TEN

Tim tried to count minutes and judge how much time had passed, but he knew he couldn't be accurate. Enough time had passed for the dull ache in his shoulders to grow into excruciatingly sharp pain that he could not relieve, no matter how he turned or twisted. He'd discovered that rising to his toes took away some of the weight from his wrists; long enough for him to wiggle his fingers until they grew warm with circulation again. But his feet cramped with all of his weight on his toes, so he couldn't hold that position for long.

His skin had finally dried from the earlier shower, but his hair was still damp. Chill bumps peppered his skin and his muscles shivered with cold until he felt as if he'd been through a serious workout. His throat felt tight and scratchy when he swallowed. An experimental deep breath sent shards of dull pain through his left side, and weak cramps through his belly, but he didn't feel as if there were any internal injuries to be worried about - yet.

Stay in the moment.

Despite his resolve to not anticipate, he shuddered violently when a door opened above, and footsteps moved steadily closer. Tilton flipped on the light as he walked down the stairs. He smiled at McGee. "Hello, Agent McGee. Are you happy to see me?"

McGee had debated with himself whether or not to engage in conversation with Tilton. He doubted there was anything he could say that would sway the man. He knew not to mention the name Rodney again, afraid of the rage that consumed Tilton and made Tim believe Tilton was going to kill him right then. His earlier victims had been gagged; he found himself wondering why Tilton hadn't gagged him, and decided it might be because of his continued silence. He'd rather hold his tongue than experience a rag stuffed into his mouth, so he opted to remain silent.

"Nothing to say?" Tilton arrived at the tables. He began handing the objects, turning them and rearranging them. McGee didn't watch, afraid of the images the instruments would conjure. "I don't have as long with you as I did with the others. NCIS is probably combing the countryside, searching for their little lost agent." He picked up a short-bladed knife. McGee's eyes widened and he pulled back as far as his restraints would allow. "Still nothing to say?"

McGee licked his lips. "Wh-what could I say to change your mind?"

His weapon chosen, Tilton turned and stepped closer to McGee. Holding the knife in one hand, he pressed the point against a finger of his other hand, eyes roaming the ceiling as if in thought. "Hmmmm - well, you could offer me a million dollars and a free ride to a paradise island of my choice with the guarantee that I won't be followed." Grinning, he focused his eyes on Tim.

Tim's breathing quickened. "You know I can't do that."

"I know. But I had to ask." He stepped close, hooked his arm around McGee's head, gripped his hair, and pulled his head back sharply. "Stay still - this might hurt a little."

An incoherent groan vibrated out of McGee's tight throat. A sharp pinch in his right side caught him by surprise and he gasped. Warmth flowed down his skin and after a moment, he realized he was bleeding.

"The blade's not long enough to puncture anything vital, Rodney. Just long enough to cause you discomfort."

Tilton pulled away, but kept his grip firm on Tim's hair. Head back, throat arched uncomfortably, Tim waited for the next thrust. Again, his breath left him in a rush when a sharp pain pinched in his middle, just above his diaphragm, slightly beneath the outward curve of his ribcage. Painful points in rapid succession opened all over his torso - low on his belly, down his right side, down his left side, in his flank. His breathing shuddered through his lungs and he moaned. Abruptly, his hair was released and his head flopped forward. He stared in confusion at the multiple tiny rivulets of blood running down his body.

A familiar squeak made him shut his eyes and stiffen. Cold water cascaded over his head and flowed down his body, washing the blood away. He pressed his face into his shoulder, hiding from the bone-chilling cold. A sudden and fierce burst of pain through his abdomen forced his eyes open. He sucked in a deep breath, threw his head back, and shouted. The pain ebbed, leaving him breathless and groaning. Head leaning weakly against his shoulder, he watched through half-lidded eyes as Tilton moved around behind him, carrying a cattle prod.

A lightening point of pain struck through his flank. His body arched uncontrollably, fighting to escape the agony pressing into him. The piercing pain faded and the hum of the cattle prod stopped abruptly. Before he could prepare for the next onslaught, hard knuckles cut brutally into his side. The loud slap of flesh echoed through the room as Tilton worked around him, as if practicing with a punching bag, jabbing into his ribs and belly. Tim desperately pulled air in between punches, quickly losing the battle to stay conscious. His head slumped forward.

Winded, Tilton landed one last punch, square in the middle of his victim's solar plexus. Even unconscious, the kid's body responded, caving in and grunting when air expelled violently from his lungs.

Tilton backed away, wiping his hands on his jeans. "I told you your time would come, Rodney. You should have listened to me." Moving to the table, he reached for the smelling salts. His time was growing short; it was later than he liked. He wasn't finished, and he wanted Rodney awake for this.