'You are not hopeless
Though you have been broken,
Your innocence stolen.'
"Rescue" ~ Lauren Daigle
Ed is facedown on the cracked pavement, a head wound across the back of his skull that Spike can see even from fifteen feet away.
The man staring down at Ed drops the pipe and it rolls, a terrible, jaunty sound that makes Spike unexpectedly nauseous.
Next, the man removes Ed's earpiece and stomps on the receiver—it shrills across their channel—while his other hand roots around for all of Ed's guns and weapons. The vest goes too. They are quickly tossed in the dumpster.
Another man, this one sporting a dirty blond ponytail, backs a blue paint company van into the alley. He parks, jogs over, and together they reach for Ed—
"Hey!" It is this, of all things, that breaks Spike's shocked stupor. "SRU! Get away from him!"
Faster than Spike's ever seen, Ponytail whips out a Sig and aims it at Ed's back.
"Finally," says the brunette. When he turns to face Spike head on, what do you know—there really is a bee tattoo on his neck. Slimmer, like a hornet or wasp. "There's our other guest."
"Put it down," Spike barks. "Guns on the ground! Now!"
"Or what?" the brunette taunts. "You'll shoot me? No, I don't think so. I might have a muscle spasm when I fall and shoot your friend."
Spike can't bear to lower his rifle, even with the other man's gun aimed at Ed's neck. It's too blasphemous, too weak-kneed of an action, even if Spike knows it to be the only option here.
He watches, helpless, as they load Ed in through the double doors of the van. They're haphazard with his limbs, sliding them inside with only a care for his pale and crimson head. Soon even that is gone.
This disappearance of the stalwart man, out of sight, sends a jitter through Spike's hands.
"Please." He's begging. He'd never do it if Ed were conscious to hear. "Please, take me instead."
"Spike?" Winnie's voice comes through at last. "You've been quiet on this channel. What's going on? Do you have your squelch buttons on?"
The brunette rounds on Spike. He looks surprised and amused all at once. "But of course. That's the plan, officer."
And Spike finds himself shunted forward by the butt end of Ponytail's rifle, where it digs into his back. They strip him of his gear and weapons in record time, tossing those in the dumpster too.
"Spike? Are you guys—"
Winnie's voice cuts off, and Spike's hope with it. He feels naked without his earpiece.
There's no care to keep anything or sort through it or wipe fingerprints.
In fact, the two men seem in a desperate hurry, always watching the businesses on either side and eyeing the mouth of the alley with a certain touch of nervousness.
Despite this, they don't act frazzled or like they're making this up as they go. There's a determination to every movement, an efficiency that suggests premeditation.
With his hands up, Spike takes advantage of their hustling to catalogue the van, its license plate number and any defining marks. There are none, other than the paint brush logo and a tiny dent on the rear bumper.
Roughly the same height, both men are taller than Spike, maybe even taller than Ed. Spike feels that keenly when he's shoved forward again.
He barely catches his footing, adjusting his weight to the lack of gear, vest, wearing only his sweater, pants, and boots.
"In you go," Ponytail growls.
Spike's mouth twists, angry and fed up. "I thought you said you'd let him go if I came. Take me, shoot me, whatever. But you're leaving him."
Hairs stand up on the back of Spike's wrists.
He knows this feeling like an intimate lover, the sensation right before Ed kills a subject. Right before that car runs a red light and pays for it. Right before someone trips. Those brief, giddy micro seconds before the man high on a bridge changes his mind and jumps.
Pain explodes across the right side of Spike's face. His whole torso snaps to the side.
Catching himself on the open lip of the back doors, Spike squints up at the brunette—now holding Spike's own rifle, the pommel slick with blood.
The man's voice comes out oh so calm. "Did that sound like a request?"
Spike clutches at his face. Oddly, he notices that his hand landed next to Ed's ear, where he's been set on his back in the cramped space. Protocol flits, an errant bird, through Spike's mind.
He swats it away and follows his gut instead of his training, knowing any member of their family would do the same.
I'm sorry, Ed. I can't leave you.
So in he climbs.
No partition divides the seats from the empty, carpeted back section of the van, but when the two men close the doors and lock Spike in, they set their guns on the arm rest.
A clear message about what will happen if Spike tries anything.
They don't talk to each other, these strange kidnappers, save for an exchanged nod when Ponytail starts up the van and pulls out.
Spike ignores them in favour of turning Ed on his side, in the recovery position.
"Oh Ed," he murmurs out loud this time, "I'm so sorry."
The head wound isn't deep, but it's bleeding more than it should. Spike can't tell if it needs stitches or not, hovering right in that grey area where he'd normally hand someone off to an EMT. Another thorn of helplessness joins the first.
Spike still has a gauze pack in his breast pocket. He tears it open with his teeth and presses it tight to the back of Ed's skull.
The brunette, or Tattoo, as Spike has dubbed him in his mind, keeps an eye on them. Thankfully, he doesn't stop what Spike's doing.
With his right hand cradling the back of Ed's head, Spike's left hovers for a brief moment before resting fully on Ed's chest. It's broad under his palm and the boxer's fist of Ed's heart punches away at Spike's skin until he breathes easier.
Ed's still fighting in there. Spike isn't going to lose him.
Not today. Not on my watch.
The absurdity of that hits a second later and Spike almost laughs. No gun, no earpiece, no backup. He knows the team will be out looking for them, on alert, but they won't even know where to look. There were no security cameras in the alley.
What can he possibly do now?
Negotiate, he hears Greg in his mind. Build a connection.
Worrying at the material of Ed's range jacket, Spike wonders what Ed might say in this situation, let alone Greg.
"If…if you tell me why you're doing this…" Spike wets his lips, tasting the tang of blood where it drips onto his hands and Ed's chest. "I can help."
"Don't worry." Tattoo doesn't even look at him. "You already are."
Like Ed in the truck just minutes ago, Spike pushes his luck. "Is this about money? You already stole from those players back there. SRU won't ransom for their officers back."
The men say nothing, though Ponytail smiles in the rear view mirror. At the sight, Spike is well and truly scared for the first time in this whole ordeal.
His heart races faster. He's so tired of being held hostage; he's lost count of the number of times a subject has grabbed him.
Spike knows this latest kidnapping isn't his fault. It still doesn't stop him from feeling inadequate.
"Revenge, then?" he says, thinking of Marcus Harper. Spike levers higher on his knees. "Is that what you want?"
Tattoo turns. He looks at Spike without blinking, his eyes so brown they are almost black. "What I want, officer…is you."
Spike leans back. Ponytail isn't smiling anymore. Tattoo gazes so intently at Spike that he wonders if they'll shoot him right then and there.
Then Tattoo's eyes shift. He gestures with a flick of his head like Sam does all the time. "You and your friend."
Spike refuses to glance down at Ed, for reasons he can't pin down. It is imperative that he keeps the two men in his sights. Of that he is suddenly sure.
However, Spike doesn't say another word. That one exchange is enough to mull on, to keep Spike's head in a confused loop.
He hates feeling in the dark.
This kidnapping doesn't make a lot of strategic sense, really. They stole a hefty amount from the gamblers, and they clearly have no intent to ransom either man. Not revenge related or Spike has a feeling they'd be dead already.
One thing Spike knows for sure: if it was him unconscious and Ed keeping a protective stance over his body, Ed's plan would be to overpower the men or steal a gun and shoot out a tire from inside. They covered a real life case of that, during their Academy studies.
Sam would play along and then beat the crap out of them when they stopped moving.
Greg would keep negotiating, talk about his kids and all the other times he's been kidnapped or held at gunpoint.
Jules would sass them or flirt, whichever gets the most response. Keep their mouths open and their guard down.
Wordy would make a jump for it by ramming the back doors. Run first, figure it out later.
Spike…
What would I do?
None of these tactics appeal to him, no matter how much sense they make. All of these options are in the playbook, in that they have been used successfully before.
Spike's stomach turns at the thought of touching the guns, so close to Ponytail's elbow. Of Ed getting hit again, more blood.
A few hours pass, long enough for Spike to become mutely frantic over Ed's lack of response and how the wound still bleeds, though sluggish and clotting away.
They fly over a bump in the road—heading outside city limits now, potholes and all—forcing Spike to brace his right foot on the wall, one hand to stabilize Ed and the other on the opposite wall. Afresh, he is unnerved to see Ed so ragdoll. Eyes closed. Skin a foggy grey.
Spike releases his taught limbs, when the road smooths, to touch Ed again. Not for any medical reason, but for the selfish need to feel less alone. He strokes Ed's bald forehead, then his arm.
What would Spike do?
Something nerdy and un-macho and techno-babbled that boss would never—
Dumbfounded, Spike stares straight ahead at the center console.
At a cellphone, hooked to the cigarette lighter by some sort of charger.
It's an awful thing, a flip phone probably older than Dean. Gawky, giant buttons and barely any screen. No GPS or camera either, he guesses. Where on earth did they find an adapter for the charger…?
Spike shakes that rabbit trail away and focuses on the fact it's lit up. A working cellphone—right there.
He can hardly believe it.
All that stands in his way is an assault rifle, Sig, and two hostile men. Ha. Easy peasy.
Inspiration comes out of his mouth faster than he can censor: "Isn't your gas gauge getting a little low?"
Right on cue, both men crane around to peer at it. Tattoo makes a face. "He's right. You didn't remember to fill up?"
Ponytail leans back with a huff, forcing Tattoo to follow, elbow between the guns on the arm rest. Cellphone visible in the narrow window between the man's shoulder and neck.
"I thought that was your job."
Tattoo grits his teeth. "We don't have time for this."
"No argument there. This is cottage country anyways, so they don't get as many people at the tail end of the season. We'll find a tiny gas station, one without cameras."
"Good luck with tha—"
Spike dashes across before he can stop himself or, worse yet, over think it. He slams Tattoo's head against the console and grabs the cellphone all in one go. The blow isn't even enough to really bruise, but it throws Tattoo off balance.
A pointy elbow straight to the sternum winds Spike so that he sees stars. In his fall backwards, he tucks the cellphone underneath Ed.
Tattoo glares at Spike around a red mark swelling along his eyebrow. "All that for nothing."
He places the barrel of the Sig straight between Ed's closed eyes. Spike swallows, feeling an ache in the back of his throat.
This man isn't fooled for a second. He's figured out the game in a blink: that to threaten Spike is useless.
But he will do virtually anything to keep Ed alive.
"Is his life worth so little to you?" Tattoo hisses.
Night is falling outside. It throws Tattoo in eerie relief whenever they pass a streetlight, then back to silhouettes when in a dark patch. His hand seems to glow around the trigger.
"No, please." Spike's brow scrunches, agonized. "Don't hurt him. I'm sorry. It won't happen again."
Tattoo bares his teeth, expression lacking any fire. All cold lines and glacier eyes. He pulls back the Sig hammer, loading it in a harsh snap. Ponytail reaches for something in his pocket.
Spike's eyes widen. "No—!"