Warning - the bad guy uses some bad language in this chapter. Sorry!
Senseless Ch 13
Peter had been in tighter spots - well, metaphorically at least. Physically, it was another matter. He'd never suffered from claustrophobia, but this situation was a certainly a good, strong psychosis in the making. However, his mental health wasn't his primary concern at that moment. He was still losing blood, which was inadvisable, especially considering the amount he'd used to decorate the docks the day before.
The car lurched around a corner, and he blacked out for a minute from the consuming agony that screamed through him as he was thrown onto his new injury. Well, he thought it was a minute, but time had assumed that stretchy, elastic quality like a particularly viscous fluid that washed him stickily back and forth along the state of consciousness. He considered leaving another message for Neal, unsure if the FBI would find the first car, but he'd been unable to anchor himself in such a way as to make writing possible, and he wasn't sure he could convince his lacerated hands to hold on to an implement any longer.
He wasn't under any illusions as to his projected life expectancy, but he had the experience to know how not to dwell on the worst even in such dire circumstances. Beyond the first adrenaline rush, fear merely sapped one's strength, and Peter needed to channel every ounce of his waning energy into survival. He knew with complete certainty that his team would be on his heels, using every resource, legal or not, to find him. It was up to him to delay the bad guys and keep himself alive until they arrived.
He needed to find another way to contact his team, but he wasn't McGyver, and the opportunities for communication were extremely limited inside the trunk of a car. His more immediate goal was to get out of the restraints that tied his hands behind his back. If it had been a pair of handcuffs, Peter would have been fairly confident about his ability to escape, having experienced considerable tutelage on the topic after his first kidnapping by Keller. The zip ties that currently bound his wrists were not nearly as escapee-friendly, although Neal had assured him it was possible. He'd even proved it on one occasion, but it involved considerable contortionism that Peter doubted he was capable of under even the best of circumstances, which this most certainly was not.
His right shoulder, injured by the falling pipe the day before and now wrenched behind him at a cruel angle, ached with a fire that burned more fiercely with each passing minute. Yet, compared to the bullet wound, it was a mere bruise. But even there, he knew he was lucky. The projectile hadn't perforated his insides or got lodged against some vital part of his innards that would object to its proximity. It had been a relatively glancing blow, smashing at least one rib and slashing a chasm the size of the Grand Canyon in his side - which bled like the Colorado River - before deflecting away. It could have been a lot worse, but breathing alone was so painful, it made him consider his choice to continue to do so.
The journey deteriorated into a haze of jolting misery. He knew the trunk wasn't airtight and there was enough oxygen to last for twelve hours, but the air was stifling, hot and getting more stale with every thin, cautious inhalation as he struggled not to aggravate the broken rib. He was aware that all cars made for sale in the US in the last ten years or so had federally mandated safety releases for the trunk. However, either the car was too old or, more likely, it was located underneath the carpet he was lying on, or had been disabled by his captors. It was not likely he could perform the necessary agile maneuvers to get his hands on it even if he could locate it, and if he could perform the acrobatics, it would benefit him little while the car was moving. To jump out with a broken rib and his hands tied behind him would be suicidal, and to attract the attention of anyone other than a law enforcement officer would be inviting a lamb to slaughter.
The best thing he could do was to avail himself of the opportunity to arm himself, however moderately, for future self defense. He'd feel happier with a spanner, screwdriver or even a tire iron tucked into a pocket somewhere. Maybe he could find something sharp enough to cut through the zip ties, because the arm he was lying on had passed through numb into the 'you're going to regret this later' territory. However, trying to access any potential treasure trove of sharp implements was the equivalent of scaling Everest while staying in the same fifteen cubic feet of space. Six foot two of Federal Agent was never intended to fit in a car trunk. There was some clearance above him and a little space behind him, but even with his knees tucked uncomfortably close to his chest, there was no lateral room, so wriggling into a position where his hands could gain access to the sides and their contents, while even the slightest breath stabbed him with vicious intensity, made it an exercise not only in cortortionism, but also the fairly ruthless self-infliction of pain.
By the time his numbly groping fingers touched the hard plastic of a small tool box, he was shaking, and cold sweat had joined the warmer blood trickling down his back. He opened the catch with surprising ease, but couldn't actually reach anything inside. His fingers scrabbled weakly to find purchase - to pull it closer or upend it entirely. It took one last depairing lunge to hook his fingers over an edge, spilling the contents onto the floor of the trunk. There was a cornucopia of blunt and pointed objects, and even with fingers that felt like thick-skinned sausages, it was surprisingly easy to identify the basic objects by touch. His best find was a box cutter. It was a struggle to push the blade out, and he dropped it innumerable times as he tried to figure out with clumsy digits the best way to hold it to slice through the plastic restraining him without concomitant damage to surrounding skin and arteries. He wasn't entirely successful at the latter, but the zip tie finally parted. It proved to be a mixed blessing as his muscles cramped and spasmed from being released from the unnatural position, and he gritted his teeth as he waited out the surge of pain and weakness.
The muffled roar of the engine remained a consistent presence, but the dull whine of the tires on the road changed to a deeper note, indicating they'd moved off the regular road. Peter thought they must be nearing their destination. He normally had an impeccable sense of direction and, within New York City, could follow the neat turns of a road blindfolded. However, this wasn't an area he knew well, and the periodic spells of unconsciousness had destroyed even his basic geographical compass. Still, some instinctive dead reckoning placed him near the upstate airstrip he'd heard mentioned earlier.
With his hands loose, he was able to brace himself better, protecting his side when the car braked to a stop, but a wave of dizziness washed over him and the world would probably be tilting nauseatingly before his eyes if he could see enough to confirm it. He slid a screwdriver down a sock and another into the inner pocket of his jacket in anticipation of battle, but the footsteps moved away from the car - opening a gate, judging by the rattle of metal and the squeak of hinges - before returning. The process was repeated on the other side of the gate.
After another couple of hundred yards, the car stopped completely, the engine turned off, although the sound continued to ring sonorously in Peter's ears. By then, he had secreted away a sizeable proportion of the tool kit, although he suspected he wouldn't retain them for long once they discovered his hands were loose. To his surprise, however, no one came to check on him. The voices outside were remarkably clear, and he heard Jarvis ask, "What about...?" and imagined a head jerk in his direction. But Petrovic's reply, fading as he moved off, was simply, "He's not going anywhere."
Either the assassin overestimated the incarcerating qualities of the trunk of a car and Peter's incapacity or underestimated his resolve to survive. Blood loss and pain might slow him down, but he was fairly confident he could either jimmy the lid of the trunk open or break through into the back seat. He was not quite so sanguine of his prospects after that, because he certainly didn't have the endurance for a protracted chase. The best he could hope for was an effective hiding place. He didn't think Petrovic would waste too much time looking for him, since the killer's first priority was escaping the country.
Peter waited a couple of minutes, giving the two men time to leave the area and anyone else in the vicinity time to lose interest in the newly arrived vehicle. Now the car wasn't moving, it was becoming exponentially hotter, the air dragged into his lungs unsatisfying. He knew he was running out of time for effective action, his respiratory system going into overdrive trying to supply his body with the oxygen he desperately needed to keep running, drawing those small, struggling, broken breaths.
There was nothing as useful as a tire iron in his arsenal, so he chose the largest screwdriver he could find. It wasn't totally pitchblack in the trunk, as a little light filtered in through the speakers above him and even through the cracks of the seats, so he could choose with some accuracy the place where he wanted to jam the blade. However, his hands were too bruised and slippery with blood to force it in with the pressure it needed, and the effort caused a coughing fit that seized him and shook him with the destructive ferocity of a rat in the jaws of a predator.
As shattered bone grated on exposed nerve endings, he curled into a protective ball at the intense tearing spasm. He could feel his heartbeat pressing against his brain, whiting out the periphery of his vision, then consciousness fragmented, blowing apart in glittering neurons of pain that whirled away like elements in an expanding universe before winking out into non-existence.
Awareness rolled back in with the wobbling uncertainty of a toddler, not quite committed and definitely off balance. With a strength of will that was all that was left to him, Peter focused back in on the task, although nerves twitched and quivered, abused muscles groaned and bruises throbbed. He probably only had one chance to kick through the back seats and crawl through. He was starting to get into position when the trunk lock clicked open and the lid rose, flooding the compartment with light.
There was a distressed sound, and Peter recognised the voice before his eyes adjusted enough to recognise the head silhouetted against the sky. He had to say something to defuse the tension. He offered a smile through bloodless lips, even though his throat filled with bile as he forced his damaged body into a sitting position. "Aren't you a little short for a stormtrooper?"
There was a small huff of air from above that he chose to interpret as appreciation for his admittedly poor attempt at humour.
"And you, apparently, look a little less d-dead that I feared." Neal's voice was strained, sounding as if he was forcing the words through a clenched throat, and he reached out to touch Peter's wrist, his fingertips almost grazing the raw line that the zip tie had left in the flesh. He didn't sound convinced on that point, and Peter didn't need a mirror to know that he looked like one of the blood-smeared zombies so beloved by teenagers. He wanted to say something reassuring, but he had a feeling that anything he said would shortly be negated by him keeling over in a fairly conclusive manner. His breathing was becoming more uneven and labored. His pulse was erratic and noticeably weaker and, despite his efforts to prevent it, he was clearly going into shock. Hopefully, Neal had an ambulance tucked away out of sight, just waiting for a signal to deploy.
He was about to drop a hint in that direction when he noticed the taut, vigilant glances Neal was casting around the raised trunk lid. "Neal, please tell me you're not here alone, that you're not on the run from Samuelson." Despite his suspicions, he couldn't summon up any anger, caught between weary frustration and inappropriate amusement. After all, Neal was there when he should have been in the hospital, and that said a lot about the young man's loyalty and courage, although maybe not his intelligence.
He was familiar with the shifty look that crossed Neal's face before being replaced by the guileless smile. "No, I'm a free man...well, freeish. There may be some technical d-details to work out, and of course I'm not alone...well, just at this m-minute I might be, but..."
Peter held up a hand, apparently finding Neal's mute button since he stopped talking immediately. "What's the plan?" the agent asked softly, trust implicit in the question.
Only he would have noticed the slight hesitation that told him this was one of Neal's more impetuous moves, that planning had given way to spontaneity. "I'm getting you out of here," he maintained staunchly. There was determination, if not foresight, in the statement.
Peter didn't think he was going to get very far, but he also knew that he stood no chance of convincing Neal to leave him there, so he had to try. Getting out of the trunk would probably be the greatest challenge, since his muscles had stiffened up in the cramped space. He managed to get a leg beneath him and steadied himself for the effort. Swinging his other leg up and over the edge was a defiance of the laws of physics, and just that movement alone left him shaky and breathing heavily. Neal caught hold of him, hands gentle, but with a strength that promised support when needed. He needed the help to overcome the gravity that fought him until everything sheened in red and pain seared his ribs, but he was standing on the tarmac.
With Neal's help, he dragged himself a few wobbly steps, teeth sunk into his lip to prevent him making a sound, but the iron taste in his mouth intensified and his legs were ready to collapse. He was immensely grateful to find out that running was, for once, not part of Neal's plan, as the conman lowered him gently into the passenger seat of the car. "Give me a minute to hotwire this thing, and we'll get out of here."
He appeared to have availed himself of one of Peter's screwdrivers, although as usual, the agent hadn't been aware of any intrusion into his pockets. He watched with hazy fascination as Neal removed the access cover and started sorting through the wires, keeping up a soft commentary while alternating his focus between the task at hand and the view through the windows.
Neal stripped the last wire with his teeth and starting twisting the two red wires together, trying to ignore the skittery and desperate feeling that crawled under his skin. His fingers worked automatically, while his eyes scanned for both back-up and encroaching bad guys. He had entered the air strip with the intention of reconnaissance, not to dive headfirst into a rescue which could put Peter in even greater danger, but he'd panicked when he'd found Petrovic and Jarvis with no sign of their captive, afraid Peter had outlived his usefulness, and they'd already disposed of his body.
Neal's immense relief in finding his friend alive was mitigated by the amount of blood Peter was wearing like a modern, decidedly redder, form of woad. It was clear that Peter needed a hospital; he couldn't just shut him back in the trunk and go for help. Equally obviously, despite Peter's valiant effort, the agent was in no condition to play an active role in their escape, shock and blood loss robbing the usually sharp brown eyes of their clarity. Neal was also aware that he himself wasn't in top condition to meet the arduous demands of flight. His head thumped with brutal intensity, sending intermittently confusing messages to his visual cortex, colors fading to gray and blurring into bizarre shapes. The muscles in his right hand were also starting to seize up, and he fumbled for the wires, dropping one on the floor.
"Damn!" He groped around to recover it.
"Easy," Peter's voice rumbled from beside him, still steadying despite the palpable weakness it contained. "You've got this - as long as it doesn't have a steering wheel lock."
"Too old a m-model," Neal replied shortly, finally successfully entwining his wires. Glancing over at his friend, he wasn't very happy with the pallor that showed between the blood smears on the agent's skin, and he decided to encourage Peter's participation in the conversation, hoping to stave off the inevitable collapse until medical services were available. "I d-didn't expect any encouragement from that side of the car. Aren't you supposed to be making d-disapproving and snide comments about my m-misspent youth and highly questionable s-skillset?"
"I'm all out of snide, and when your highly questionable skillset is being used to save my life, I find myself strangely in favor of your misspent youth. In fact, I'd offer to help, but I think my hands are going to be out of commission for a while."
The right hand was still bandaged, but Neal winced at the cuts and bruises adorning the fingers and palms of the left. "You're n-not going to be writing r-reports for a while," he joked sympathetically.
"See, there's an upside to everything," Peter returned lightly. "El's going to have to give me a pass on the washing up as well."
Neal raised his head suddenly. "Isn't that...?
"The reassuring sound of back-up," Peter finished for him. The sirens were a welcome sound, but both men were aware that they would also alert the enemy.
Neal tried not to let the new urgency fluster him, grasping the wires carefully as he brought the ignition wire forward. They met with a spark, dragging an uncertain cough from the engine.
"Neal," Peter warned. "Now would be a good time." His arm was wrapped around his ribs, bracing himself in anticipation of movement. Neal followed his gaze and saw Petrovic emerging from the hanger, Jarvis close behind.
"Stay down," he warned automatically, before realising that Peter's injuries probably precluded such maneuvering. He brought the wires together again, and this time the engine roared to life, and he hastily revved it to prevent a stall. Satisfied that it wasn't about to die, he slid into drive and slammed his foot on the accelerator, feeling the car jump forward responsively. There was an exclamation of pain from Peter as the acceleration slammed them both back into their seats, but he had to ignore that. A bullet smashed through the front windscreen, whistling between them, and Neal pulled the wheel sharply, steering away from the gunman. The next bullet hit the car lower down, he wasn't sure where, belatedly realizing the target when the car slewed sideways, the steering wheel fighting his control. He tried to control the skid, but a patch of gravel completed the job the punctured tyre started, and the driver's side of the car slammed into a hanger.
The force of the impact left Neal stunned, head hanging limply against the safety belt, most of his senses operating patchily, but unable to move a muscle. He could hear Peter calling his name frantically, but he could manage nothing more than a groan in response. The passenger door opened, and there were sounds of a struggle and a cry of pain. Peter was dragged from the car, and the sounds diminished.
Neal thought there might have been blood in his eyes, but everything appeared a uniform grey that he was unable to blink away. He attempted to push himself up, but his arms flailed without coordination. There was shouting outside, and he tried to turn his head to follow the noise. Ironically, the jolt of pain the movement produced helped clear his head and returned a measure of control to his limbs. He hauled himself clumsily across the car to the passenger door, dropping into an undignified heap on the pavement, but no one was paying him any attention.
The focal point for all eyes was Petrovic, who had one arm around Peter's neck in a chokehold, the other holding a gun savagely jammed up against the underside of Peter's chin, forcing his head back. This was ensuring that Peter acted as a shield for the assassin, protecting him from Diana and Jones who stood a few yards apart, their weapons upraised and threatening. Further away, behind the chainlink fence, stood Hughes and the FBI, also with their guns drawn. Lights were flashing, and they were a threatening presence, but they were not moving forward to prevent the situation from escalating to a deadly level.
Neal couldn't tear his gaze from Peter. The agent was not moving, not that he was being given much latitude for movement. It was still alarming, because Peter Burke was never passive, which led Neal to two possible conclusions - either he was lulling his captor into a false sense of security or, far more likely, he was on the brink of unconsciousness. However, he was alert enough to still have one hand wrapped around his ribs. Even as Neal watched, a thick trickle of blood flowed over already stained fingers to drip onto the tarmac. His eyes followed its progress involuntarily before flashing back up to Peter's face.
The paralysis Neal currently felt had nothing to do with his head injury, but was due to the terror that any injudicious move on his part might startle Petrovic and send a bullet through Peter's brain. The gunman was so keyed up it would take only the slightest extra pressure, the smallest twitch of his finger on the trigger. Even a well-placed sniper shot that killed the target instantly could still result in an involuntary death spasm. Something ripped apart in Neal's chest at the thought, making breathing almost impossible, although maybe he'd confused cause and effect. His body was weighed down as if walking underwater, his limbs heavy with dread.
This was the man who'd become Neal's father, mentor, brother and friend as needed, offering protection and care without reservation. He'd been there every day of Neal's hospitalisation, accepting responsibility for his care, and offering the encouragement and support needed to help him through to recovery. His personal endorsement had pulled Neal out of jail not once but twice, and, most importantly, Neal had lost count of the number of times Peter had rescued him from some gun-wielding maniac intent on shortening his life-span. He couldn't sit here patiently while Peter suffered the same threat, even if the only play he had in mind was to offer himself as a more serviceable hostage.
He tried to scramble surreptitiously to his feet, but failed somewhat in both goals, listing significantly to one side and drawing the attention of at least one of the participants in the stand-off. Of course Peter noticed. Even with darkness lapping hungrily at his consciousness while shaking hands with the Grim Reaper, Peter had a sixth sense for Neal's potentially rash actions. Pained dark eyes cut across to intercept Neal's and silently ordered him to stand down.
Neal froze in place, but it was only in small part due to instinctive obedience to Peter in the field; although he respected the agent's decisions, he was also used to trusting his own improvisations. To a far great extent, it was a reaction to the expression on Peter's face, to the incredible pain he could feel emanating from every pore of his friend's body. For once, the shadow of a beard darkened his jaw-line, highlighting his drawn, ashen face, the lines gaunt and stark. His pupils were dilated until his eyes were almost all black and almost frightening in their intensity. As Neal met that gaze, the two of them were momentarily separated from the activity surrounding them.
They had always done their best communicating without words and now, with regular dialogue denied to them, that facility was put to good use. Neal's mulish frown said he had no intention of going anywhere, but it was softened by a plea to let him help. Peter's answer was an uncategorical 'no'. Neal was a civilian, and he needed to stay away from the potential fire fight. Neal's eyebrow arched in adamant refusal once more, and the thin press of his lips insisted he could be of use. Luckily, repeated exposure had granted him a measure of immunity against the lethal glare he received for his intransigence before Peter relented enough to throw a 'just don't do anything stupid' directive at him.
Their non-verbal exchange was interrupted as Petrovic pulled Peter brutally backwards, edging into the shelter of a hanger, out of the sights of the FBI guns. Now, the assassin only had Diana and Jones to contend with.
"Back off," Petrovic ordered, not for the first time. He wasn't panicking yet, which was good, because panic led to stupid decisions, but agitation and aggression hung around him in a miasma of sweat and spit.
The two agents ignored the command, maintaining their position, close enough to make their position on Peter's continued health clear, but far enough away not to precipitate irrevocable actions. Neal wondered, as his brain scrabbled for a solution, how long they could hold a gun upright and pointed, how long before muscles sagged and aim wandered. Probably just as long as Petrovic could hold Peter contained by sinew and gun. There was no doubt this was a crisis of finite duration. The stand-off would end soon, but it would almost certainly end bloody, and Neal's main concern was that the final blood spilt not be Peter's.
The assassin continued his shuffle into a more secure location. Each movement jolted through Peter whose eyes were clenched shut and lips pressed tightly together as if he were afraid of allowing something to escape. Yet a savage jerk pulled a thin, pained sound from his throat, and that small sound caused a wave of pure venom to rise up in Neal, surging up in his throat and settling on his tongue with the bitterness of bile. He limped along, maintaining his position in regards to the other participants, not bothering to conceal himself in any way. He knew Petrovic was aware of his presence and had dismissed him as a non-threat. Maybe the gunman was right, but that didn't mean Neal didn't have a decisive role to play. His head pounded with every beat under his ribs, but his focus remained unabated, the narrow line of his upper lip rising away from his teeth in an incipient suggestion of a snarl.
Petrovic's movement's were becoming more erratic, with a twitchiness than suggested he was unravelling. "Back the fuck up, or I'm going to take him apart, piece by piece." Desperate intent bristled from every word.
Diana obviously agreed, because, holding her left hand out with a pacifying gesture, she reholstered her gun with her right. "Take it easy; let's talk about this - find a way to resolve this without anyone getting hurt."
Petrovic looked more surprised than triumphant at the apparent success of his strategy. Ignoring Diana's invitation to talk, he focused on the only other weapon directly threatening him. "You - you too. Drop your gun."
Jones didn't even shift his weight, but remained a statue of resolve and promised retribution.
"Drop it!" Petrovic screamed again, looking across at Diana when he failed to get the desired result. She merely shrugged.
"I only take orders from one man," Jones stated impressively, even if not entirely accurately, nodding at Peter. "You aren't him."
For a moment it looked as if Petrovic might unwrap his arm from Peter's throat to allow him to issue the order, but he thought better of the impulse.
Neal had to admire his friends' strategy. While Jones maintained their self-defense and enforcement, Diana acted as a safety-valve, relieving the worst of the tension and giving the appearance of cooperation. Neal wanted to say something, to add another stabilizing point to the volatile situation, but his tongue felt too big and heavy, glued to the roof of his mouth, and he was afraid his stammer would make his speech unintelligible. This was not a time when his audience would wait patiently for him to complete a coherent sentence. He remained silent in the unaccustomed position of an observer, a ghost drifting on the edges of the scene.
Diana pulled Petrovic's attention back in her direction. "How do you want to see this resolved? What do you want to see happening?" She sounded in control and only mildly curious, as if engaged in boardroom negotiations for new stationery.
With one-track unimaginativeness, Perovic reverted to his original plan. "I want my plane out here within ten minutes. If it's not, he'll be the one who pays." This clearly referred to Peter. "Once I'm in a safe location, I'll drop him off."
'Yeah right,' Neal thought sarcastically, 'from a height of several thousand feet.'
Diana's skepticism wasn't in evidence. "I'll go and see what I can do about that," she said, so agreeably that it didn't seem to occur to the gunman, as it did to Neal, that she would use her absence as an opportunity for communicating with the rest of the FBI and for coordinating a plan of action with them.
She strode away purposefully, leaving the four men in a limbo of inactivity, aggression curdling to hesitancy. An odd silence fell, no one willing to break the frozen tableau and risk a renewal of hostilities. Neal attempted to resume his silent communication with Peter, but the agent's eyes were closed. He appeared to be taking advantage of the respite, the marginally loosened hold around his neck, to restore his reserves, not the least of which was oxygen. Only the deep creases etched into his forehead and the loud uneven breathing, rattling in his lungs and forcing its way out of his mouth, were clues as to his real state of awareness.
Diana returned, and Neal could immediately tell her stride contained more tension, loose confidence replaced by a marginally noticeable choppiness to her movements. Hopefully, since Petrovic wasn't acquainted with Diana, he wouldn't be picking up on the same nervous vibes.
"The plane is fueled and ready to go," she announced, smiling gamely. "However, your pilot's done a runner. Apparently, he didn't want to make the personal acquaintance of so many FBI agents."
No one was sure how the assassin would respond to this revelation, including Petrovic himself. He rocked backwards, pulling Peter more tightly against him. Flexibility under pressure didn't appear to be his forte, as Neal had learned in their last encounter. Once the assassin had formulated a plan, he tended to stick to it, whether changing circumstances supported that decision or not. "I want a pilot," he demanded tautly. "Don't play games with me."
"We'll do what we can," Diana assured him. "But you have to understand that volunteers to fly a...suspected murderer to an unknown destination are in short supply."
"Well, you better work on it," Petrovic snarled. "I'm a patient man, but I don't think your friend here has a lot of time." In illustration of Peter's vulnerability, the killer brought his elbow down against his captive's side. With his hands occupied and with the angle available, it wasn't a hard blow, but it didn't need to be. Peter's body spasmed helplessly as he gasped for breath through the pain. "Get me a pilot - now!" the gunman reiterated forcefully.
Neal recognised a cue when he heard one. "I'll f-fly y-you."
His words exploded onto the scene with the stunning force of a shaped charge, designed for maximum impact. There was several seconds of paralysed silence, although not everyone seemed too surprised. Neal could have sworn that Peter rolled his eyes so violently, it was surprising that his eyeballs weren't ejected by centrifugal force. Diana turned her head to stare at him incredulously, while Jones might as well not have heard, since he didn't move an inch. Neal, however, was mostly interested in Petrovic's reaction. The assassin seemed to be mostly surprised that somebody he'd dismissed as insignificant - at best a victim, at worst a worthless cipher - would become so pivotal in the situation.
"You're a pilot?" he asked cautiously.
"S-sure," Neal lied unblushingly. "I've b-been licensed for s-six years. I haven't had m-much p-practice recently, but once you learn, it's n-not a skill you forget." It sounded so plausible, and it wasn't complete fiction. Mozzie had shown him the rudiments of operating an aircraft - enough that Neal could certainly fake it. He could taxi the plane, maybe even take off. It was landing that...well, it would happen, but most likely not in a state of control that would keep them in one piece.
Neal and control had parted ways a long while back, so the concept wasn't troubling, but he didn't expect it to get that far. Something had to be done to break the stalemate. Peter needed medical assistance and a rescue from the gun-wielding madman - not necessarily in that order. All it would take was one opening. They were a team and moved as a team. Peter and Neal were always in each other's space, and even without using the tracking anklet, Peter was hyper-aware of where Neal was at all times, which was why he could predict when Neal wasn't in place even when he couldn't see him.
Petrovic seemed satisfied with the arrangement. "Go and bring the plane here."
Neal looked at him with a superior exasperation calculated to annoy. "Planes aren't taxis," he pointed out patronizingly. "They don't reverse. The best I can do is bring it out to there." He pointed out a spot on the beginning of the runway where they would all be totally exposed. "Or," he added, seeing the gunman's instinctive rejection of the idea, "we could m-make our way to the plane, and I c-can fly it out from there."
It wasn't a hard decision to make, but at the same time, it was a daunting proposition for Petrovic, who would have to inch his way, keeping Peter as his cover, without allowing Jones a shot. For now, he made no move, trying to come up with an alternative plan.
Neal helpfully gave him something else to think about. "I haven't t-told you my stipulations yet." His audacity earned him another silence with three-quarters of his audience staring at him in disbelief. Peter, however, was regarding him intently, sensing a formative plan.
"You're not in any position to be making demands." Petrovic shoved the barrel of the gun harder into the underside of Peter's chin to emphasise his point.
Neal shrugged deprecatingly. "Hey, it's not my head you're threatening to blow off." The words were callous, and he needed to deliver them with just the right emphasis, because they were a message to Peter. Nobody could make a move, least of all Peter himself, until the gun was no longer a hair-trigger away from ending his life. Neal's plan, if something as sketchy and suicidal could be graced with that appellation, was to goad and taunt in the most obnoxious way possible until Petrovic was so frustrated, he followed his murderous instincts and pointed the gun at Neal. How hard could it be? Neal was usually menaced by guns at least six times a month - he merely had to work to keep his average up.
"And after all, the last t-time we met, you t-tried to kill me. That d-didn't work out so well for you though, did it? A m-memorable failure, so to speak. You know, I was above you the whole t-time, just perched up there in the pipes watching you s-stumble about below." The words continued to leap from his mouth with the lack of self-preservation of lemmings throwing themselves off a cliff. He couldn't stop them even if he wanted to, and he was unable to prevent the rest from following, keeping up a mocking verbal barrage.
Diana had turned to lead the way to the plane, or whatever ambush she'd set up, and Jones lowered his gun slightly to allow Petrovic to follow. Only Neal saw the significant change that had been added to the tableau. While Peter's bandaged left hand was still looped around the arm that restricted his breathing, his bloodstained right hand, formerly wrapped around the ribs, was now hanging by his side and it contained a screwdriver.
The handle was clasped tightly, the blade running up alongside his forearm, ready to be stabbed into a recalcitrant leg behind him. Neal's heart rate tripled, slamming a frantic rhythm against his ribcage, his thought processes only barely outpacing the panic that was rising hot and tight in his mind. While his external voice continued automatically, baiting Petrovic with not so subtle digs, all he could hear was the internal chant of 'wait, wait, wait, wait, wait!" He was terrified that Peter, sensing that his friend was in imminent danger, was going to act precipitously, before the gun cleared his head. It was going to take split-second timing on all their parts for them all to come out of this unscathed.
"Shut up! Just shut your fucking mouth!"
Neal reached for his inner teenager - not a particularly long stretch. "Make me!" He held his arms out invitingly, trying to illustrate the fact that he was unarmed and an easy target. It was vital that he didn't drive Petrovic to the point of forgetting self-preservation and taking his frustrations out on Peter. Without being too blatant, Neal was trying to convey the message that not only would he be a straightfoward victim, but the gunman wouldn't have to fear retribution as long as Peter was alive and in front of him as a shield. "You had your shot, but that d-didn't really work out for you."
Petrovic's composure was splintering under the continuous verbal assault. His position and illegal activities usually afforded him respect, so the scorn and disrespect were grating disproportionally. He was ready to swat the annoying gadfly with extreme prejudice or, at the very least, enforce a lesson in respect. All it would take was one last shove to send the gunman over the edge, so, with a fine sense of psychological timing, Neal delivered. With an air of disdain, he showed his contempt by turning his back, body language discounting the man as a threat.
It might have been a smart move in terms of his ultimate objective, but it lacked any sense of self-preservation. If Neal had made a 'yo-mama joke' and commented derogatively on the man's virility, Petrovic could not have been more incensed. He forgot the hostage in his arms, intent only on remedying his mistake at the hospital and making Neal pay.
With his back deliberately offered to the gunman, Neal missed a good portion of the action that followed. The sensory confusion of an almost simultaneous variety of sounds, sights and impacts further muddled his perception of the situation. Peter's choked shout of warning was echoed almost instantly by Jones. Neal's attempt to dodge and turn failed as his weakened leg collapsed under the strain of the maneuver and he was deposited abruptly and painfully on the ground. As the world tumbled lazily around him, there was a thin, pained scream and a fusillade of shots, exploding in such immediate succession that there could have been two or twenty. Neal's vision blurred with the colorless uncertainty of an imminent blackout.
He was aware only of Peter lying motionless on the ground, his body limp with boneless abandon, and Neal tried to reach him, the biting pressure on his knees the only clue that he was crawling. Gravity beat him down as he conquered the distance separating them. He could see dark flakes of dried blood crusting the line of Peter's temple, the skin tight over a bruise on his cheekbone, but there wasn't the slightest flutter of breath he could see, and a wave of utter despair engulfed him.
The hanger seemed oddly hollow as sounds echoed and the world collapsed in like a dying sun until even the light was swallowed up, nothing returning from the event horizon. There was the sound of running feet and concerned voices, but then that too faded away, hope swallowed up in the darkness.
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Hey Guys! This is a very busy time of year for most of us. I know I'm rushed off my feet. Would it be best if I waited to complete this until after Christmas? Let me know what you think!