Firstly, thank you again for all the lovely comments and encouragement! Secondly, I apologise for the fact that this chapter is short. I was going to continue it, but I felt like I wanted to leave Clay's POV as a stand-alone. Hopefully I wont be too long with the next bit. I think there'll be another 2 chapters to this story. Thanks again for reading :) All mistakes are mine.
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Clay had attempted to fight – though he'd known it was pointless. He'd still been in shock from his father abandoning him, when his captor had come at him with a dart gun.
As much as he'd tried, there'd been no changing the fact that he was chained to a wall, with nowhere to go. His only hope of escape had vanished, along with Ash.
The dart had hit him in the bicep of his unchained arm. Possibly the worst place it could have landed, as there was no way to pluck it free. Not that removing it quickly would have made much of a difference. Within fifteen seconds, he'd felt the drug weaken him – his vision blurring, muscles relaxing. But, unlike the last time, it didn't knock him out completely. And the dark-haired man, upon realizing this, finished the job swiftly with the butt of his gun.
Darkness …
The next thing Clay had known, he'd blinked his eyes open just in time to see what looked like the lid of a trunk closing above him.
More darkness – though this time it was from lack of light, not lack of consciousness.
There was the sound of an engine, and he'd jostled abruptly with the vehicle's sudden movement. Drifting somewhere between dreams and reality, Clay had scrambled to piece together his surroundings, and hold tight to any scrap of control he still had over his own body.
He was fucked.
It had served him right for trusting Ash, when the man had betrayed him, again. He'd been fooled more than once, and the shame rested squarely on him.
Clay had then tested his range of movement. He'd registered that his hands were tied behind his back, his ankles once again bound. Based on the small amount of light dimly illuminating the seal around the trunk lid, he'd concluded that he was facing towards the interior of the vehicle.
With disjointed thoughts, and body barely cooperating, he'd resorted to the only thing he could think of - kicking backwards with his bound heels, towards what he'd guessed was one of the tail lights. With any luck, he'd be able to push it out, and hopefully grab somebody's attention.
Unfortunately, the effort had quickly become too much.
He'd barely kicked three times, before he'd toppled away from reality - and back into disjointed, troubled dreams.
Now, he stumbled along, mostly held up by his captor, as they made their way towards the back door of what appeared to be a modest, run-down brick house.
Clay threw all his energy into one last attempt to break free, thrashing about wildly and crying out before they reached the door. But he was too weak, and his efforts were abruptly ended with a sharp fist to the jaw, which left him tasting blood.
Struggling not to black out, Clay couldn't maintain his balance, and his knees gave way. He would have plunged down onto the cracked concrete porch if the dark-haired man hadn't grabbed him roughly and dragged him the rest of the way.
Blinking dazedly at his dragging boots, Clay's chin bumped against his chest as he was pulled backwards, the man's arms hooked under his. Cracked concrete turned to worn carpet, and then to stained tiles as he was taken further into the house.
The light was dim, the air stale. The house had a dirty, closed-up feel about it, unkept and potentially un-lived in.
Clay tried, but failed, to coordinate his limbs. The drug was still coursing through his system, and the knocks to the head plus exhaustion had taken the last of his fight.
Dimly, as he was dragged into what appeared to be a grimy bathroom, he realized that this was it. This was the way he was going to go out. Not on the battlefield, like he'd always imagined. But here, in some stranger's home, in Virginia Beach.
At least, he thought dully, he thought he was still in Virginia Beach.
He was roughly lifted, and unceremoniously dumped face first into something cold and unforgiving.
Clay felt the breath knocked from him, as he breathed jaggedly against the stained enamel of the empty bath tub. He attempted to lift his head, but he had no strength left. With considerable effort, he managed to turn his face to the side.
His wrists were raised by the rope, and he felt his ankles being lifted. Something was fastened between them, pulling them tight so that he was hog-tied, completely unable to move. He felt his back protest at the unnatural angle, but there was nothing he could do about it.
A part of Clay wanted to pass out then and there, and not wake up. It would probably be better than whatever this mad man had planned for him. He felt guilty, because he wanted so badly to hold on for his brothers. But the reality was, his team mates might not even know where he was. They might not know he was in trouble.
They might not even be coming.
Swallowing bile, Clay felt pain travel through his chest. It had nothing to do with his injuries. His brothers, his team, they were the best thing that had ever happened to him. It hurt that he would never be able to tell them that. Or say thank you.
Gathering what was left of his strength, Clay fished for his voice. It was husky, the words slurred together. "What's your name?" He wasn't even sure why he was asking.
The man wasn't visible, but Clay knew that he was there, heard him moving around.
"It doesn't matter," came the quiet reply after a moment.
Clay swallowed roughly, throat painfully dry. "I can help you get justice for you family," he offered, in a last-ditch attempt to appeal to the man's humanity.
But the man just laughed bitterly, and then allowed a heavy pause to linger between them. "There was never going to be any justice," he answered.
And even in Clay's semi-conscious state, he could tell that it was pointless trying to negotiate. This man had lost too much. He wouldn't, and most likely couldn't, be reasoned with.
Clay felt panic tingle through him. It was distant, dulled by the drug. "My father wont care, you know," he muttered weakly.
The man released a small huff. "Maybe he wont," he stated, tone once again eerily hollow. "But maybe he will. Maybe one day he'll wake up and his conscience will catch up to him. Or, perhaps the law will catch up to him, if it's discovered he left you to die. Either way, he will pay. If not in this life, then in the next one."
Clay's stomach rolled. His heart pounded in his ears. It was no use trying to calm his breathing, he knew he would be dead soon and none of it would matter anymore. He'd always thought he would be brave in the face of death, when his time came. But now, he felt his bravado stripped back, leaving him exposed and terribly raw. Despite the haze of drugs, his throat constricted, and panic swirled.
There was so much more he wanted to do with his life. A small sob broke free, muffled against the side of the tub. Clay turned his face downwards again, feeling the warmth of his breath as it came jaggedly through his nose. Hot tears leaked into his lashes.
There was the click of a lighter. Moments later, the stench of cigarette smoke tingled Clay's nostrils. He nearly gagged, stomach hyper-sensitive. His heartrate picked up speed, if that was even possible.
"My son didn't die quickly," the man said. "And so, neither will you."
Clay's mouth felt horribly dry. He braced himself, trying to guess what the man's next move might be. But between the drug and the panic, he was barely hanging on. Once again, he wished to just pass out.
But no such luck came.
With a rough jolt, the man gripped one of Clay's bound arms. The rope was pushed down his arm, as far as it would allow. A sharp pain blazed suddenly across his wrist.
Clay's eyes flew open, wide with shock. He cried out, tried to wriggle away. But there was no escape.
Pain burst across his other wrist, stealing his breath once again, and Clay could feel the telltale warmth of fresh blood seeping down onto his exposed back, running down his sides.
"The harder you struggle, the quicker you will bleed out," the man stated casually.
Clay willed his pounding heart calm, his breathing steady. But it was no use. He could feel the stickiness against his sides, dripping around the waist of his jeans.
The man sat quietly, watching, puffing acrid cigarette smoke into the small room.
Minutes passed.
Despite Clay's best efforts to slow his heartrate and the blood leaking from his veins, the world, and his life, began to dim.
His ears began to ring, and pressure built in his head, until it felt like it was about to explode.
Dizziness came in an overwhelming wave.
And then –
A gunshot? And a familiar voice – a voice that Clay thought he would never hear again.
"I got you, buddy," it said.
Clay felt himself smile, warmth and recognition flooding through him. With the splinter of strength he had left, he jerkily tilted his head as far as he could to gaze up at the man standing at the edge of the tub, reaching down towards him with strong arms.
"I got you," Brian repeated gently. "Let's go home."
