An: it's been a while. So sorry. But moving right along!

Amanda had managed to get an icepack out of her refrigerator, and it was currently on her face, because that felt the puffiest. Sitting on her kitchen floor, she heard the front door open. She pulled the icepack off her face as Guerrero strode into the kitchen. "There were six or seven of them," she began, feeling like she owed him an explanation. "There have been a bunch of punk kids breaking in all over the neighborhood, and that's what I thought they were. Didn't call 911 when I should have."

"Not your fault," Guerrero said. "You put up as much of a fight as you could," he said, noting the injuries on her body.

"Is it as bad as it feels?" she mumbled.

"Depends on how it feels," he said, kneeling down and inspecting her.

"Like I just went five rounds with a heavyweight and lost them all," she said, wincing as she pushed herself up more. "I'm sure it's just bruises though," she said, reassuring him. He didn't need to worry about more than he had to. "Worst thing is probably a broken wrist."

"Let me see," he said, and she gingerly held out the injured limb (OW). He was careful as he gently gave her wrist a once-over. "No bones sticking out, that's good."

"Thanks, doc," Amanda mumbled, putting the ice pack on her face again.

"Definitely broken though," he said. "Come on." He stood, holding out a hand to help her.

"Hmm?" she asked, rather out of it.

"You need a check-up, and I need to find my daughter."

She let him drag her up by her good hand and an elbow, teetering uncertainly once upright. "Guerrero," Amanda said suddenly, as he was hunting around for goodness-knows-what. "One of the men –he said something to me." His eyes snapped to her, and his glasses couldn't shield from her the feelings of worry and concern emanating from his eyes. "He said… he said to tell you it was nothing personal. Just business." Her toes curled up in her shoes as she instinctively tried to make herself smaller at the anger in his eyes.

"Just business," he repeated, and even though she knew she wasn't mad at her, Amanda still felt afraid. "Nothing personal. Stealing my daughter is not 'nothing personal'," he nearly hissed. He seemed to gain his cool, steely control soon, though, because he asked, "Did you see any faces?"

Amanda replied, "Just his –he was black and shaved his head. And he had a goatee," she added, "With some kind of accent."

Guerrero's eyes lit up, and not in a good way. "Was it British?" he demanded. "Was it a British accent?"

"I'm not positive," Amanda said, "But it coulda been."

His phone was instantly to his ear as he waited impatiently for someone at the other end to pick up. Amanda pressed the ice pack back to her throbbing face and wished for sleep. "Hey dude," Guerrero said. "I think it was Baptiste."

"Fabulous," Winston grumbled into the phone line. "More wonderful news."

"Where's Chance?" Guerrero demanded.

"Flipping out somewhere," Winston said. "And since Chance never, ever flips out, I guess I don't have to tell you that this has just become a lot more complicated."

"How so?"

"We can't reach Ames on her phone. Ilsa isn't at her apartment. There are signs of a break in."

Guerrero looked up at the ceiling and ground his teeth together silently. There weren't even any words he knew to describe this situation. "I'm bringing Amanda in. She's beat up." He ignored her muttered protestations that she was fine, thank you. "Still got those bone setting skills?" he asked.

Winston groaned.

"I'll take that as a yes," Guerrero said tightly. "Be there soon, dude." He jabbed the disconnect button rather violently.

"I can get myself to an emergency room," Amanda insisted. "You don't have to bother about me. You've got other things to worry about."

"Can't be sure they won't come back and finish the job," Guerrero said. "Is there anything here you need?"

She looked around the apartment and said, "No."

He helped her through the shattered doorway.

When they were on the highway, he told her to reach into the glove box of the Eldo. Amanda opened it with her good hand and pulled out a gun. Somehow she wasn't surprised. She tried to hand it to him, but he shook his head. "That's for you," he said.

As a man known for keeping his weapons close and his secrets closer, she couldn't help but feel a little privileged, and a little touched. Then the thought flew out of her head as she moved her arm wrong and her wrist protested mightily.

Cindy bounced painfully as something poked into her back. Wait… her bed didn't bounce. And it wasn't this dark in her bedroom. And she didn't sleep on her back. Especially not with her hands underneath her. She tried to pull her hands into a more comfortable position, but they wouldn't budge. And then she remembered why, as she was carried over a particularly painful bump and she heard an engine revving up.

The black invaders…getting caught… the total darkness…

Okay… I'm in the back of a car. Trunk. Don't panic. Deep breaths. Keep calm. Cindy clenched her teeth together and forced herself to get a grip. Okay… remember what Dad told you to do if locked in a car. Feel for trunk releases and kick the tail lights out. She began to feel around for any sort of lever that would pop the trunk –some cars had them. Her father's Eldo did not. She didn't know if he had it uninstalled or if it had just never been there, but he didn't want people to get out of his trunk. So a very long time ago, he had taught her what to do if she ever got locked in a trunk.

It might be a strange thing to teach your then-seven-year-old, but it was coming in handy now.

Her fingers didn't have a lot of feeling besides pins-and-needles in them, but she couldn't find anything from where she was. Not to mention, it was dark in here. Who were these people? What did they want? Why her?

It was probably about Guerrero. She hated that conclusion, but it probably was. The only reason anyone would do this kind of thing would be to get to him. Cindy located the tail light plate and began to pry at it with her tingly fingers. If she could just get it off, she knew where to rip out the wires and how to kick it out so that she could stick out a hand and wave at people, signaling for help. Or at least increase the chances of the car being pulled over by a cop for the brake light being out.

She knew she shouldn't want him to come for her; it was what these people wanted. She was the bait; he'd just be walking into a trap. But her heart crumbled and she fought desperately not to cry. I'm not this girl! She thought angrily. I will not fall to pieces! I have to be strong; I need to be brave now!

But it was so hard. The hard plastic wasn't budging well at all. She ran her fingers along the sort of carpeted sides of the trunk, to see if there was anything else she could rip. Along the edge of the trunk the carpet was peeling away from the sides. She grabbed a chunk of it and pulled it away. Now she had better leverage at the plastic. Her fingers were going to be sore and possibly bloody as she pulled as hard as she could.

The panel finally popped off after a few minutes, and with now painfully aching fingers, she searched for wires to rip and a good place to kick.

Daddy, please. She shifted around in the trunk and aimed her first kick at the thing –she wasn't at a great angle for this, and she couldn't move all that much. Please come get me. She let out her fear, anger, and tears by kicking the light, trying to get it out. She had to change feet after a while –it hurt.

The speed of the car began to slow down and eventually stop. She stopped kicking, unsure what was going on. Unexpectedly, the trunk popped open, letting a burst of light that burned her eyes. Cindy squeezed them tight shut and curled up into a ball, afraid.

I'm not sure I can rescue myself.