Once again, thanks to those who have left encouraging words :) I really appreciate it. Here's the next bit ...
STSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTST
Derek snagged a chair, wheeled it across the floor and parked himself beside Davis.
She sat, unblinking, flicking through traffic camera images. Her back was stiff, her movements irritable. "We've got to be missing something," she kept muttering under her breath, shaking her head, almost like a nervous twitch.
"Care for a fresh set of eyes?" Derek offered.
She bit her lip, shot him a sideways glance. "Be my guest," she replied tensely, scooting over a little.
Derek began clicking through the images. He recognized the busy intersection near his and Clay's apartment building. The other images were from near Ash's house, as well as various intersections within a three-mile radius of both properties.
"I feel like we're looking for a needle in a haystack," Davis admitted, tone laced with defeat.
Derek didn't miss the guilty glance she shot towards Sonny and Jason, who were deep in conversation with Ray and Full Metal.
"Hey," he offered gently. "It's not on you to solve this alone."
Davis raised a brow. "Yes, it is. It's my job. I should have found something by now."
But Derek shook her words off. "It's all of our job to look out for each other. I was the last person to see Clay yesterday, and I was most likely home this morning when he went missing." His stomach knotted. The fact that he'd been within shouting distance of his brother when Clay had been taken weighed heavily upon him.
Leaning forward, he studied the images more carefully. "We're sure he was taken this morning?" he clarified, glancing at the image time-stamps.
Davis nodded. "When Sonny found Clay's cell phone, he could see that Clay had read a couple of text messages from earlier this morning. But the messages after nine AM were unopened."
"And Ash disappeared this morning as well?"
Davis blew out a breath, leaned back in her chair. "Yeah, it looks that way. One of his neighbors noticed a light on in his front room early this morning, so we're assuming he was home." She stared through the computer screen, eyes distant, lost in thought. "I originally thought that if I could identify the same vehicle near both Clay's and Ash's, I might be able to run the plates and it would give us a starting point."
Derek continued clicking through photos. He'd had the same thought.
Davis shook her head, still staring through the screen. "But I've had no luck. There's so much traffic, it's hard to make note of every single car that passed through the intersections near Ash's, and compare it to every single car that passed through the intersection near Clay's …" her voice trailed off, half in frustration, half in defeat.
Derek glanced between her and the computer. "Needle in a haystack," he echoed her earlier words. There were hundreds of cars in each photo. It would be a stroke of luck, to find the same car.
He'd never seen Davis this frayed around the edges before, borderline frazzled. Normally she was unflappable, confident, cool-headed. His eyes darted to the rest of the guys.
Blackburn was in a far corner, speaking quietly into his phone, his body tense. Jason was still sitting on a table, fiddling anxiously, brow furrowed and eyes darting between Sonny, Ray and Full Metal as he listened to their conversation. Sonny was restless, shifting where he stood, looking like he was two seconds away from storming out of the room to shoot someone. Ray appeared to be his usual, calm self on the outside, but Derek could see the worry lines around his eyes and stiff posture, betraying the storm that was probably raging within him. Nearby, Trent and Brock sat quietly, neither speaking, each appearing completely lost in their own troubled thoughts, Cerberus resting his head on Brock's thigh.
A heavy feeling of loss lingered around them - both a result of Clay's absence, and their lack of knowing how to get him back.
The door clicked open, and Vic Lopez shouldered his way into the room, eyes barely visible over the mound of takeout bags balanced in his arms. Bravo's rookie had been sent out to grab them all some food, eagerly jumping at the task to do something useful. The kid was still finding his feet within the team, and this situation had him swimming way out of his depth. Derek hadn't spent much time with him, but from what little he knew of Bravo Seven, he could see why Jason had chosen him.
Lopez would someday be to Clay what Ray was to Jason – the lantern to keep the wild flame in check. Derek's gaze flicked to Full Metal. He supposed, in a way, the same dynamic existed within his own team.
Turning his attention back to the screen and the traffic images, he clicked through the photos from the intersection near his and Clay's apartment. He'd barely reached the fourth image when he stopped.
He zoomed in on a white van with a blue stripe down the side.
Leaning forward, his lips turned down into a frown as he regarded the vehicle. It was familiar. He sifted through his memories, trying to place it.
Davis had noticed his change in demeanor. She glanced between him and the van on the screen. "You got something?" Her tone was cautiously hopeful.
Derek tilted his head to the side, still frowning. Where had he seen that van before? Instinct had drawn his attention to it, a foggy memory niggling at him.
And then it hit him. His back stiffened, and he jabbed a finger at the image. "That van," he stated, the memory becoming clearer, "was outside our apartment building yesterday afternoon." He speared Davis with a look. "I saw it parked on the street. I remember the blue stripe down the side. I didn't recognize it and assumed it was a courier of some sort."
Davis was already frantically clicking back through images.
Derek did the same, checking photos from around Ash's house, trying to find the same van.
But after five minutes of searching, they'd found no sign of it.
Davis was the first to state the obvious. "Whoever was driving that van, wasn't at Ash's house this morning."
Derek chewed it over for a moment, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest. Perhaps not. But perhaps …
"What are you thinking?" Davis probed. "You look like you're thinking."
Derek scratched at his short beard, blew out a breath. "What if they were at Ash's house," he suggested. "But they drove a different car?"
Davis chewed her lip, considering the possibility. Eventually she nodded, slowly at first and then becoming more rapid. "That's a damned good idea," she muttered, fingers jabbing at the keys as she brought up the image again, zoomed in on the registration plate. "Let's run this plate, see what we get."
Derek felt his gut clench as he regarded the van, thinking that there had potentially been someone inside it yesterday afternoon, watching Clay. Derek had singled out the van as being unfamiliar, but hadn't noticed any red flags, nothing obviously strange about it. Now, however, he wished he could go back in time and peek inside.
While Davis was running the plates, he clicked through images, tracking the van's route from this morning. It was difficult, as not all intersections had cameras.
Davis' search came back, and she jotted down some details from the screen. "Van's registered to a Mateo Garcia," she relayed. "Doesn't appear to be a residential address." She frowned, plugging the address into the search bar. A map popped up, and Derek glanced over, recognizing it as an industrial area about a half hour from the base. The little red pin sat right in the middle of it.
"Factory?" He guessed, feeling uneasiness spread through him.
Davis didn't reply. She brought up the street view, and they looked at what appeared to be a warehouse. Punching in another search, Davis shot him a troubled glance. "There's no business linked to that address."
Derek's worry doubled. "Empty warehouse?" He didn't like the scenarios that were suddenly charging through his mind.
Davis cursed, pushing up from her chair and yelling for the others.
Derek returned to the traffic images, hurriedly tracing the van's path from earlier today. He was only up to the intersections a few miles from his and Clay's apartment, but it was already obvious that the van had been heading towards the warehouse this morning.
A sense of urgency filled him, dropping his stomach and increasing his heartrate.
"Hang in there, kid," he whispered, feeling confident that this was the lead they'd been hoping for. He just prayed that they got to their brother in time.
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Clay focused on his breathing, his heartrate, and keeping his body as still as possible. He hadn't actually passed out, though he'd come close.
It had been a long shot, faking unconsciousness, and his captor had bought it. For how long, Clay wasn't sure. But for the moment, at least, he and Ash were alone, and Clay had a moment to gather his thoughts - to refocus, to plan.
The effects of the drug had worn off considerably, although he'd continued to act as though he was still under its influence. Better for the Colombian to believe he was subdued than to dose him up again.
Clay had thrashed around during the time the man had used the knife and the cattle prod, subtly testing the strength of his restraints and his range of motion, whilst making it appear that he was reacting to the pain. He'd successfully detached himself from the hurt, allowing it to dissolve into a manageable discomfort, hovering on the outskirts of his awareness. The techniques he'd learned during SERE training hadn't been ones he'd ever hoped to use in real life – no operator in their right mind would hope to make use of them. Yet, here he was …
Here, in this God-forsaken warehouse, in the middle of who knew where. He lay on his back, listening to the steady pitter-pat of rain against glass coming from high above him.
He'd heard Ash's words, but hadn't yet acknowledged them. Long before SERE, and his life in the Navy, Clay had learned to detach himself in a different way, thanks to his father.
Back in his early years, living with an angry, mostly-absent Ash, and a hopelessly lost mother, he'd mastered the art of disassociation and withdrawal. He'd often hidden in his wardrobe; knees to his chest, eyes squeezed shut, and hands over his ears to block out the sound of his parents fighting. His mind had always chosen the same place to go - a beautiful beach that he'd once seen on a billboard. He'd thought of it as his beach, his safe place. He hadn't been at all shocked when his mind had taken him back there during SERE - although Brian's appearance had been a pleasant surprise.
Now, Clay reluctantly allowed the feeling of warm sun and sand to fade from his skin. With considerable effort, he dragged his consciousness back to the present, slowly opening his eyes and blinking up at the ceiling.
He could feel his father's gaze upon him. He didn't need to turn his head to know that Ash was watching his every move.
The pain at his peripheral threatened to advance, but Clay counted breaths, keeping it at bay. He didn't need Ash's pep talk to convince him to fight. He was a fighter – had been from the day he was born. And he had no doubt that his brothers would find him. He would fight for them, because he knew they wouldn't give up on him, and so he wouldn't give up on them.
Besides, he couldn't stomach the thought of dying due to one of Ash's mistakes. It was already hard enough trying to live outside of his father's shadow – he wasn't about to let it win and pull him under now.
Clay took a grounding breath, fished for every ounce of strength he could find within his body. Once the Colombian returned, he would have one shot, and one shot only to escape. He couldn't get it wrong.
Allowing his gaze to slide towards his father, he turned his head slightly and regarded the stormy-eyed man.
For a handful of beats, neither of them said anything.
Then Clay cleared his throat, found his voice. "Just tell me one thing," he said, breaking the silence, tone low and even. "Is it true, what this man is saying? Did you kill his son?"
Ash didn't reply. The splinter of some unreadable emotion rippled across his features, but it faded quickly. He inclined his chin – a mannerism Clay had come to associate with the arrogant, cold-hearted bastard.
Clay felt a chill run through him, deciding that he already knew the answer. Anger swirled in the pit of his stomach, but now wasn't the time to feed it. The sound of keys jingling at the door snatched both of their attention.
Time was up.
The dark-haired man had returned.
Clay quickly resumed his 'unconscious' position, focusing all his attention on his breathing once more.
Go time, he thought grimly, quickly running through his plan in his mind.
STSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTST
Clay's question caught Ash off-guard, but he managed to keep his reaction in check.
Of course, the boy would focus on what the Colombian had said. Of course, he wouldn't leave it alone. Clay was far too stubborn for that. He cared too much for his own damned good, relentlessly pursuing justice even when it was a lost cause. Irritation sparked through him. One day, Ash thought bitterly, Clay would learn that caring was dangerous, and it would be his undoing.
Perhaps, that day would be today.
Before either of them could say anything else, the sound of keys met their ears. In the briefest moment it took for Ash's gaze to skip to the door, Clay had closed his eyes again, feigning unconsciousness once more.
Ash set his jaw, meeting the Colombian's shadowed eyes as the dark-haired man stepped into the room. The man had held his distance from the older Spenser – possibly deliberately – making it difficult for Ash to have a shot at him.
Any chance they had of escape, rested solely in Clay's hands.
And Ash loathed that.
The Colombian regarded Clay's unmoving form, and Ash caught the glint of a blade in his hand. A booted foot jerked out and caught Clay roughly in the side, hard enough to bruise already bruised ribs.
Clay's body remained limp, rolling lifelessly with the movement.
Ash huffed silently. He refused to feel impressed. Clay was an expert in trickery - every SEAL was. Building smoke screens was part and parcel of their job.
The Colombian smirked. "Well," he stated flatly, eyes fixed on the rise and fall of Clay's chest. "I suppose I will have to end him while he's unconscious, after all."
Ash offered no reaction, and the Colombian's gaze fixed on him.
The man tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing, assessing. "Either you are very good at hiding your emotions," he observed. "Or you really are a monster, and you don't care at all for your own son."
Ash couldn't help it. The corner of his lip curled slightly into a splinter of a wry smile. Perhaps he was a monster. He'd been called worse. It amused him that he wouldn't be offering the man the satisfaction he was obviously craving.
The dark-haired man's attention was caught on Ash, his eyes resting upon the older SEAL for another moment.
A moment which Clay seized, and used to his advantage.
It happened so fast. One second, Clay was stretched out, lifeless. The next, his body jerked, and he swept his bound ankles towards the man's feet.
The Colombian went down, hard, balance suddenly toppled by Clay's swift kick. He lost the knife, blade clinking against the concrete. He scrambled to get himself upright, cursing at the sudden attack.
Clay didn't waste any time. Bending his knees and bucking, he threw his lower half as high as he could, spine lifting from the floor. He opened his knees on the decent, catching the man's head between them and slamming them together around his neck, pulling the Colombian to the ground.
Ash watched the man thrash, caught between Clay's knees like an animal in a trap.
Clay's whole body shook with the effort, veins visible along his neck, teeth grit as he continued to squeeze his knees together as hard as he could.
The man continued to fight.
But Clay held firm.
Finally, the dark-haired man lost consciousness, and Clay fell back against the concrete, face draining of color and looking like he was about to do the same.
"Hey," Ash barked, not one for praise, "stay with it, boy." He could see that the man was still breathing. "Clock's ticking. Get those damned keys before he wakes."
Clay threw a scowl.
Ash ignored the look.
Hastily, Clay drew the man's body towards him with his knees, and then used his bound feet. Luck was on their side, and the keys had come loose from the Colombian's pocket, half dangling out. Clay managed to snag them with his teeth, gripping and jerking them free. The chains binding his cuffed wrists to the wall were frustratingly short, but after a great deal of grunting, muttered curses, and neck straining, he managed to hook a finger into the loop of the keyring.
"Come on, come on," Ash muttered, watching Clay fumble with, and nearly drop, the keys.
Finally, the cuff around Clay's left wrist popped free, and he hastily shook it off. Within another moment he had the right cuff unlocked.
Ash watched the younger man scramble to a sitting position, taking a moment to balance himself, before grabbing the discarded knife and cutting through the rope that bound his ankles.
Clay half stumbled, half dragged himself across the floor, giving their unconscious captor a wide berth. He quickly set about releasing Ash's binds.
Ash watched his son work, feeling only the slightest bit of remorse for what he was about to do.
Clay believed the Colombian's story. There was no way he would just let it go. The boy was a liability, and Ash had far too much to lose.
As soon as the cuffs came off, Ash pushed to his feet, spinning and catching Clay swiftly across his jaw with a fist.
Clay staggered back, dazed, crumpling hard against the wall.
Ash snatched up a cuff, and in one fluid motion snapped it around Clay's wrist.
Clay tried to push him off, but Ash threw himself back and out of the way - out of reach of Clay's free arm and kicking legs.
Their gaze locked, and for a moment they froze, panting, blue eyes burning as they coldly regarded one another.
Ash retreated a couple of steps, turned, and spat on their still unconscious captor. Then he jingled the keys and allowed them to fall to the floor – just out of Clay's reach.
If Clay was half the operator the Navy thought him to be, then he would find a way to reach them.
Heartless? Ash thought it rather generous. He observed Clay's face, trying to read the expression there.
Confusion. Pain. Anger.
Betrayal.
Ash's own expression remained neutral, his heart unfeeling. He broke eye contact and turned towards the exit. "I'll leave the door unlocked," he announced, as if he were doing Clay a favor.
Clay didn't reply - his silence washing heavily against his father's back.
Ash stepped from the room, leaving Clay alone with the mad man. It wasn't the first time he'd abandoned his son.
But it would be the last.
