Gordon was still trying to free himself when he heard footsteps. He'd tried everything he could think of since they dragged Virgil out but to no avail – he was trapped. His hope the men had destroyed their watches had slowly dwindled: if the emergency signal had gone out, Scott would've kicked the door down by now.
He twisted, pressing his back against the wall, trying to prevent his arm bending at an awkward angle. The drug had worn off and although his stomach growling was distracting, Gordon had learnt how to ignore physical discomfort. It didn't matter though. Until he knew where Virgil was, he couldn't risk doing anything drastic.
Not that he intended their captors to know that, however. He schooled his expression into one of indifference as the door opened. Despite the masks covering their faces, he was certain it was the same two as before.
"Took your time," Gordon drawled. "Could really use a pizza right now."
He watched them carefully. It was definitely the same two: one had cool amusement glinting in his eyes while the other shifted in irritation. The annoyed one stepped forward, drawing his gun as he did so.
"Come quietly and you won't get hurt."
Gordon raised an eyebrow. As soon as the man stepped into reach, he lashed out hard and fast, delivering a strong kick to the man's knee, causing his leg to crumple. His friend yanked him back, putting a restraining hand on the gun, lowering it.
"You're not afraid of this," he said, gesturing towards the weapon, "are you?"
"Unlock this cuff and I'll show you how afraid I am."
The first man straightened up, shrugging off his companion's hand and glaring at Gordon. He didn't step forward again though, and was favouring one leg.
Gordon ignored him. The other man had drawn something from his own belt, but it wasn't a gun. It was a radio.
"I bet you're afraid of this."
"Ah you got me," Gordon said, "I never could figure out which button to press - turned into a complete phobia."
His gaze was locked on the radio though, his heart thudding hard. He tried to appear as if he didn't care, but knew his eyes were betraying him. He had a feeling he knew where this was going – his earlier attempts to protect Virgil had given the men the leverage they needed. They were smarter than he had assumed if they had already figured that out.
"I press this button, and your brother dies."
Gordon flinched. He hadn't revealed their relationship and knew Virgil wouldn't risk putting him in more danger, lucid or otherwise.
He saw the smirk in the man's eyes and cursed himself. It had been a guess – their protectiveness towards each other had clearly given them away, and now Gordon had confirmed his suspicions. So much for thinking he had a way of controlling the situation.
The man kept a thumb hovering over the button as he nodded at his friend. The gun was holstered as the man stepped forward but Gordon couldn't risk anything even as the cuff was unlocked. He tensed, unable to stop himself, but then forced himself to let it go. They bound his wrists in front of him and although the knots were tight, there was slack in the rope.
They hauled him to his feet, each holding an arm. Although the radio was back in a pocket, Gordon couldn't take them both down before a signal was given. He couldn't risk they were only bluffing – not when it was Virgil who'd pay the price.
"Being reasonable isn't that hard now, is it?" The mocking tone in the man's voice made Gordon grit his teeth but – for the first time in his life – he kept his mouth shut.
They hauled him out of the room and along a corridor. Paint was flaking on the walls but it was warm and dry – a far cry from what Gordon had been imagining while he was alone.
As they passed a set of double-doors, their pace slowed.
"No," the man with the radio said, "we do this quietly."
They passed the entrance. Gordon twisted in their grip, looking back, certain he was missing something. John would have figured it out, and no doubt talked his way out of trouble already. Then again, John wouldn't have got into this mess in the first place, or let himself be separated from Virgil.
"Where is he?" Gordon spat, trying to shake them off. "Where's my brother?"
There was no point pretending now he had already given it away.
"You'll find out."
He didn't have the chance to ask more before he was shoved into a small room. While one moved to a small table in a corner, the second grabbed the loose end of the rope, dragging Gordon forward. He stumbled, confused by the loop the man was making, before his arms suddenly jerked above his head, the loop slotting over a hook that was then raised until he was forced to balance on tiptoes.
"What the hell?" Gordon snarled, struggling to unhook himself. "Let me go!"
The men ignored him.
"Where am I?" Gordon continued. "What is this place? My father-,"
"Yes?" The men didn't sound concerned. Gordon swallowed. He had already given away his relationship to Virgil. Somehow, revealing they were Tracys seemed like a stupid thing to do.
"- is going to kick your ass." It was a playground insult, nothing more. The men didn't even answer.
The man with the radio drew a knife, advancing. Gordon tried to push back, but with his hands tied; he almost overbalanced. Struggling only made the knots dig in deeper to his wrists and he twisted awkwardly as the man disappeared behind him.
The cold tip of the knife pricked his skin through his top. His mind cleared, his thoughts calmed as he immediately adopted some well-practised techniques to control pain. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction.
But all the man did was cut his shirt away.
"That was my favourite," Gordon growled. Being compliant to protect Virgil was one thing, but he refused to back down. His brother wouldn't want him to.
"You never stop, do you?" The man bent down, slicing a strip from the bottom of the shirt and gagging him with it. Gordon spluttered, but there was nothing he could do.
"Now we might get somewhere."
The man advanced again, eyes narrowed, expression thoughtful. He reached out but didn't touch as he circled him. Gordon struggled, an ice-cold sensation building in the pit of his stomach as realisation started to make an unpleasant appearance.
A hand traced one of the scars on his back before the man reappeared. Even if he hadn't been gagged, Gordon had nothing left to say. He was struggling to breathe, panic setting in as he pieced together what was going on.
The man shook his head. "He's no good. Too many scars; we can't risk internal damage."
He sounded genuinely regretful as he stepped away. His friend stepped forward, taking the knife off him.
"I'll finish him now then." He sounded as if the idea was a welcome one and Gordon squirmed, feeling like a fish caught on a line, as the man advanced. To his surprise, the other held up a hand.
"You can't," he said. "We can't leave another body lying around, suspicion is already building. You saw how expensive their watches were; they'll have contacts, no doubt."
"What do we do with him, then?"
Gordon braced himself, then jumped, trying to free his hands from the hook. The angle was wrong though and he couldn't get the rope off. Then he tried yanking down, hoping it would fray, but still nothing happened. Glancing at his captors, he saw they were both watching him, not reacting, as if they had seen this countless times before.
How many people had had their fate decided in this small room?
"Give him to the river. We'll be gone by the time they trace him this far upstream."
The knife flashed again and Gordon fell heavily as his hands sprang apart, landing on his knees. He moved quickly, but not fast enough as a solid punch drove him back to the floor. He pulled the gag out, making it to his knees and holding up a hand, trying to stop them.
"What about my brother?" he said, not caring if he was begging for answers. He had to know where Virgil was. One of the men grabbed his chin, forcing him to look up.
"Is perfect. Strong; young; healthy. He'll make us rich. He won't suffer. Not much, anyway. Most black out after the first few cuts."
Dizziness crashed through him and the room spun alarmingly. He didn't notice the man let go of his chin. His suspicions had been right.
Organ dealers.
Black market organ dealers.
And they had Virgil.
Clarity returned in a sharp, piercing rush.
"No!"
He lurched to his feet, lashing out hard and fast. He took the first man by surprise, but the second came up behind him, a blow to the back of his neck sending him crashing back down again. The punches didn't stop, preventing him from making it back to his feet. He was curled into a ball, instinct making him protect himself even while rage encouraged him to fight back. But then the blows stopped.
"He has to look like he drowned. The rocks will only disguise so much."
Hands reached towards him, once again pulling him to his feet. He was barely aware that he was being pulled out of the room and back down the corridor until the men were marching him through the double-doors they had passed earlier. The air was cooler, helping Gordon lift his head.
It looked like a hospital ward: beds covered in white linen stood in neat rows, white-washed walls and a sterile smell that was too familiar to Gordon. Only two of the beds were occupied. One held a girl, fast asleep, although natural or not, Gordon couldn't tell.
In the other…
"Virgil," Gordon whispered, trying to pull away.
There was a transfusion pole behind the bed, lines running into his brother's arms. He thought he was unconscious, until Virgil's head snapped around. Even from across the room, Gordon saw his eyes widen and Virgil struggled to sit up.
The bright light glinted off something metal and Gordon realised Virgil was cuffed to the bed.
"No!"
He fought against the hold, the rattle of chains ringing in his ears as Virgil struggled against his own bonds. Gordon heard one of the men chuckle and saw the gun being drawn again but there was nothing he could do as it slammed into his head.
The last thing he saw was Virgil's terrified expression before the world went black.
They were in trouble.
He had no idea what was going on, who had taken them or where they were. But he knew, for sure, they were in trouble. He had fought for consciousness as two men had pulled him away from his brother but the sound of the door locking brought clarity to Virgil's hazy mind, allowing him to straighten up.
He tried fighting, but his movements were sluggish and slow. He wasn't sure whether his captors even felt him dig his heels in.
It was a blur after that. He was vaguely aware of his hands suspended above his head and his shirt being torn away, hands pressing against his torso, being asked questions he didn't understand. Everything felt disorientated and fuzzy, movement making darkness swim in his vision even as a voice muttered something about too much.
He was lying flat when he regained consciousness. His head still felt fuzzy and thick and his mouth was dry. He shifted, forcing his body to obey and felt something tug in his left arm. Opening his eyes, it took a moment to realise what he was looking at: there was a line going into his arm, clear liquid dripping through a tube.
Virgil knew enough to know it had to come out – now. If he wanted to clear his mind, he had to stop them drugging him. He lifted a hand to pull it out – and froze when his arm stopped short.
There was a thick, padded cuff locked around his wrist; same on the other arm. A few links of chains attached them securely to railings running the length of the bed. It looked like a hospital bed with protective sides to stop a patient from falling out but all Virgil could focus on was being trapped.
He was secured with chains. It didn't stop him from going wild, thrashing violently against the restraints. If they had done this to him while still continuing to drug him, what lengths had they gone to in order to control Gordon?
He tried shouting his brother's name, but only a hoarse croak came out. The exertion of his struggles made his head pound and he blamed his weakness on whatever they had been given him. Craning his neck, he tried to look around.
There were beds either side of him, but they were empty. One appeared occupied further along the room, but it wasn't Gordon. He didn't know whether to be relieved or terrified that his brother wasn't with him. As his thoughts swam with lethargy again, he made a decision: the line had to come out.
He gritted his teeth, leaning over as far as he could, muscles trembling at the unnatural position. It took a few attempts but he managed to grip the tube between his teeth. Growling against the pain, he jerked his head. It took a few attempts but he felt the needle slide from his arm and collapsed back, panting. The line still rested on the bed, but it was no longer feeding into his body. He hoped – at a glance – no one would realise it was disconnected.
He looked the other way, and slumped against the pillows. There was a line in the other arm as well. They were taking blood, and repeating the process wasn't an option – not without tearing a hole in his arm and giving away he was awake. He assumed they were monitoring him though; he'd be no use to anyone if they took too much.
For now though, it would help as the drugs flushed through his system and he wondered if that was why they were doing it: keeping him docile but not overwhelmed.
Right now, he didn't care. He had to get out of here and find his brother. He strained against the cuffs, arching his back as he tried to break free. He attempted to explore the cuff with his fingertips, looking for a weakness, a hinge, anything that would give him a way out. But there was nothing.
He hoped Gordon – wherever he was – was giving them hell. His brother had only been drugged once and had regained consciousness before Virgil. He was also a fighter – in more ways than one – and Virgil knew not to underestimate him. He tried to convince himself he didn't need to worry, that Gordon would be fine, but his own situation undermined his attempts at positivity.
Fighting didn't work; only made him light-headed. Hating feeling so trapped, Virgil watched the slow drip of his blood, knowing he couldn't have been here for long or he'd be feeling a lot worse. Someone would come soon – they'd have to.
When he heard footsteps, however, Virgil realised he wasn't ready to face their captors. He heard the swish of a door opening and lay perfectly still, slumped back on the bed, hoping no one would realise he was awake. Surprise was the only thing he had working for him.
He could never say for sure whether he heard his name or instinct made him roll over.
But he shot up, the cuffs cutting deeply into both wrists as he strained to break free, fighting harder than before at the look of pure fear on Gordon's face. It wasn't an expression he had ever seen on his brother's face, and Virgil could only assume he had figured out where they were. It sent icy shivers down his spine that something could make Gordon look that afraid.
He lost strength, falling back against the bed, still attempting to sit back up, when Gordon dropped, out cold. The men flanking him hauled him up, dragging his prone body towards a door in the far wall.
Virgil found his voice.
"Put him down," he said, tone furious. His hands were clenched into fists, his body trembling as he tried to stay upright.
"You're in no position to demand anything," one man said. He nodded at his companion, who hoisted Gordon over his shoulder and continued towards the door. Virgil barely noticed the first start to approach; his gaze was locked on his brother, silently imploring him to wake up. But Gordon remained limp and the man disappeared while Virgil was left helplessly twisting his restraints.
The man came up to the edge of the bed, examining the bag of blood. He reached out and withdrew the needle, putting a small dressing on the puncture wound and the blood to one side.
"Your brother was no good to us," he said. Virgil tried not to react at their relationship being revealed. "You, though…"
"Who are you?" Virgil demanded. The man glanced at him.
"Call me Max."
He knew it wasn't his real name. It also hadn't been what Virgil was asking.
"You hurt him, you so much as even touch him, and you'll regret it," Virgil said. Max scoffed, his attention distracted, and Virgil moved.
He twisted, swinging his legs around. His upper body might be restricted but he lashed out hard, driving both feet into Max's stomach, sending him crashing to the floor with a yell as one of the transfusion poles also toppled.
Virgil remained twisted, putting his feet on the floor and lurching up. He yelled, straining as the unnatural position made his shoulders scream in agony, but even the change of angle wasn't enough to weaken either the chains or the railings. He still couldn't break free. Fear lent him strength and he kept straining, even when it felt his shoulders were threatening to dislocate. He had to get to Gordon!
He heard more people running into the room but ignored it before hands grabbed his shoulders, forcing him back on the bed. Someone else grabbed his legs but he continued to kick out, stopping them from being able to pin him down properly.
"Get me a new line!" Max yelled even as he climbed back to his feet, hatred twisting his expression.
"No," someone else said sharply. "It's too much; it has to clear his system first."
They had noticed the other line was loose.
"Hold his neck."
Someone – or more than one – gripped his shoulders, keeping his upper body flat against the bed. Someone else took a firm grip on his neck, holding his head still. As something brushed against his cheek, Virgil realised they were trying to put some kind of mask on him. He didn't need to ask to know it wouldn't be oxygen flowing through the cannisters.
He managed to twist, wrenching his head free of the grip and causing the mask to miss. Someone swore but Virgil put all his effort into avoiding the mask. Others took advantage of his distraction: an arm looped around his ankles, holding his legs down while another strap was locked around his feet, binding them together and then fastening it securely to the bed, ensuring he couldn't try the same trick twice.
True fear bit at him. He was completely stuck: nothing he tried made the men back away. He narrowly avoided the mask again before the pressure on his neck increased and a strap bit into his cheek as it was positioned over his mouth and nose. The men back off even as Virgil whipped his head to the side, trying to dislodge it as he held his breath, but it made no difference.
A few of the men left but Max stood at the end of the bed, arms folded, as he watched. Virgil attempted to glare even as he fought not to breathe. When he didn't think he could take it any longer, he took a small breath, hoping to control whatever this was. But his body betrayed him and that small breath turned into a coughing fit as his lungs gasped for air while his mind tried to stop him from breathing.
He remained conscious, but only just. Lethargy sank heavily into his mind and body and he slumped back against the pillows. His breathing was rhythmic, deep and slow and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He tried clenching his hands, digging his nails into his palm in an attempt to focus on the sharp pain instead, but even that effort was too much and the tension left his body, bleeding out of him as he fought to keep his eyes open.
"Get rid of the girl," Max said, his voice soft. "We've had what we can from her. We need to be ready to move."
"What about him?"
"Pack everything up," Max ordered, "but I have no intention of rushing this one. We haven't had someone this perfect for months; we're going to end on a high and get everything we can from him, you can be sure of that."
The voices disappeared. Virgil had no idea if they had left or if it was the drug dragging him under. Darkness clouded his vision again and he felt his mind surrendering to whatever it was flowing through the mask. He made a final attempt to keep his eyes open but it was no use.
He was trapped. And there was no big brother to get him out of it.