CHAPTER THIRTEEN
If suffering was what Janvier had wanted for him, then surely by now he had achieved it, Callen thought groggily. His head lolled onto his chest, his mind a haze of disjointed thoughts mostly obliterated by pain. He'd lost all sense of time as the systematic abuse to his hand and arm had relentlessly continued.
Blow after blow, taking his time, Janvier had revelled in his sport, and the only thing Callen could be thankful of was that his enemy appeared to be enjoying causing the battered agent the maximum amount of long-drawn-out discomfort not just physically, but mentally. It seemed a small thing to be thankful for, but flashbacks to Vaziri, gagged and bound on the bed in the house where Callen and Granger had found him with both his hands sawn off, constantly assaulted Callen's nerves and made Janvier's earlier threat regarding anticipation strikingly accurate. Callen had all but whimpered when Janvier had taken a hold of one of his fingers and secured it tightly in some sort of wrench-type grip, and his tormentor had noticed and laughed cruelly. Since then, he had done a better job of staying quiet, but when Janvier used the wrench as leverage to twist and break his trapped finger, Callen knew the yelling he heard dimly in his own head was, in fact, himself.
That had been a while ago, and the process had been repeated on two more fingers, but still Janvier had not taken a knife to Callen. Instead he took his revenge by using different dull weapons on Callen's hand and arm. By this point, Callen dimly thought, it might be easier to identify the bones that weren't broken – he was fairly sure there weren't many. His hand and forearm were bruised and bleeding with multiple blunt-force traumatic wounds, but nonetheless both his hands were still attached to his body, even if it didn't feel like it. He felt sure Janvier's attentions were just a way of drawing out what the man really wanted to do to him, and the way Janvier's fingers lovingly ran over the various blades each time he chose a new weapon did nothing to ease his apprehension.
Callen had endured many forms of torture in his early years as an agent with the FBI and more so with the CIA, but nothing had prepared him for this. The fear of what Janvier might do, what Callen believed he was ultimately intending to do, overwhelmed him. In the past he had been drugged, beaten, flayed and shot, but never had he suffered a single part of his body, and one he relied upon every day in his career, in his life, so thoroughly and methodically attacked while he was helpless to do anything about it. And all the while he knew the fear, the soul-shattering crippling fear that he might lose his hand, was playing right into what Janvier wanted for him to suffer – but he couldn't help it.
He was right-handed.
If he lost his hand, if he lost even the use of his hand, his career was over. He couldn't drive, couldn't fight, couldn't shoot. All of a sudden he knew that if he ever made it out of this, he wasn't going back behind a desk. His life was as an agent, out in the field, not a pen-pusher behind a desk.
Perhaps he could thank Janvier for giving him clarity of mind at last, Callen thought. It seemed of little use now. Reality wasn't his job, or his team, or anything he'd previously known. Reality was the ship, and ropes, and an arm and hand that was bloodied and disfigured and sore. Reality was intolerable pain, and unimaginable fear - and he honestly didn't know the way to deal with either.
"How do you see this ending, Agent Callen?"
Callen realised that Janvier had stepped back, was stood a few feet away watching him. It didn't seem to make any difference to how his hand, his arm, his body felt. They all went right on screaming at him, and he couldn't think straight through the pain signals overwhelming every fibre of his being.
"It's your game," he panted roughly after a while. "Your… rules."
"A game I've had to accelerate because of the message you sent to your team," Janvier accused him angrily. "I was looking forward to us spending a lot more time together, but that can't happen now."
"All good things… come to an end…" Callen countered.
"Indeed they do. But the game has changed and the ending with it. Oh, Agent Callen, I am so torn… what to do with you. I've wanted to kill you myself for a long time now. A very long time. And with the message you sent to your team, who will find their way here eventually I have no doubt, it seemed the perfect opportunity to take you all out together…" Janvier smiled viciously while Callen struggled to remain conscious, only half-hearing what was being said as his mind drifted, the agony of his injuries making it impossible to hold on to a single thought.
Janvier slapped his weapon down loudly on the bench, and the noise momentarily broke through the fog in Callen's head. Noting his action had the desired consequence and his prisoner was more alert, Janvier continued, "Alas, it seems I will not get my wish, not all of it anyway. It appears there are people who will pay handsomely for a federal agent… very handsomely for one as experienced as your good self. My auction for Incognito is just an appetiser – I am afraid you are worth more to me now and so it is with regret that I must let you live."
He paused, appearing to do a final weighing up as he looked Callen over.
"The game has changed, Agent Callen, and now I must ensure that, just like myself and Incognito, you disappear until I am ready for you again."
Left alone at last, Callen faded in and out of consciousness. It was starting to get dark, and as the light began to fade, the temperatures too started to drop. Callen shivered. He was still wearing the clothes he had dressed in the previous morning: jeans, a cotton check shirt worn as he usually did with the sleeves pushed up his arms, and a lightweight black coat. What had been adequate clothing for a land-based physical mission was proving wholly inadequate for standing around two miles out to sea – especially when standing around meant tied up and unable to move about to warm himself.
The cold kept him from sinking deep into unconsciousness, and so he drifted, mind wandering, at times unsure where he was, but all too often far too aware of the gritty present and the constant pain messages from his arm to his brain. Surely at some point he should just black out, he thought in confusion. Wasn't that what happened when the pain got too much to bear, when the body could no longer deal with what was happening? But this time his body denied him the escape.
He was vaguely aware of voices talking, but the effort to open his eyes was too much and in any case the voices were ones he didn't want to hear. Janvier. Two other men. Having a violent discussion in a language that sounded like French, but Callen was too out of it to care what they were saying. His head continued to loll onto his chest, and he didn't even bother opening his eyes when he felt rather than heard or saw the presence of someone in the doorway between him and the bridge. He heard the man – Janvier, he presumed – make a satisfied noise in the back of his throat, and after that there was silence.
He didn't know how long he remained there in the deathly quiet, but eventually it began to feel eery and reluctantly Callen opened his eyes. There didn't seem to be anyone else around.
With a brain firing sluggishly on only a couple of cylinders, he slowly began to realise he had understood some of the conversation in French. Had it been real, or had he been dreaming?
With a start, Callen knew that it had been real, and the words he'd heard had been bomb and ship and leave. Janvier was leaving to collect the Incognito hard drive and rendezvous at the auction. The argument in French had been because his men disagreed with his change of plan to auction Callen off too. They wanted to stick to the original plan, which, Callen shuddered, appeared to involve leaving him here alone after they had rigged the ship to explode. With him on board, waiting for his team to come to his rescue… A trap for them all, while Janvier and his men disappeared to set up the sale of the Incognito hard drive.
Try as he might, Callen couldn't remember Janvier saying anything about where he was going, or who he was selling the hard drive to, and he had more pressing concerns right now. He didn't want to 'disappear' with Janvier's men, didn't want to be used as bait to lure his team to a trap, didn't want to be responsible for their deaths while he himself lived, only to be auctioned off to line Janvier's pockets and be tortured or killed by whoever considered him worth paying for. He wanted to live, goddamit, and he wanted to defeat Janvier once and for all.
The first time Callen attempted to move, testing the strength returning to his muscles against his bonds, his whole body revolted against him. Spasms tightened every muscle, paralysing him, making it difficult to breathe. The crushing, unexpected agony of it caused him to black out, and when he came to again he felt sick and faint. Taking a shaky deep breath, he tried moving just his left hand. Carefully, slowly. With muscles weakened by exhaustion and cold, he was nonetheless eventually able to contort his hand and fingers up into the cuff of his jacket, and he could just about reach the small knife of Joelle's that he had transferred from her back pocket into his watch strap when he cradled her on the deck as she died. He was perversely thankful that Janvier's fixation with his right arm meant that he had missed the knife tucked away on his left.
Painstakingly, knowing that if he dropped the knife now there was no hope at all, Callen managed to twist it in his hand so that he had a firm grip on the handle and he could use the blade against the ropes. The angle made it almost impossible, but it was the only prospect of escape he had, and he focused every fibre of his being on cutting the rope around his wrist.
Houdini's got nothing on you, he congratulated himself when eventually the ropes fell away, and the thought reminded him of Sam who had so often delighted in teasing him about the effort he put into honing his skills to escape any kind of restraint. But who was laughing now, he smirked to himself, turning his attention to the ropes securing his right arm.
His pumping adrenaline saved him from blacking out again when at last he was able to move his injured hand, and he gently cradled it against his chest as he moved stiffly from the railing he'd been bound to for the past several hours. The two machine guns were gone from their hooks, but Janvier's weapons were still laid out on the bench and with distaste Callen selected two sturdy looking knives, tucking them into his belt. Carefully, he crept to the opening leading to the bridge and peered around. He could see and hear absolutely nothing.
He had no idea how long he had drifted in and out of consciousness. Perhaps Janvier's men had finished arming the boat and already left. The thought of the ship exploding temporarily paralysed Callen and he willed himself to stay calm. He had no way of knowing when the ship would blow. There seemed to be little sense in looking for the bomb: Sam was the explosives expert, not him. And despite their earlier angry protestations, Janvier's men surely wouldn't go against the boss's orders and leave Callen behind… Janvier wanted Callen alive. It would take a brave man to disregard the psychopath's instructions, which meant the two crew members were likely still working on the boat somewhere, rigging the explosives.
Therefore, his best bet was to get the hell out of dodge, and quickly. If he could make it back to the shore, perhaps there was still time to salvage the situation. After all, hadn't Janvier said he had intended to spend longer on the ship with Callen: Callen's attempt at sending a message to the team in Ops had caused him to expedite his plans. That meant, hopefully, that the Incognito sale hadn't been finalised yet, or at least was not scheduled for the immediate future. There could still be time to work his original mission.
That was all well and good, Callen thought, but first he had to get off the ship and swim to shore, and on a good day that was a big ask… He glanced down at his damaged hand, trying to ignore the rising bile in his throat at what he saw. With one arm out of action and a bullet hole in his thigh, not to mention the added inconvenience of his muscles weakened by being tasered, restrained and with little sustenance or sleep for the past two days – he knew it was a very big ask indeed.
Through necessity, he shrugged the doubts to the back of his mind and crept across the bridge to the doorway where the steps led down to the deck. With frustration Callen saw the two men Janvier had left behind working out in the open on either side of the deck, not down in the cargo hold as he had hoped, and even as he shrank back into the doorway to avoid being spotted, the man closest to him moved towards the bottom of the steps. If the guard came up onto the bridge, Callen didn't much like his chances of winning an out and out fight in the confined space with no escape route. Down on the deck offered more options, and if he acted quickly he had the element of surprise on his side.
In desperation Callen threw caution to the wind - and threw himself from the top step down onto Janvier's hired muscle. He landed on top of the bulky sentry, the force of his descent causing them both to fall to the floor. Quickly, before the man could raise the alarm to his colleague, Callen wrapped his left arm around the thick enemy neck. The two writhed on the deck and Callen did his best to keep his right arm from getting bashed about any more than it already had been, whilst doggedly keeping his choke-hold on his adversary. He suffered a few sharp jabs from the man's elbows to his ribs, but the defensive movements grew ever weaker and after what seemed an awfully long time but in reality was less than a minute, his opponent passed out. With one final twisting movement, Callen broke the man's neck. Gasping raggedly, he stumbled to his feet. Down on the deck, amongst the crates, his line of sight was limited, and he had no idea where the second muscle man now was. Bright spots danced before his eyes and he shook his head in frustration. Now was not the time for the black fog to come down. He looked urgently about him for the remaining guard, hoping to slip away unnoticed. He wasn't in the shape for another fight: escape was his only option.
Averting his eyes from the quiet body of Joelle still lying where she had been left on the deck, Callen left the corridor and clumsily navigated through the crates, as fast and quiet as he could, to the railings where earlier that day he had helped Nick and Peter overboard. Preparing to clamber over the metal bars, a sound behind him made him startle, and he turned to see the second muscle man advancing towards him. Callen thanked his lucky stars that his assailant wasn't already shooting at him, but that didn't mean it wouldn't happen once the guard noticed him. Ducking behind one of the crates, Callen reached for the knives in his belt.
His left-handed throw was awkward, and slightly off target, but the first knife hit the man hard in the shoulder sending him reeling backwards clutching at the blade, and Callen didn't waste time hanging around for a second attempt. He slipped through the railings and dropped into the ocean.
A/N: :o we're back with Callen - yay! Sorry for the mini cliff-hanger - and wishing you all a very happy new year!
Ps. sorry too that it's a day late, but I hope the slightly longer than usual chapter makes up for it x
Pss. this chapter takes my word count to officially my longest story ever..! And we're still barely half way through!