, however, she can see that Al Yankovic is in fact still alive, but in incredibly rough shape.
A quick glance at her surroundings reveals that the terrorists' numbers are back up to at least six, implying that the ones transporting Al previously had not been the only ones in on the attack. Though they all wore masks once more, she can immediately tell which one it was that she'd recognized and broken the arm of. He is holding it gingerly in his lap and glaring at her with all the evil she had sensed in his soul the moment she'd first laid eyes on the fucker.
"You," she hisses. "I should've known you'd be in on this—" Her words catch in her throat as the back of that cool leather glove hits her cheek with enough force to leave her breathless. Though, that may just be the fact that the force of the slap has knocked her nearly into Al's lap leaving her breathless. She squirms, trying hard not to let her head hit his lap as she fights to right herself again.
"You will be silent. It's because of you three of my best men are dead," the man with the rough voice says.
A warm, soft hand makes contact with her arm and she freezes, heart pounding. They were really stupid enough to leave Al's arms free?
"Here, let me help." His voice is right in her ear, and she feels tears welling in her eyes as the man she'd fangirled over since her childhood helps her sit back up.
"You'd do well to keep quiet as well, Yankovic," says rough voice. Tara turns to glare at rough voice.
"How dare you?" she demands.
"Oh, look, she's crying," says the injured one. Rough voice, who looks far less intimidating than he sounds, lifts his hand to smack her again. She twists to face him head on.
"Oh yeah, I'm crying. You know why? Because I was hoping to get to see Al after the concert but not like this. How dare you? How—" Another mighty slap from a leather-gloved hand and she's laid out cold across Al's legs.
When she comes to again, she's being dragged roughly out of the van and into what appeared to be a huge, dark barn. Where are we? Shit, my head hurts, she thinks as she's tossed roughly to the ground. Shortly after she hits the broken wooden boards of the floor, she hears Al grunt as he, too, hits the ground.
The sound of scuffling shoes and a door slamming shut are followed by the unique squeal of tires on dirt, then silence.
"Al?" she asks. When she isn't immediately smacked for speaking out of turn, she starts trying to wiggle her way toward where she'd heard Al hit the ground. A warm hand comes into contact with her exposed elbow and she jerks back, looking in the direction the hand had come from. In the exceedingly dim light of the moon coming in through the decaying roof of the building, she can just make out the concerned visage of none other than her idol.