Warning for some violence in this chapter.

Taking place at the same time as the previous...

Footsteps.

Someone was coming.

Virgil twisted, straining against the straps. They'd taken no chances this time. Additional restraints across his waist and forehead meant he could only see the rest of the room out of the corner of his eye.

Two men approached, hurried and tense.

Virgil frowned. Something felt different, but he didn't know what. Their urgency betrayed them: they'd wanted to move fast before; now they were just in a rush. It couldn't mean anything good for him. His heart thudded, a tightness in his chest making it hard to breathe. He had to stay calm – panicking would get him nowhere. But he'd run out of time.

They were careful as they undid the straps, their grip firm as they hauled him off the bed. Virgil stumbled. It was no pretence; his head spun as his legs refused to support his weight. They'd spent the day running tests: drawing blood, his blood pressure, oxygen levels…He had stopped paying attention. But although they kept him on a drip, making sure he didn't dehydrate, he couldn't remember when he last ate. Exhaustion made his knees buckle.

They pinned his arms behind his back, their hold absolute. Virgil couldn't shake them off. As they started marching him across the room, he tried to dig his heels in but lost his balance when they pushed harder. He couldn't fight them off.

"Let me go!" he demanded. It was a desperate gamble, but he'd reached that point. "People will come for me – they'll find you. Just let me go!"

"They're already here," one muttered in an undertone. His friend elbowed him but Virgil stopped, eyes wide.

They were here: Scott was here. He wasn't sure when he'd given up believing they'd reach him in time but he had lost hope of a rescue hours ago. They'd wouldn't know where to look and even finding Gordon's body would offer no clues. He knew better than most that some rescues were doomed before they started. He was a practical man: miracles didn't happen.

But he was wrong…

"Move," the guard grunted, shoving him forward.

A rush of adrenaline flooded him and Virgil lashed out. He fought free of their grip but there was nowhere to go. He made it a couple of paces before the second man flattened him. They crashed down in a tangle of limbs, pulling over a trolley. Virgil winced as the clatter sent stabbing pains through his already pounding head but drove his elbow into the man's stomach. The man gave a soft oof of surprise, but then his friend joined in.

It was over in moments. They pinned him against a bed, one arm twisted up his back. He struggled but gasped as the pressure increased, his shoulder screaming in protest. The angle was wrong – even rested he wouldn't have broken the hold. That didn't stop him though, not until a gun pressed under his chin. Virgil fell still.

"The army have us surrounded." The man was panting almost as much as Virgil, his hand trembling. "We've lost everything because of you. Boss wants to make sure it's worth it."

Virgil was suddenly conscious of his body: sharp breaths making his chest heave, the ache in his muscle, the tension in his legs, his clenched fist… All he'd worked hard to achieve now used against him. He tried to shake off their grip, but the gun pressed against his windpipe, stopping him from swallowing properly.

"Give me a reason," the man whispered. Virgil froze. The army were here. He knew who else would be with them.

He had to stay alive.

Gritting his teeth, he let the tension drain away, allowing them to bundle him across the room and out of the door. This wasn't how he imagined leaving that ward and a sharp, bitter anger filled him. He wouldn't get the chance to avenge Gordon. His only consolation was that Scott – and, no doubt, John – was here. They'd finish it, even if it was too late for him.

There were still people around, although not as many as when Virgil had tried to make his escape. A pile of lifejackets were on the floor and it took Virgil a moment to figure out what was going on.

Of course.

The river was the perfect escape route and there wasn't much space between the building and the bank – superior numbers wouldn't mean anything. Unless the military had brought boats with them, they could be halfway down the river before anyone realised where they'd gone.

That they could get away with it all made Virgil grit his teeth. But before he could act, the grip on his arms loosened and the gun disappeared. He didn't have the chance to turn before one man opened another door and the second shoved him in the back, sending him stumbling in.

Loosing his balance, he landed hard on his hands and knees. He was in a small room, little more than a storage area. But it was big enough for a bed with a cold metal frame and a table of instruments gleaming in a bright light. Virgil couldn't look away. He recognised most of them, but thinking about why they were here, in this place, what it meant for him…

The men grabbed him, pulling him to his feet. They'd backed him against the bed before Virgil realised what was happening.

"No!"

He fought, but it was too late and he hit the cold frame. They wasted no time, dragging him over the bed and holding him flat. He kicked free, twisting until he yanked a hand loose, striking out. One man stumbled with a cry, clutching his nose, but two more took his place. They grabbed his hands, yanking them above his head. Rough rope bound his wrists before they looped the end of the rope through the table, securing it. Someone else tied his ankles. Virgil thrashed, arching his back as he tried to draw his hands in but although he could part them by an inch, it wasn't enough to break loose.

There was nowhere for him to go.

The men backed off. Virgil took some satisfaction from the fact they were panting as hard as him. The one with the bloody nose glared at him, and Virgil scowled back. Before anyone spoke, however, Max walked in, sneering. Virgil turned his stare on his captor, hoping only defiance and anger were obvious. He refused to let Max see how much effort it took to hide his fear.

The men left, satisfied their prisoner wouldn't be a problem. The door clicked shut behind them. Max picked up a cruel looking scalpel, toying with it under the bright light. Virgil swallowed, fighting to keep his expression neutral.

"The army is on my doorstep because of you," Max told him, his tone conversational. "My men are keeping the back door open, but they wish to be far away from here."

He came closer, resting the flat of the blade on Virgil's stomach. It only highlighted how close to hyperventilating he was and Max smirked before putting it to one side. Instead, he plucked a syringe from the table. With the way his hands were tied, there was nothing Virgil could do to stop Max from slipping it into the crook of his arm and pressing the plunger.

"You've got ten minutes before it takes effect," he said, "then this is going to go real smooth for you."

Max paused, tossing the syringe away and picking his scalpel up again.

"This place is doomed," he continued, as if they were having a pleasant conversation. "I've got enough to start again: new place, new team. I'm tired of the heat here, anyway."

This time, he pressed a hand against Virgil's side. Virgil tried to twist away, refusing to be inspected like cattle, but he couldn't move far enough. Max's chuckle revealed it was the reaction he wanted and Virgil fell still. He wouldn't give this man the satisfaction.

Instead, he looked around the best he could. There had to be something that could help him!

Craning his head back, he glanced at the table. There weren't only blades on it: various bottles of antiseptic were familiar to him. Alcohol based products. The beginnings of an idea took place as he tried to see if any had what he was looking for. One did. A label he was always warning Alan and Gordon about. Only this time, the flammable content was just what he needed…

A loud bang from outside of the room made him jump – and Max if his cursing was anything to go by.

"We haven't got ten minutes," Max muttered, and Virgil knew his time was up.

He tensed, teeth gritted as he wrapped the rope further around his hands, preparing to pull…

Pain!

Blinding, all-consuming pain ripped up his side as a scream tore, unbidden, from his throat. Every muscle went rigid, chest heaving as a cold sweat broke out over his skin. Unwilling to look, but needing to know, Virgil looked down… and Max drew the blade another inch down his side.

The plan, thinking in general, fled his mind as darkness crushed him. His entire body felt on fire, hypersensitive to the sharp drag of the knife. He couldn't breathe, tears running from the corners of his eyes, coursing down his face and there was nothing he could do.

No.

He refused to die like this.

He might not escape but damnit, he refused to let Max take what he wanted.

With a snarl, he jerked on the rope. The table rattled but didn't fall. Virgil did it again, and put all the fear and pain into his action, yelling as he did so. A few scalpels slid from the trolley it steadied itself and Virgil gave another tug.

This time, the table fell. He shouted in agony as the movement pulled him, almost off the bed. Max swore, hurrying around, but he was too late. The bottles smashed, their contents mixing and… nothing.

Nothing happened.

Max laughed, straightening the table and raising the blade. Virgil's stomach churned at the blood on it – his blood. But before Max could resume, the door burst open. A younger man ran in, his expression terrified.

"They're attacking!" he shrieked. It was obvious he'd hoped that Max had the answer. Listening hard, Virgil heard it for himself: shouts, bangs and the usual sound of an army moving in.

"In here!" Virgil yelled, "I'm in here!"

Max snarled, grabbing the man's gun before shoving him back into the corridor. His hands were steady as he aimed.

But Virgil wasn't done. He hadn't survived this long just to be shot. He swung his bound feet as Max fired. It missed him, but with a soft pop, the mixed chemicals on the floor burst into flames.

Max took one look and fled. Virgil drew his legs back, lying flat as he struggled to breathe. He'd never felt pain like it. Never wanted to feel it again. It would be so easy… all he had to do was close his eyes…

With a grunt, Virgil forced himself to focus. He had to think.

Ignore the blood. Ignore the pain. Ignore the flames.

Shoving himself up the bed, he reached for the trolley. It took a few attempts, but he - eventually - curled his fingers around a scalpel. His hands were slippery with sweat, and the metal burnt as the fire continued to grow.

He gritted his teeth against the burn, struggling to position the blade, terrified he was going to drop it. It was a difficult angle, but he eventually got the edge against the ropes, sawing the best he could. It was getting harder to breathe, acrid smoke filling the room. His eyes watered against the onslaught of pain and smoke and he blindly attacked the rope.

Finally, though, the blade fell from his hand. He moved on automatic, burying his face in the crook of his elbow as he coughed. It took a split-second to realise what he'd done, and he made quick work of pulling the frayed ropes from his wrists. Sitting up, he repeated it with his feet before stumbling off the bed.

His knees buckled. One hand grabbed the bedframe but his grip wasn't strong enough to hold him up. It was enough, however, to stop him from falling flat. He'd never get up again if that was the case.

But the frame got hotter and Virgil let go with a curse as it burnt his hand. The temperature had risen fast, and it was only the cold tiles and metal bed that had prevented the entire room turning into an inferno.

He stopped thinking. He could do this; it was what he did, who he was. He'd learnt long ago to make quick judgements and he had to rely on those instincts now. He assessed the situation (not good), his condition (even worse) and potential escape options (one door, with flames licking ever closer).

There was nothing in the room he could use to stem the bleeding, so he pressed a hand over the wound. He'd examine it later. He couldn't do anything here, and his more pressing concern was getting out before the smoke made him pass out.

He stumbled out of the room. All the lights were out, the entire complex in darkness. The orange glow from behind him illuminated his path, but it didn't take more than a few steps before Virgil realised that it wasn't the only fire. Smoke filled the air, and shouts and the occasional shot came from the darkness, lurching shadows his only encounter with other people.

He moved slowly, head down. One hand pressed against his side, the other trailing the wall, needing the contact to keep him moving. He had no idea if it was his speed, but no one approached him, friend or foe. He didn't know where he was going, didn't see the point of looking, when he suddenly felt a breeze.

The air was fresh, cool, and coming from somewhere in front of him. He breathed deeply, then regretted it as he inhaled more smoke. But there was no denying it. He looked up. The sound of a fierce struggle behind him made him pause, then he kept moving. This wasn't his fight; not anymore. If the army were here, in the building, Max and his men stood no chance. He would take his vengeance when he could breathe again.

Blood dribbled over his fingers, his hand sticky with blood. Spots were dancing in his vision and it was getting harder to keep his eyes open. His pace slowed, feet dragging, when the door finally appeared. It was likely guarded, but Virgil didn't care. He just wanted to get out. Anyone who saw him would know he wasn't a threat.

The corridor seemed to stretch before him but he kept his gaze locked on the door, one foot in front of the other. Energy was trickling away faster than the blood from his side.

But, suddenly… he was out.

One moment he was in hell, the next standing outside the building, breathing deeply. His vision cleared, and the pain increased tenfold now he knew he was outside.

He looked up. Blinked. He tripped forward another step, focusing on the figure sprinting towards him. He'd known he'd be here; known he wouldn't leave it to the army.

Scott would always come for him. Virgil had never doubted it, even if he hadn't believed his brother would be in time.

He stopped. There was someone following Scott, but Virgil couldn't make them out, although whether the dimness was the lack of light or his fading vision, he couldn't be sure. But he didn't need to move any further, didn't need to take a step. He was only five paces away from the building, but it was over.

He let the darkness claim him. He didn't feel Scott catch him, but he didn't need to: his brother had never let him fall.

He knew he was lying down before he realised he was awake. There was something around his wrist and he jolted, eyes snapping open. His heart raced and, for a second, Virgil couldn't breathe.

It couldn't be a dream. He couldn't have imagined that level of pain. He had got out; he knew he had…

Then he blinked, noting his surroundings.

Soft lighting filled the room and he was warm and comfortable. He shifted, and nothing restricted his movement. There was a pillow under his head, a blanket draped over him and he was dressed again. Swallowing, Virgil glanced at his wrist.

It wasn't a restraint: it was a hospital tag. Virgil stared at it, untold emotions swirling in him. Relief he was safe, alive… But he'd lost his brother in that place. He blinked furiously, pulling himself together before looking around.

It was a small, private room. The main door was opposite the bed and a second to the side was likely a bathroom. Empty chairs were scattered around the bed, but Virgil only had eyes for one.

Scott's elbows rested on his knees, his fingers linked behind his neck and his head pulled towards his chest. He knew that position: guilt and worry consumed his brother, and Virgil knew Scott would look almost as bad as he did. The fact Scott hadn't noticed he was awake as evidence enough.

If Scott was here, he knew about Gordon.

It wasn't a conversation Virgil would ever be ready for.

"Scott."

The one word hurt. His throat was raw and his voice little more than a croak. He started coughing, moving to ease it and crying out as it pulled on his side and sent a sharp stab of pain through his stomach and into his chest.

"Hey." Scott was suddenly there. "Breathe."

His brother's hand on his back eased the panic.

"Here."

A straw appeared in his vision and Virgil drank. The water was a cool blessing. He drained most of it before resting back, breathless and exhausted. Scott set the drink to one side and perched on the edge of the bed.

"That didn't go the way I thought it would." Scott's tone was light, but fake. It did nothing to conceal his emotions. Virgil had never needed words to communicate with his big brother and he lifted an eyebrow. Scott nodded, running a hand through his hair. Given the mess, Virgil wondered how often he'd done that recently.

"Shawn got them all," Scott said. "They're in custody."

Virgil didn't know who his brother was talking about. His blank look spoke for him and Scott leant forward with a soft smile.

"I'll explain later," he murmured. "You're safe. I swear."

He nodded. He looked at his hand. It trembled violently, and Virgil clenched his fist, trying to hide it. His entire arm shook instead. His heart was pounding and it was still hard to breathe but Virgil couldn't blame the smoke this time.

He was safe. He was out of that place. No one would get near him now.

But all he could see was Max's manic grin, the blood on the blade…

Gordon was dead all because these men had wanted to make a few bucks off them.

His eyes squeezed shut as a full body shudder ran through him. Swallowing hard, he tried to control himsef. He'd seen bad stuff in his time with International Rescue. He'd seen the best, and worst, in people. He could handle this, he'd trained for this…

"Virgil?" Scott's calm voice grounded him. But Virgil looked the other way, not wanting Scott to see this.

His brother called him again, a commanding note in his tone Virgil had never been able to ignore. Looking over, there was no judgement in Scott's eyes, nor pity. He didn't offer reassurances, didn't say anything. Just kept his hand on Virgil's shoulder, holding his gaze. Virgil focused on that grip, using it to centre himself before exhaling and running a hand through his hair, in control once more.

His action revealed the heavy bruising around his wrists. He glanced at Scott, realising the older man was watching him. Scott's gaze was locked on the bruises, and Virgil saw the blazing fury beneath his brother's calm exterior. Now he'd noticed, he wondered how he'd missed it before.

Shawn – whoever that was – might have the men in custody. But they weren't safe from Scott. For the first time ever, Virgil had no intention of talking his brother down. Scott would avenge Gordon more than Virgil could right now.

There was a knock on the door and a nurse came in with a warm smile. Scott stood up, out of the way, so she could check Virgil's vitals, telling him in a cheerful voice he was lucky to be alive. They'd stitched the wound and he'd been on oxygen all night but were satisfied there was no lasting damage from the smoke inhalation.

She didn't take long. As she left, Virgil glanced at the window, startled by the daylight. That place had made him loose all track of time. He wasn't certain how long he'd been missing for.

Scott slipped onto his seat, putting his phone away. "The others are on their way," he said, "I can stall them if you aren't ready."

Virgil shook his head. He wished Scott would say something about Gordon, but at least if they were all here, he wouldn't have to go through it more than once. The longer he waited, the harder it would get, but he couldn't bring himself to say it first.

They waited in silence. It lulled Virgil to a semi-conscious state, half-asleep, half-awake, reassured by Scott's presence. Scott seemed to know just being there was enough and there was nothing more that could be said right now. Not to mention talking still hurt.

John was first. One glance showed he looked almost as bad as Scott. There was no way either of them had slept properly since the rescue. He relaxed at seeing his brother though. He'd already figured out who else had been with Scott at the complex, and was glad neither had tried to deal with it on their own.

Relief flooded John's expression as soon as he saw Virgil was awake. He smiled, losing ten years in that moment. Virgil returned it, watching him drag a chair closer to the bed.

"The others are on their way," he said, glancing at Scott. He didn't sit though, instead picking up Virgil's chart and flicking through it. Virgil suppressed a smile – that was his normal role when there were injuries.

He turned his attention to the plain blanket, mind racing as he considered how he'd tell them what had happened to Gordon. Like Scott, he couldn't tell from John's behaviour. They were both drawn, exhausted. But Virgil couldn't work out if it was deeper than worry.

When Alan arrived, he started to feel claustrophobic. But the door hadn't shut behind him before it opened again.

Virgil glanced over, then crashed against the pillows, wide-eyed and staring.

"Virg?" Scott prompted, but Virgil was incapable of answering.

He just stared, and Gordon grinned back at him.

"Looks like we're both harder to kill than they reckoned, eh, Virg?"