Hello! Thank you very much to anyone one who has read or reviewed. I apologize for not updating for so long. The reason was a combination of too much work, a lack of caffeine, and debilitating laziness on my part.
Just for reference: Dominique Francon is a character from a different Ayn Rand book, The Fountainhead. I have not injected the character into this story, but one of the new characters is using this name as a pseudonym.
Reid was frozen.
His brain was screaming at him frantically. What's wrong with you? Get going! Call the police! Run away! Get help! Do something!
Reid shook his head slowly, dazed. Shut up, he thought to himself. Although every instinct told him to run, Sam's words continued to resonate in his head:
They're coming.
It was not panic that held him in place any longer; it was indecision. Like a chess game—there was a right move here—he knew there was.
It's never the most obvious move, Reid thought to himself, That's what your opponent is expecting.
What opponent? Who was coming, if anyone?
Reid stared at Sam for a moment; his eyes caught sight of the hole in Sam's shirt. He blinked, then his brain quickly switched into a more familiar mode.
What do you know?
Well, there were three things.
First, his captor had just been shot in the stomach and was bleeding to death on the floor. Second, said captor had obviously cared enough about Reid's well-being to let him out of the bedroom and give him some sort of a warning.
Reid felt a pang of something—guilt? Pity? He banished it immediately. It wasn't the time for guilt or pity. It wasn't the time for emotions. It was time to use the one thing that could save him—save all of them—his brain.
Third thing; a cell phone had just fallen out of Sam's pocket. It was covered in smudged, bloody fingerprints; which meant that Sam had tried to call somebody after he'd been shot.
Reid bent down and reached into Sam's pocket, trying to avoid the slow but steady pool of blood that was congealing on the floor around him. Sam moaned slightly, but otherwise remained still. Reid stepped away from him and flipped the phone open, staring at the call history. Had Sam tried to call 911?
Apparently not. There was only one call made today—in fact, there was only one contact in the phone.
Dominique Francon.
Several things clicked into place at that moment. Reid glanced at Sam, who had long since gone unconscious; he glanced at the phone.
Life is just a game of chess. People are nothing but pawns and puppets; if you pull the strings in just the right way, they'll always end up dancing for you; whether they know it or not.
He dialed the number.
It rung only once before he heard a voice on the other end. The voice did not wait for him to speak.
"Sam, I've already told you, we've sent help. There's no need to do anything rash. If you let Dr. Stadler out, you will jeopardize the entire operation. "
This was a man speaking; he sounded rushed and irritated. Reid cleared his throat.
"Hello? Is this Dominique Francon?" Reid asked, trying to inject a note of panic into his voice.
"Who…who is this?" the voice asked slowly. This man was more than confused; he sounded horrified.
"Yes, hello. This is Dr. Spencer Reid. I've been staying with Sam for the past month or so. He's been hurt; really hurt, I mean. Someone shot him or something. He said that Dominique Francon was the only person who could help him. Are you Dominique Francon?" Reid didn't give the man a chance to answer. "Listen, you have to help us! I'm not a medical doctor. I don't know what to do. Please, send someone!"
"I…" the man trailed off. Now he sounded confused.
"Well? Can I speak to her or not?" Reid demanded angrily.
"You…you can't speak to her…" the man muttered. It sounded like he was having a conversation with someone off to the side.
"Are you doing anything?" Reid demanded furiously.
"We…we cannot disclose…why are you calling this—"
Reid dropped the phone from his ear when he thought he heard a noise at the front door, listening intently. He could hear voices. Hurriedly, Reid hit the speakerphone button and returned it to his ear.
"Yes, hello? Sorry." Reid turned his back to the door, facing away from Sam. "I think someone's here. You did send someone, didn't you? I hope you did. I—"
"Drop the phone, doctor." Reid froze, allowing a slow smile to spread across his face for a moment before he resumed his previous expression of panic. He turned around, hands above his head. In front of him was a pair of men wearing identical gray T-shirts with dollar signs on them; and with identical guns pointed at his head.
Reid raised his eyebrows. "That seems a little rude," he said.
"Drop the phone, doctor," the one on the left repeated.
Reid didn't drop the phone. They weren't going to shoot him; not yet, anyways. "Aren't you going to help him?" he asked. "I sure as hell hope you're with Dominique Francon."
Suddenly, the voice on the phone had apparently returned. "Hello, Dr. Reid. Please remain where you are until help arrives for you."
Both of the gunman stared at the phone, now completely bewildered.
"Help has arrived," Reid said to the phone, "but considering there is a man lying on the ground with a bullet in his stomach, they seem to be surprisingly fixated on me."
The men stared at him.
Reid inhaled deeply. The purpose of this was not to make fun of them. Stop being nervous, you're making a fool out of yourself. Sam is your best friend now. Make it convincing.
"You don't look like doctors," Reid despairingly. "Are you?"
"We—" the man on the left broke off. "We, um, we thought he'd be D.O.A." The still kept their guns up. The man on the phone was having another side conversation as the situation became more and more confusing for him.
Reid shook his head vigorously. "He wasn't dead about a minute ago, so chances are he's still alive. You need to get him some help, or he's going to die!"
They stared at him for a beat longer; the two men exchanged a glance, then the one on the right; nearest to Sam; knelt down and checked his pulse.
"Give me the phone," the other man commanded, attempting to regain control of the situation. Reid snapped it shut and tossed it to him. "Listen," the man said, in a way that seemed authoritative yet imploring at the same time. "We're under direct orders…."
"To come here and get me, before I called the police?" Reid asked. The man nodded, as if he were almost relieved that Reid had answered for him.
"Yeah. But, hey—why didn't you call the police, doctor?" He frowned suspiciously.
Reid kept eye contact. "Didn't you see my tape?"
The man blinked. "Yeah, but—Sam said he made you say that stuff."
Reid shrugged, laughing slightly. "Doesn't surprise me," he said, "He wanted to impress your leaders. He was always like that—trying to impress people." Reid glanced sideways, trying to gauge the other man's reaction.
Reid could see it in the body movement; the gun was still pointed at him, but years of profiling told him that the man had begun to relax ever so slightly. Reid continued to keep the anxious expression on his face, his hands up.
"Yeah, he was like that, I guess," the man mumbled, parroting what Reid had just said. "But, I mean—he kidnapped you and stuff."
Reid grinned, as if what the man had said was amusing to him. "I'm an FBI Agent," he said didactically. "You can't kidnap an FBI Agent."
"You can't?" The man frowned. "Really?"
"No—are you kidding? All of the heightened security measures! Everyone hates the government—you know. We get extra protection."
Reid could see the gears turning in this guy's head. "So you came to live here…just cause you wanted to?"
Reid nodded. "Sam and I have been friends for years. We met in a coffee shop. I needed to get away from the FBI for awhile. Of course, the story was that I had been kidnapped…"
"Oh," the man said. He frowned to himself, obviously reevaluating the situation. Reid almost wanted to laugh—apparently, the organization did not use their most intelligent members for these types of expeditions. Reid glanced down at Sam.
"How's he doing?" Reid asked, furrowing his brow; he kept forgetting to act gravely concerned.
"I think he's dead," the other man said glumly. "But I don't know how to check for a pulse properly. Maybe he's not. I'm no doctor or anything. Dominique said he was dead on arrival."
"That is what she said," affirmed the man who was pointing the gun at Reid.
"Here, let me check," Reid offered. "He's my friend. I'll know."
"Well, no…you can't—"
"Trust me," Reid said, already moving so sit near the body. He moved his finger to Sam's neck; sure enough, there was a steady pulse there. Sam was still alive.
"He's dead," Reid said somberly. He got to his feet, staring at Sam as if stricken by grief. The other two men stood tensely by, as if unsure what to do.
"We've been friends for longer than I can remember," Reid said. "He was the one that taught me everything—everything. The corruption. The blindness. I was blind to the evil, but he—" Reid broke off suddenly, as if too choked up to go on.
"Er—listen, doctor," the talkative one said. "Um, I'm sorry about this, and all, but we're actually supposed to apprehend you."
Reid pretended not to hear him. He turned to the one without a gun and grabbed him by the shoulders. "Listen," he said, "You have to help him—you're the doctor—please, do something!"
"Um, no, I—I'm n-not actually a doctor," the man stammered, clearly terrified. The one with the gun was now pointing it at both of them, looking panicked and still very confused. "I-I used to w-work at a mattress company."
Reid sat down on the ground and buried his head in his hands. "Please," he said, "Can I just have a minute alone? Please?"
The two men stared. "Uh…yeah," the mattress one said eventually. "Yeah, okay, just take a moment, man."
"Then we're going to apprehend you," the talkative one said. "We're waiting right outside, so—no funny business. Kay?"
Reid didn't answer but continued to stare at the body. The two men exited the room; once they were gone, Reid glanced into his shoulders, then buried his hand in Sam's jacket pocket. Could it be? Maybe?
Yep. Sam was carrying his gun.
Reid paused for a moment. It was almost too easy. He grabbed the gun and stuffed it deep inside his jacket, then reached over and checked Sam's pulse; to his relief, it had finally stopped. Reid sat up, then called to the two men; making his voice sound hoarse, as if he had been crying.
"Are we going to see Dominique?" Reid called.
The talkative one poked his head back in. "You don't go see Dominique," he said. "She's going to see us. We have to meet it's a classified location, though. Come on."
"Aren't you going to bring Sam's body?" Reid asked.
The two stared at him.
"Dominique didn't say anything about his body," the talkative one said.
"Yeah, she sent us here to get you," the mattress one added.
Reid raised his eyebrows. "It must be really relaxing," he said, "To have someone else make all the decisions for you. That must take a good deal of the stress off."
They stared at him again. Reid gave them a very encouraging smile.
"Yes, it's very relaxing," the mattress one said.
"Dominique is a very relaxing person," the talkative one agreed, "She makes all the tough decisions for you. Sometimes, it's really tough to know what to do—but she always does. We're lucky to be working for her, so we don't get exploited by the looters."
"She knows," the mattress one said, as if this point had not previously been made clear.
Reid raised his eyebrows. "I'm sure she does," he said. He then allowed himself to be led towards the van, the gun pressing up against his chest.
He couldn't wait to meet Dominique Francon.
To be continued soon. This chapter was originally one long, 5,900 page chapter, but that just seemed really out of balance with the rest of them so I cut it in half. Please leave a review—it would make me quite happy! If I made a mistake—or many—please tell me! I am writing this at 1:30 in the morning and, as a result of my debilitating laziness, I am not going to be able to proof read it.
Happy Wednesday!
