Thanks so much to everyone for the encouragement :) I really appreciate it! Once again, a reminder that I am no expert in anything, and I do tend to bend reality a little for the sake of a story :)

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Ash Spenser blinked groggily up at the muted sunlight filtering in through the high, louver window. The morning had been overcast, and the way the sunlight came and went told him that clouds still lingered. The cloud cover, and his grogginess, made it difficult to guess how much time had passed. But, judging from the fact that he wasn't dehydrated, and his stomach wasn't grumbling too badly, he figured perhaps half a day had gone by, at best.

He'd been getting ready to leave for his radio interview when there had been an unexpected knock at his front door. He'd leaned against the peep hole, curious and more than a little irritated by who was bothering him at eight AM. But he hadn't seen anyone there.

Allowing his curiosity to get the better of him, he'd opened his front door - attention instantly drawn downwards to a simple box, set upon his doormat. A quick glance around had failed to reveal who had delivered it, and he'd frowned, bending down to lift it inside.

A series of unfortunate mistakes, he realized now. A sudden sting had bloomed through his bicep and he'd startled, forgetting the box, eyes snapping to the source of discomfort. He'd had just enough time to pluck the metal dart from his arm, and vaguely register what it was, before his vision had blurred around the edges and he'd felt himself drop like a sack of bricks.

Whatever had been in the dart had knocked him out quickly and completely, and when Ash had next opened his eyes, he'd been here – in what he could only deduce was a small room in a warehouse type building.

As his mind had cleared, he'd set about assessing his surroundings. He may be retired, but a frogman never forgets his training.

Unfortunately, it hadn't taken him long to realize that there wasn't much chance of escape. The solitary window sat far too high, with no way up. There was only one door in and out – heavy by the looks of it, framed in metal, and presumably locked. The floor was concrete, as were the walls, so no options there. The room was completely bare, save for the metal chains that bound him to the wall, wrapping around his wrists with wide cuffs. His ankles were tied together with rope.

Realizing there was nothing he could do to improve his situation, he'd sat - mind churning through possibilities of who had taken him, and why. He knew he'd upset a lot of people with his book, and he'd received his fair share of threats. But this was a little extreme, even for the worst of his haters. For a moment, he'd wondered whether Clay had been responsible. But he'd quickly scrapped that idea – the boy was far too invested in his career to throw it all away over his dislike for his father.

As it turned out, Ash didn't have to wait long before keys jangled in the lock, and his mystery captor stepped into the room.

The man paused, staring down at Ash.

Ash did his best to return the look, setting his features in the most neutral expression he could muster as he studied the man's face. Despite running through his mental catalogue, he failed to recognize the dark-haired man, who looked to be around a similar age as himself.

Tense silence lingered between them. Eventually Ash cleared his throat. "Do you know who I am?" he asked steadily.

The man's lip quirked slightly, but his expression remained cold. He stepped forward, tilting his head as he regarded his prisoner – a hunter eyeing his prize. "Oh, I know exactly who you are," he replied evenly.

Ash tried to place the man's accent. Mexican? Clay was the one with the ear for languages, not him. He'd never possessed much desire to learn.

"The question is," the man continued, holding Ash's gaze, "do you know who I am?"

Ash narrowed his eyes, tracing the man's movements as the stranger reached into his pocket, producing a syringe. "Can't say I recognize you," he replied, managing to keep his voice from wavering. And then he added, sarcastically, "Sorry."

The man didn't flinch. His eyes focused on the syringe, holding it up to the dull light from the window as he squirted a small amount from the end.

Ash swallowed jaggedly.

"Never mind," the man stated, stepping closer. "I will remind you in a little while." He held the syringe towards Ash, managing to jab it roughly into the older Spenser's leg – ignoring the way Ash thrashed about in his attempt to avoid the prick.

Ash felt the effects almost immediately. His vision blurred, his body suddenly heavy.

The last thing he heard was the man announcing that he was going to get one more guest for their party, and his warning for Ash to stay put.

Time passed.

Ash drifted between dreams, eventually resurfacing back in the warehouse, where he took stock of his surroundings once more.

He got himself into a sitting position, and sat, leaning up against the cold, concrete wall. He let his head drop back. The room swayed, subtly, but he could feel that the effects of whatever drug he'd been given were already wearing off.

He hadn't heard the dark-haired man return. He'd still been unconscious when the other 'party guest' had been brought in and chained to the opposite wall.

Ash blinked at his fellow captive.

From what he could deduce, the body on the floor was male, solidly built, and still breathing. He couldn't see the man's face, but he guessed he was Caucasian, based on the mop of blonde hair.

Ash narrowed his eyes, studying the unconscious form. From this angle, with the hair, it almost looked like Clay.

Suddenly, the form let out a groan, limbs jerking as he returned to consciousness. Reflexively he lashed out – but abruptly stilled once he realized he was restrained.

Glazed eyes darted about, and he attempted to lift his head to get a better look at the chains and the ropes around his ankles. There was minimal panic in his movements, and Ash immediately recognized that this man was assessing and cataloguing his immediate surroundings – much the same as Ash had done, once he'd first woken up.

Blue eyes finally met his, and Ash felt a small jolt travel through him as he realized who the other man was. Surprise threatened his expression, but he managed to mask it by locking his jaw and slightly inclining his chin.

Clay was the first to look away, allowing his head to drop back against the concrete floor with a muffled clunk. He closed his eyes briefly, opening them again and blinking up towards the ceiling. "Gotta be fucking kidding me," he slurred, barely audibly, under his breath.

And Ash couldn't be sure, exactly, what his son was referring to - the fact that they had been abducted, or the fact that they were trapped in a room together with no obvious escape.

STSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTST

Clay felt his consciousness slipping, and it took all his effort to pull his eyes back open. Each heavy blink threatened to send him back into oblivion. He tried to focus on the dim light of a window high above him, the grey glow catching on metal rafters. Vaguely, he wondered where he was.

He had been heading to Sonny's. He'd paused by his car, intending to text his brother that he was on his way. But he'd never even got the chance to type. A sharp sting in his thigh had startled him, and he'd glanced down to see what appeared to be the end of a metal dart protruding from his jeans. The reality of what was happening barely had time to register, before Clay had dropped to the ground and slid quickly into darkness.

Darkness, and dreams.

Even now, he felt he was still stuck halfway between awake and asleep. Whatever drug he'd been given had completely taken him down. Even without the restraints, Clay was doubtful he could lift and coordinate his limbs.

He'd done a quick assessment of his immediate surroundings once he'd regained consciousness. Concrete floor, walls, warehouse-type building. Ankles restrained by rope, which could possibly be undone. Wrists restrained by metal chains, bolted to the wall – definitely no chance of undoing them. And then his bleary gaze had wandered further, across the dusty floor, to the figure of another man sitting against the opposite wall.

Clay had recognized Ash within a heartbeat, eyes traveling quickly over the older man's matching restraints. The effort of turning his head had been overwhelming, and he'd given up and allowed it to drop back to the concrete, barely feeing the thud.

The universe certainly was cruel. Not only was he in this God-awful situation, but he was stuck here with his father. There was just no escaping the man. And now some asshole had made sure of it, trapping them both in a room together. What sort of fucked-up hand of cards was this?

Clay allowed his gaze to shift in and out of focus. His heart pounded in his chest, and despite his best efforts to slow it, it refused to cooperate. Possibly a side-effect of the drug, he thought vaguely. He let his head loll to the side, didn't attempt to lift it this time.

Ash sat, regarding him levelly.

Before either of them had a chance to speak, the lock clicked on the door, and someone entered.

Clay tried to get a look at the new arrival, but his body still wasn't cooperating. He stopped his efforts when a dark-haired man squatted by his head, brown eyes cold, his expression strangely blank as he stared at Clay. He had a hard, lined face – lines from frowning, not smiling. Silver speckled his otherwise black hair.

Clay's fuzzy-edged thoughts were difficult to pin down. Even though he'd been trained for situations like these, his senses weren't properly online. He felt uneasy by how vulnerable he was. His abductor had obviously planned to disarm him – both physically and mentally. It was hard to fight, when your mind and body were detached from one another.

"You don't know me," the man said. His English was accented, and Clay guessed he was a native Spanish-speaker. "But your father and I go way back." Despite referring to Ash, he held Clay's gaze. "You see," he continued, "your father took something very special from me."

Clay's vision swam. His mouth felt dry. He darted a glance at Ash, but the older man held his neutral expression, giving nothing away.

The dark-haired man leaned closer, his cigarette-tinted breath warm against Clay's ear. "Your father killed my son," he stated icily.

Clay flinched at the words, pulling away involuntarily. Despite his haze of numbness, he felt his stomach clench painfully against his rib cage.

The man straightened, spun to face Ash. In two strides he'd closed the distance between them. He lunged for the older Spenser, fisting the collar of his button-up shirt. "You killed my son." He released a fist, drew it back, and swung. Hard.

Ash's head snapped back against the wall.

Clay blinked rapidly, feeling his already galloping heartrate pick up speed. The man was solidly built. Clay could tell, from the outline of his arms, that he had muscle mass. His punches posed a real threat.

Ash hadn't cried out. He recovered from the blow, steely eyes like daggers. His usual air of arrogance settled across his features as he set his jaw – only now the look was sharp around the edges, dangerous. He licked the blood from his split lip.

The dark-haired man let out a low, strangled growl. For a moment, he lost his composure, and even though Clay could only see him from behind, he recognized the brokenness in his posture.

Clay tried to focus, but his thoughts were jelly. Broken people were the most dangerous, he thought faintly. They were often the ones with nothing left to lose.

"It seems only fair," the accented man continued, words still directed at Ash, "that I return the favor, and take something special from you." He cast a glance briefly at Clay. "You say you don't remember me." He stood, stepped closer to Clay. "I'll happily jog your memory."

Clay attempted once again to coordinate his limbs, to pull himself upright – but the connection between his body and brain was temporarily frayed, and the restraints were unyielding. The most he managed was an ungraceful roll to his side, towards the advancing man.

A boot caught him mid-torso, and Clay felt the air rush from his lungs. The pain from the blow was muted by the drugs, but it still ricocheted through him. Instinctively, he curled in on himself as much as he was able, biting down on a groan.

Another kick landed, this time to his chest. Thankfully Clay didn't feel any bones break, but that didn't mean it hadn't caused damage. Once again, the drugs took away the edge. But they would eventually wear off, and then Clay was sure he was in for a world of pain. Gasping, he tried to dredge up his training, disconnect from the abuse. He was partially successful.

"Twelve years ago," the stranger continued, pinning Ash with a weighted look, his words lined with disgust, "you came to my village in Colombia, in the middle of the night."

Ash didn't flinch.

"You came with your American military, with your guns and your grenades, to capture a man who was hiding there." A finger was jabbed in Ash's direction. "You got your man, but you were careless, and your carelessness set fire to our home."

Ash's poker face held firm.

The Colombian shook his head, as if he could dislodge the memories with the action. "My son," his voice cracked. "My son was only thirteen. He yelled after you, as you and your men were running away. His mother was crying, scared. My son was angry, and he came after you, yelling and cursing."

The man spun to face Clay again, kicked once more, this time connecting with his shoulder.

Clay tried, but couldn't quite bite back the small grunt that escaped him. Tears filled his eyes, and his head spun. Once more he tried to disconnect, but his usual focus continued to evade him.

"You shot him." The man's tone had dropped, low and gravelly, thick with years-old grief. "For no good reason, you shot him."

Clay's chest hitched, and he struggled to pull in a full breath. His watering eyes darted to Ash, as he considered what this stranger was implying.

"My boy died in my wife's arms." The brokenness in the Colombian's voice lingered, swelled and filled the room. And then it deflated, into something more hollow, as he admitted, "My life ended that night, on the ground outside our burning house. My wife's life as well." He glared at Ash. "I swore I would never forget your face. I swore if I ever saw you again, I would kill you."

Ash attempted to pull himself straighter against the wall, features set in defiance, eyes frosty blue. "People will notice we're missing."

The dark-haired man allowed a small, bitter laugh. "I don't doubt that they will."

Clay's fragmented thoughts skipped to Sonny, to his brothers. Would Sonny realize that something was wrong, or would he just assume Clay had skipped out on him? How much time had passed since he was supposed to be at his best friend's house, watching the game?

"I don't plan to drag this out," the man admitted coldly, eyes pulling away from Ash to land back on Clay.

Clay willed the effects of the drug to wear off faster. A small part of him screamed that this couldn't possibly be how his life ended – at the hands of a mad man, locked up with his useless father, because of something said useless father had done more than a decade ago.

Anger bloomed, spreading through Clay's chest. He wanted to offer to get rid of Ash himself. But the stranger seemed unshakably bent on revenge. And unfortunately, that revenge seemed to involve killing Clay.

Ash shifted, and Clay could see his mind working. At least the older SEAL didn't seem as affected by the drugs as Clay was. Not an oversight, Clay was sure.

"You'll end up dying with us, once you're caught." Ash stated.

The man's lip twitched into a wry smile. "Who said I was planning to come out of this alive?"

Clay felt his stomach knot. He thought over the Colombian's story. If what the man had said was true – and Clay had no reason to doubt it – then Ash would have to face up to the crime. But the reality was, it was a villager's word against one of the greatest SEALs the Navy had ever seen. PNG or not, Ash would have more than an unfair advantage. And perhaps the man had known that.

"So," the Colombian said, drawing out the word and continuing to hold his crooked smile, eyes on Ash. "Are you ready to watch your boy die?"

Ash's expression remained set in stone.

It was Clay who broke the silence, unable to stop the small, bitter chuckle from spilling over his lips.

Both sets of eyes darted towards him, and he met them, his own blue eyes cooling. "I just see one flaw in your otherwise brilliant plan," he slurred, addressing the man and managing to hold his words steady. He pinned Ash with a look. "My father doesn't give a shit about me." His chest burned with every breath. "So, I'm sorry to break it to you," he coughed painfully. Lost his breath. Managed to find it again. "But killing me wont have the impact you're looking for."

Ash's brow twitched, the movement noticeable against his otherwise rigid features.

The man's gaze swung between father and son, and Clay could tell he was weighing up the truth of the statement. Eventually he shrugged. "Maybe," he replied. "Maybe not. Maybe it's a tactic to get me to reconsider." His eyes bore into Clay's. "I guess we'll just have to find out."

The man leaned down and swung, and Clay braced against the blow that came to his jaw. The impact was brutal, and he spat blood, gagging against the pain.

Ash sat silently, unflinching - his expression as smooth and cold as carved stone.