Crowley couldn't see a thing in the inky blackness of the bathtub and the only sound he could clearly hear was the pounding of his own heartbeat, a sensation he felt echoed in his left side where every beat pumped blood from his open wound.
He knew he didn't have much time. The water was deep enough so his head couldn't reach the surface, weighed down as he was by the concrete fly.
Gathering as much of his wits as he could, Crowley groped, unseeing, with the fingers of his right hand, feeling the smooth watch face on his left wrist.
Come on, for Somebody's sake, where is it?!
His hand slipped from the smooth glass face to the button on the side and his heart jumped painfully. He was starting to panic. His lungs were starting to burn, and he knew if he'd been able to see more than vague shapes in the water, they'd be blurring around the edges by now.
He gave another clumsy twist with his fingers and he felt the watch shift, the circular blade emerging from the bezel and beginning to spin. He began wriggling his arms as rapidly as he could, jostling and pulling his wrists to bring the cable-tie in contact with the razor-sharp blade.
He felt a sudden tug, a snap, and stinging pain as the blade broke the skin on the back of his right hand, but with it he felt a rush of relief because his hand was free! Reaching up to his neck, he grappled with the elastic knot, pulling to no avail.
His lungs screamed and he realized it was no use. Quickly, he shifted his hand to his snake belt buckle, undoing it with practiced ease even in the dark. With the belt undone, he was able to slide his left hand free of its bondage against his hip and bring it, and the watch-saw, immediately to the elastic cord around his neck.
Crowley broke the surface of the water with a splash and a ragged gasp for air. He had just gotten to his still weighted and bound feet and was gulping in as much air as he could when Ligur turned to glare at him from the sink. He looked startled and was clutching a bloody wad of toilet paper to his nose.
"Where do you think you're going?" the henchman sneered, grabbing the knife from the vanity.
Crowley gasped in one last breath and dove back under the surface of the water.
Ligur followed him, stepping down to the seating ledge so he was submerged to the knee.
He wasn't expecting Crowley to sweep his legs out from under him with a now free arm.
The blade slipped from Ligur's fingers as his head cracked sickeningly on the side of the tub. If he wasn't dead when his body fell into the water, he was after Crowley found the knife.
Crowley was still breathing heavily as he hauled himself onto the tub seat. Ligur's body was floating ominously next to him in water which, even against the black marble, Crowley could see was now tinted red from both their blood.
With a great expenditure of his quickly waning strength, Crowley pulled his legs to the seat and pushed his torso out of the bloody water to sit on the side of the tub. He didn't know how long he had until Hastur came looking for his comrade, but he knew he had to move quickly.
The chains on his legs were fastened with a small padlock; easy enough to pick if he had more than just Ligur's knife at his disposal. Fighting against the searing pain in his side, Crowley stretched to the vanity door and pulled it open. What he was looking for he didn't exactly know, but he'd settle for gauze. His eyes lit up when he spotted the hair pin.
"Wahoo," he muttered, slipping the thin piece of metal from the cabinet.
It took him little time to spring the cheap lock loose and free his legs with the bent pin and knife. He staggered to his feet ignoring the stiffness in his legs and moving unsteadily back to the sink. He needed to stop the bleeding.
Throwing open every cabinet and drawer in the room, Crowley searched for something to staunch the blood flow. It seemed nearly everything of first aid value had been emptied from the room. Crowley wondered absently where Beelzebub planned on hiding out after the attack that she had taken everything with her.
Tearing through the cabinets nothing of use presented itself: a handful of loose Q-tips, a mostly empty bottle of cologne, a disposable nail file, dental floss. The ball of toilet paper he'd snatched off the sparse remains of the roll was already soaking through; he'd need something more substantial soon.
Pulling open the vanity he jolted for a moment at the sight of a bandage box just to find it contained only half a dozen miniature Band-Aids.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me!" he hissed, wincing as he spun too fast on his heel.
He pulled open the door of the black cabinet under the sink in search of more toilet paper and saw an old washcloth.
"Oh God no," he moaned. The thing had clearly been long forgotten; rolled into a ball when still wet and left to air dry for longer than could possibly be sanitary. It practically crunched when his hand brushed it.
From the other room Crowley heard a heavy thump and cringed. He had to be running short on time before Hastur came back.
Gritting his teeth at what he was about to do, Crowley snatched up the filthy rag and the pitiful remains of the cologne. Pulling aside his tattered, dripping shirt, he sunk his teeth into his bottom lip and dumped the alcoholic liquid over the gash. He hissed uncontrollably as he pushed the horrid rag against the wound.
"Bad idea," he hissed under his breath after a stream of unintelligible curses in every language he knew.
Staggering back over to the tub he dropped to his knees and reached into the now-murky water, groping for the elastic bandage.
"Where are you?" he grumbled, just as he felt the fabric float past his fingers. With a tug, he managed to pull the wrap from the water and began to reel in the statue.
"Come on, come on," he muttered. He was getting nervous. Hastur's shuffling from the other side of the door was getting louder and he needed to get some pressure on his side.
Finally, he felt the edge of the statue and pulled the hideous knick-knack out of the water. Slicing off a portion of the bandage with Ligur's knife, Crowley tied it as tightly as he could around his middle, holding the old washcloth in place.
Taking the tiniest breath of relief, Crowley straightened up and refastened his belt. He still needed a plan. Before he could formulate one, the door to the bathroom swung open and Crowley flattened himself against the wall behind it.
"Oi, Ligur! You done sorting your nose out? 'e's got to be dead by now..." Hastur yelled, before letting out a startled, high-pitched shriek at the sight of his friend's dead body in the tub.
Crowley took advantage of his surprise and threw his weight into the door, swinging it back on the other man.
Hastur staggered back and Crowley grabbed the statue off the floor. He used it like a shield, ramming it into Hastur's chest as he charged past him though the doorway. Tossing the sculpture aside, Crowley dove for the side table he'd seen on his way to the tub and snatched up his gun, rounding on the other man and leveling it at his chest.
"Just turn around and let me leave and this doesn't have to get messier," he offered.
"Unlikely," Hastur grunted.
"This is a Walther PPK," Crowley said coolly as the still winded Hastur stared him down, fists clenched but tilted up as if contemplating surrender. "It delivers a 7.65 millimeter round like a brick through a plate glass window; standard issue for all Double-Six agents. I've got six rounds still in the magazine. If you don't want to wind up like your friend there, you're going to let me go now."
"You're bluffing," Hastur sneered. "Beez could have emptied it at any time."
"Maybe she did," Crowley acknowledged. "The question is, do you feel lucky?"
Hastur looked from the gun to Crowley and sneered.
"Yes!" he spat and lunged forward.
Crowley pulled the trigger without a second thought and heard the horrible click of an empty chamber. He'd been afraid of that. It's why he hadn't shot immediately.
Crowley dodged sideways. Even injured he was much more agile than the other man, and Hastur's wounded left arm wasn't doing him any favors.
Crowley pulled Ligur's knife from his pocket and held it out to keep Hastur at bay, circling around to keep his eyes on him. He noticed a large wooden crate open a short walk away, likely where they'd intended to put his body.
"You're not as stupid as you look," Crowley said begrudgingly, side-stepping towards the crate so it stood behind him.
Hastur followed but remained out of striking distance of the knife.
"Not like Ligur in there," Crowley goaded. "That idiot fell right into my trap. Followed me into the tub and gave me a weapon. It's like he wanted to die."
Crowley could tell he was getting under Hastur's skin from the twitch in the other man's black eyes. If he had to guess, they'd worked together for a long time.
"What's ole' Beez gonna zzzay when they find out I killed him and got away, I wonder?" Crowley said in a mocking impression of Beelzebub's accent. "Bet she won't be happy with you. Maybe send you to Hell to join him herself. I'm sure you two won't be too hard to replace."
Hastur snapped. The white-haired henchman dove at Crowley in a rage. By the time he noticed the agent's smirk it was too late for him to slow down. Crowley stepped swiftly to the side and brought the empty gun down on the back of Hastur's skull as he tripped and crashed head-first into the crate. Crowley slid the lid into place with a satisfying click before dashing back over to the side table to grab up his lighter and glasses and pulling Beelzebub's desk chair over to the crate and hefting it on top of the box.
"So long sucker," he hissed as he dashed out of the flat towards the lift.
Crowley strode out of the lift as casually as he could while soaking wet and bleeding from the hand and side.
The doorman stared at him with a look of combined suspicion and horror and Crowley wondered for a second if he was on Beelzebub's payroll.
"Kitchen accident," he said as nonchalantly as possible while soaking wet and bleeding from the hand and side. "Right klutz me, just need to pop off to the hospital. No worries."
He limped out the door, avoiding all other eye contact and hoping the man felt no need to alert security or the penthouse's owner. As he came out into the early afternoon sunlight, he was pleasantly surprised for the first time in days. He was standing on Central Park West, only blocks from where he'd left the car.
"Thank Somebody!" he gasped and hustled up the street away from the building as fast as his throbbing side would allow.
Crowley thought he would collapse by the time he reached the Bentley, which unlocked with a tap of his watch. He was so relieved to get inside the car and away from prying eyes he almost didn't see the wheel clamp on the front tire, until the ticket in the window caught his eye.
"Oh! for Heaven's sake!" he grumbled, turning the key in the ignition and reaching under the dashboard. His hand lighted on one of Newt's special triggers and there was a pop like a gunshot as spiked metal pistons shot from the hubcaps of the car with enough force to shatter the clamp's lock, and Crowley pulled the car back out into New York's congested streets.
Less worried than he should be about the traffic, Crowley rifled through the glove box for his mobile, throwing aside a road map, a clip of ammo, and a pack of mint chewing gum as he weaved recklessly between lanes, focusing only enough to remember which side of the road he had to stay on.
He was doing 50 miles-per-hour and bouncing dangerously between cars, a cacophony of horns and curse words following him, by the time he finally located and switched on the phone.
"Call Adam!" he commanded the voice assistant, swerving around a cyclist as he made his way towards the Q-Branch outpost.
The phone rang twice before the junior agent's voice rang into the car on speaker phone.
"Crowley?!" Where are you? What happened?"
"I'm heading for Newt's workshop! Call him, tell him I'm on my way and to have a medic on standby. Then get Shadwell and Anathema on the phone. I know what the target is!"
"Shadwell's already on his way," Adam said. "He had a breakthrough on Arkangel; said he had to show us in person."
"Great. I'll see you all in fifteen minutes. We'll debrief," Crowley gasped, wrenching the wheel to swerve again, narrowly dodging a pedestrian and jostling his injury uncomfortably. "Don't forget the medic!"
As Adam's voice vanished from the car, Crowley fumbled for the stereo. He needed to focus on something to stay awake. Freddie Mercury's voice immediately came belting out of the speakers.
"Keep yourself alive, keep yourself alive, all you people keep yourself alive."
Crowley snickered. "I'm trying Freddie."
He shifted up and pushed even harder on the accelerator to miraculously skirt through an intersection before the light could change completely to red.