A/N: The first part of this chapter is very dark and gruesome, just a heads up!

His pathetic whimpers could turn any man's stomach, but these men were well adjusted to such procedures. So adjusted, in fact, that they even started to enjoy the process. The whip hissed as it sliced through the air, a black blur. The hissing turned to a high pitched shriek before snapping across the man's back, tearing into his flesh. He raised his voice in a blood-curdling wail, not much different than that of an animal. His jaw trembled, mouth gasping for air that would only tumble back out of him again seconds later. The bloodied whip finally came to rest, the man's heavy panting the only sound echoing off the concrete walls. He couldn't see past the scratchy fabric of the blindfold, but with his hands he could feel an aged cement floor, scattered with cigarette butts. An unfamiliar voice spoke out from the musty darkness.

''That's enough, gentlemen. Cain and Guttermouth, take him out and leave him someplace in Brussels. His little friends should find him soon enough.''

''Sure thing, Boss. Do you want us to pick up any more passengers along the way?''

''There is a certain...passenger...I am most interested in meeting. We've talked about this before, and I'm sure you will do well in retrieving him for me. Now go, vite!''

There was a shuffling of feet, and the man was lifted ungracefully off the floor, his battered body giving no attempt to resist. His wounds burned like hellfire, yet he dared not cry out. The loss of blood and pain forced him to fight for consciousness, as he was tossed into the back seat of a car, the plushness of the seats cursing his back and shoulders. His fingers searched his uniform until they found a metallic, shield-shaped badge; as the car lurched into motion, it was all he could do to keep the tears from escaping his swollen eyes.

The scraping of silverware against plate seemed to remind Tintin of how hungry he was. He had forgotten to eat breakfast that morning, not that that was out of the ordinary; meals were often forgotten when he was on a case. Tintin leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms out with a grunt, and made his way to the kitchen. He cooked some scrambled eggs and bacon, and followed the scraping sound to the dining room. Haddock looked up as the ginger-haired boy entered, from his place at the head of the table.

''I see ye've finally remembered how to eat.''

''I've only been working for a few hours.''

''I haven't heard much typing.''

Tintin raised an eyebrow wryly at Haddock as he sat.

''I don't have much information yet, I've only just started to put together the rough draft. And to top it all off, my notebook fell apart yesterday.''

Tintin set his plate down and bowed his head for a quick prayer before eating. As he enjoyed the savory flavors of his meal, he looked over and saw, next to Haddock's plate, a tall glass of whiskey. He narrowed his brow disapprovingly.

''It's rather early for that, isn't it?''

Haddock shrugged, glancing away.

''I'm awake, aren't I?''

Tintin scoffed quietly, but didn't say anything more. He finished and stood, taking his plate.

''I'm taking Snowy for a walk. He needs some exercise.''

He paused as he slid his trench coat on.

''You might join us?''

Haddock stood and followed Tintin to the door, waving one of his hands lazily while the other rested in his pocket.

''You go ahead. I need to do some repairs on the car.''

Tintin snapped his fingers suddenly, remembering.

''Ah, yes! You asked me to grab you a spark plug. I left it in the garage; it should be on your workbench.''

''Ah, thanks, lad,'' Haddock replied with a wide grin, slapping Tintin's shoulder cheerfully. The corners of Tintin's mouth turned up slightly.

''Of course.''

He raised his hand in farewell as he followed Snowy out to the fountain, the white terrier already impatient to get going. The sun shone gallantly, light dancing across clear blue skies with promise of a beautiful day. Pushing aside all troubling thoughts for a while to enjoy the weather was tempting, but Tintin knew he couldn't let his guard down, not while there were killers on the loose.

The bell made a welcoming ding sound as the door swung open, the pleasing scent of old books greeting Tintin as he stepped in. The man at the front desk glanced up with a friendly smile.

''Mr. Tintin! How are you this fine day?''

Tintin grinned boyishly.

''I'm quite well, Mr. Harison. How is business?''

Harison gave a half-hearted shrug, pulling a rag from his back pocket to wipe his desk.

''Not so wonderful, I'm afraid to say. Folks are scared stiff from all this terrorist business. Did you hear what happened this morning?''

Tintin leaned forward on the desk a bit, his light blue eyes alight with curiosity.

''I haven't had time to.''

''You? Blimey, that's unusual. Well, they found a cop on Trinity Way, around eight o'clock, I'd say...the poor bloke was beaten half dead, all torn up. He wasn't making much sense, saying things 'bout 'punishment' and all sorts of strange names. He died in the hospital an hour later.''

Harison shook his head sadly.

''Something is very off around here. Why, a shooting and a murder, all in one week? Do you think they may be connected?''

Tintin raised his eyebrows, his lips a tight line.

''It's difficult to say. If they are connected, then we can be fairly certain that something will happen again.''

Harison spoke through a sigh, ''Ah, well. At least you're on our side, Tintin.''

There was a brief silence, and Tintin looked down at his hands.

''What was it you wanted, Tintin? I know you always drive a hard bargain.''

The boy glanced up.

''I was hoping to get a notepad.''

Mr. Harison pulled down a stack of notepads down from behind his desk.

''0.75£ for each.''

Tintin selected a leather-bound book with sewn binding and passed Harison 5£.

''Keep the change. I wish you and your family good health,'' Tintin smiled. Harison brightened, looking from his hand to Tintin's face gratefully.

''God bless you, Tintin.''

''And you. Excuse me, but I have a lot of work to do. Good day.''

Tintin tucked the notepad into the pocket of his trench coat, and stepped outside into the dimming light. Snowy barked in greeting, wriggling his tail joyously. You're finally back, Tintin!

The boy leaned down to fondle the terrier's snow white fur, smiling.

''Alright, boy. Let's go home.''

Tintin was roughly a mile away from Marlinspike Hall when he started to pick up strange details. Details like a constant rustling behind him, so faint he wondered if he was just imagining it. Snowy walked with his paws and head close to the ground, occasionally stopping and looking over his shoulder with a suspicious growl. Finally, Tintin turned to look behind them, not seeing anything out of the ordinary at first. Then he noticed a glimmer, a fraction of moonlight reflected against something in the darkness.

''Great snakes,'' he breathed; on instinct, his body turned and started running, his feet pounding against the dirt too loud, too hard. The gritty sound of of rubber abrading dirt and the sharp growl of an engine hastened his legs, his run turning into a sprint. Heart pounding, palms sweating, mind racing. Blinding light exploded from behind him suddenly, turning his back and legs silver. He saw his own shadow leap to life on the ground ahead of him, tall and thin, stenciled from artificial light. The engine's growl intensified, turning into a savage roaring, and Tintin could hear the wheels churning over the ground only a few feet behind him. Snowy yelped and shot out ahead as Tintin dove sideways into the undergrowth, the brush doing little to break his fall. There was a screech of brakes. He groaned, standing up unsteadily, his vision shimmying before his eyes. A car door slammed, male voices drifting through the darkness.

''He's jumped into the wood.''

''Aw, won't you shut up?!''

''Get back in, you idiots.''

The engine abruptly jumped back to life with a sputter, and with a jolt Tintin realized it was coming towards him again. He blindly shinnied up an old beech tree, tenderness in his muscles causing him to slip.

''Crumbs,'' he spat, struggling to steady himself as he slid down to the ground. The shrill snapping of branches grew louder, and Tintin made one last attempt to escape. With nausea starting to build, his vision starting to still, he turned, planning to dodge the car and race back to the road. Suddenly, something wrapped itself around Tintin's neck, and he wheezed, struggling to free himself. His feet were lifted clear off the ground as lithe, masculine muscles tightened over his collarbones. A deep chuckle tickled his ear, as the black car crashed through the brush, still speeding towards him relentlessly. The voice murmured something, the raspy breath making Tintin cringe.

''Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Reporter.''

The breath was sucked out of Tintin's lungs as he was forced forwards roughly. The smooth metallic nose of the car hit him like a brick wall, and he lost consciousness as he was flung up over the roof, landing with a dull thud in the dirt behind. A tall, dark figure stepped forwards, looking down at Tintin's motionless body silently. Droplets of rain started to pelt down from the dark sky, clinging to Tintin's skin and then slowly trickling to the ground. The figure chuckled in a deep voice, hardly loud enough to be heard above the pitter-patter of rain.

''We've played a bit rough with you, boy, yet I don't consider you lucky to have survived tonight. Your hours are numbered.''