"Okay…so what's the plan?" Hodgins darted a quick glance at the passenger next to him, his blue eyes wide and questioning.
Booth, who was once again scrunched into a vehicle not designed for his over six-foot frame, winced, braced his left hand against the dash, and tucked his right arm as protectively close to his sore body as he could get it. Before he could answer, a voice chimed in from where Bass was wedged at a cock-eyed angle into the miniscule space that was the 1969 MG GT's back seat.
Sitting crosswise of the car with his feet shoved under Hodgins's seat, Bass's wide shoulders were angled to fill the space behind Booth. His voice came from uncomfortably close to the back of Booth's head as he grumbled, "Yeah, Sarge…d'we even have a plan?"
Morosely trying to decide which was more painful, listening to his two companions or cramming his aching body into Hodgins's matchbox of a car, Booth bit back a groan and stifled the pithy retort that was on the tip of his tongue. "I'll think of something." He muttered the words, trying to hide the sense of growing desperation that he was fighting at the thought of Bones being held by Jenkins and his men.
Glancing out the postage-stamp sized windshield, he scanned the vehicles in the hospital parking lot with absent attention as Hodgins pulled out and began making his way towards the exit. "We need to get to the Jeffersonian first." Booth's voice was thoughtful as he glanced distractedly at a vaguely familiar vehicle as they passed it.
Hodgins pulled to a stop at the end of the row as Booth continued to muse aloud, "Find out what information Angela's been able to pull off of that…"
Booth's eyes widened in sudden, if delayed, recognition as Hodgins began to accelerate, pulling the little MG into the road that led to the hospital exit. "STOP!"
At Booth's exclamation, Hodgins's foot slammed down on the brake pedal. The little car jerked to a stop and stalled as his hasty movement caused his left foot to slip off of the clutch. A curse exploded from the occupant of the back as Bass was thrown forward into Booth's seat. "What the hell? Sarge!"
Bass's complaint was made to the empty passenger seat as Booth, who was biting back a pained curse of his own at the jolt, bailed out and made his way back to the vehicle that had caught his attention. Hodgins yanked his door open and followed close behind the agent, leaving Bass to flail and grumble as he tried to figure out how to unfold his tall frame from out of the MG's back seat.
"Booth? What…" Hodgins's voice trailed off into wide-eyed silence as he came to a stop next to the agent and followed the direction of his gaze.
Booth had halted abruptly at the rear bumper of one of the many parked cars in the lot. Both men stared at the vehicle in shared dismay for a long moment, taking in the sight of it listing to one side with a flat front tire, a tire iron and a jack resting on the ground next to it.
Hodgins's eyes danced across the items, a faint frown beginning to form between his brows. Behind them, Bass finally managed to extricate himself from the small vehicle. He stepped up to stand next to them, his querulous gaze darting from the Jeffersonian's entomologist to the utterly still figure of his former commander.
"Uh…Sarge?" Bass's confusion was clear.
Hodgins darted him a swift glance and explained succinctly, "That's Dr. Brennan's car."
"They took her from here…" Booth's voice was grim as he turned to meet David's eyes. He found his own anger and fears, as well as his own suspicions, dwelling in the depths of the younger man's blue gaze.
Booth turned back to the vehicle. His dark eyes scanned the scene before him, a tic in his jaw beginning to jump as he bit off the urge to curse. He stepped forward, intending to lower himself to examine the flattened tire. A cursory glance through the window halted him in his tracks and he involuntarily reached for the door handle.
"Booth…wait…" Before his fingers could touch the latch, both his own training and Hodgins's voice stopped the motion, and he yanked his hand back with a growl of frustration.
He turned and watched as Hodgins darted back to his own car and ducked into the door that Booth and Bass had left hanging open. He rummaged around under the passenger seat and withdrew an opened, half-empty box of latex gloves. He shoved the box into Bass's hands and yanked two pairs out.
He met Booth's querulous eyebrow with a lift of one shoulder and a slight quirk to his lips. "Never know when you might need 'em…" He explained off-handedly as he tossed the second pair to Booth and began to pull a pair on himself.
While snapping the gloves in place, Hodgins stepped carefully over the jack and tire iron. He turned and crouched, careful not to disturb anything as he dropped to one knee to peer closely at the tire and the surrounding area. He reached out and gently probed the edge of the gash in the tire.
"This has been cut." He flicked a quick, unhappy glance up to the two FBI agents, apologetic as he was forced to make a qualified deduction, unconfirmed by any scientific testing, "I won't know for certain without doing some tests, but my guess would be a big knife, something with a blade about two inches wide and maybe six or seven long." He shook his head, hating that he couldn't be more precise.
As his fingers dragged over the cut, they loosened a couple of small particles that fell to the ground. Curiously, he picked one up and brought it up to his eyes to scrutinize it more closely. "Hmmm..." He glanced back up to the other two men as he added, "Looks like it might have had a serrated edge."
Booth and Bass exchanged a quick glance before Booth spoke quietly, "Sounds like a Ka-bar."
Hodgins paused for a moment, his eyes growing distant as he mentally pictured the suggested knife. The mental image and the damage to the tire matched well enough for him to acknowledge the possibility, "Yeah. That would be real close."
"Sounds about right for bunch of paramilitary wannabes," Bass's voice held a note of grim disgust.
Booth nodded shortly in agreement and then pinched one glove in his left hand, folding it over and using it to lift the handle of the car door. Reaching inside, he carefully moved the jacket that had been tossed on the passenger seat, revealing Bones's purse and the set of car keys next to it.
Unseen by the two men behind him, his eyes filled with bleak rage as he stared blindly down at the small silver skull hooked to the keychain. Reaching out, Booth picked up the keys with his left hand, heedless of the possible contamination of evidence. He clenched his fist around the small bits of metal as Hodgins's voice sounded behind him.
"Look…".Hodgins pulled a piece of fabric from the mechanism of the jack and held it up. Booth drew in a deep, calming breath before he turned to glance down at the crouching entomologist.
His eyes narrowed in recognition as he glanced at the fabric. "It's a piece of Bones's shirt."
Hodgins glanced speculatively at him, a slight urge to tease the agent for knowing exactly what Dr. Brennan had been wearing that day niggling at him. He decided to let the prime opportunity pass as a hint of the tight control Booth was exercising showed in his tone and in the fine lines of tension around his eyes.
Nodding, Hodgins raised an inquiring eyebrow. "So," he asked, "do we wait for a team…?"
"No." With grim decisiveness, Booth interrupted him, shoving his hand into his pocket before turning back to the car.
He leaned into the vehicle, ignoring his body's shout of protest, and locked the driver's side door with an impatient slap of his hand. He stepped back, locking the passenger side as well before he slammed the door shut. His hand crept, unbidden, back into the pocket of his jeans, fingers touching the silver skull.
Hodgins cocked his head inquiringly at him for a moment before he nodded understanding. He carefully replaced the small scrap of fabric where he'd found it and stood, hearing his knees crack and complain. "Okay…"
His words broke off abruptly as a slight smudge on the edge of the wheel-well caught his ever-attentive eye. He bent down, eyeing the spot carefully before reaching out with one finger to touch it. He pulled his hand back and eyed the faint tinge of color that came away on his glove with dismay. "Oh, man…"
His low, unhappy mutter earned him Booth's full attention. "What?"
Hodgins flicked a quick glance up to meet Booth's eyes. For a moment, he hesitated, his lips compressed around the words that he didn't want to say, knowing the worry they would cause. Then he sighed and presented his stained finger. "Blood." The succinct one-word explanation brought the expected reaction from the FBI agent.
Booth's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing in repressed anger as his hand clenched into an involuntary fist around the keychain. The metal pressed its imprint into his palm and his voice, when he spoke, was filled with the promise of grim retribution. "Let's go." He spun on his heel and pushed past Bass, heading swiftly towards Hodgins's idling car.
Hodgins, his own eyes holding an equal amount of banked fury and concern, stepped over the jack and tire iron, stripping the latex gloves off of his hands with jerky motions. Bass turned and hurried after them both, hurriedly folding himself into the back seat once again while Booth waited with tightly controlled impatience.
Hodgins slid behind the wheel with a swift economy of motion and Booth's door wasn't entirely closed before the squeal of the tires echoed in the hospital parking lot.