Day One: Bound.
The man sneered.
'We had a shared goal, but different outcomes. As it is, Captain Tracy and I have unfinished business.'
And they were herded out of the room, leaving Scott behind.
Scott watched as everyone was pushed out of the ballroom. He watched as Gordon kicked off, protesting loudly that Scott wasn't being released too, and his brother attempted to get through the semicircle of not-staff only to be pushed to the ground and kicked in the stomach.
Scott lunged – attempted to lunge – forward, only to be brought up short by the not-staff member standing behind him placing a hand on his damaged shoulder and squeezing. The pain overtook all efforts to get up and he gasped in pain as his vision whited out.
By the time his eyesight settled Scott was alone with three not-staff and him.
He must have been out of it for a short while because now his hands were bound behind his back. Not with rope, though. He carefully rubbed his wrists together but the binds were tight. And smooth, leading Scott to believe they'd used a tablecloth, probably torn to make it viable to hold him.
His captor was talking to the not-staff. Scott looked around. There were no sirens, no guests and no brothers in the area. While still on the stage, Scott was closer to the kitchen, and more importantly, his feet weren't tied. There wasn't much time, and he was going to make the most of it.
Shooting off the chair and heading for the kitchen, he ignored the yell behind him and just concentrated on getting out. He didn't get far.
Two bodies collided with him, pushing him down onto the ground and holding him there as the slow deliberate footsteps of him approached. The two men got off him as his captor crouched down.
'Now, that wasn't very wise, Captain Tracy.'
He stood up and over Scott, swung his foot and kicked Scott's shoulder hard, before crouching down again. Scott bit his lip to stop crying out, but again his vision whited out. When his vision cleared again, he was kneeling over Scott, a syringe held in his eyeline.
'Time to say goodnight, Captain.' And he injected the contents into Scott's neck.
The last thing that Scott remembered was the shiny black boots moving away from him.
Awareness crept up on Scott slowly. A certain grogginess associated with drugs and injury that he was familiar with on a reasonably regular basis due to his line of work accompanied the gradually increasing cognisance.
He wanted to groan, but the part of him, his military brain, told him that quiet was the order of the day. Pretend to be out of it as long as possible and see what information he could glean.
As he became more and more aware, details began to filter through. He was sitting up, legs splayed in front of him. His hands were bound behind him, a slight movement told him they were cuffs. But there was a bar between his back, running up the length of his spine. It was cold, telling him that he no longer had his shirt on or any top on at all.
Scott slightly flared his nostrils. No smell, no perceptible draft. There was something rough in his mouth, some kind of material was gagging him. There was nothing else he could glean without opening his eyes.
The sight of where he was didn't inspire hope. A small white room, no windows only a cage and a door. The cage he was sitting in was barely above his head and his feet – his bare feet – touched the bars on the other side. His feet weren't bound, which was something, but the numbness of his arms and his bottom and legs told him he'd been in this position for quite a while.
The size of the cage told Scott that it had been assembled in the room, it filled three-quarters of the tiny room. There was a door opposite, one that was in his eyeline, with a space between the cage and the door that a person could easily pace up and down in front of the cage.
Sighing, Scott had little else to do but think about what had happened. His shirt, shoes and socks were missing, he was sitting in his suit trousers only. His shoulder had been patched, cleaned and crudely bandaged, and was stiff from not being used, its dull ache viciously jabbing his memory.
Memories that had been dormant for years. Memories that he didn't ever want to visit again. Memories that he couldn't suppress any longer.
Scott closed his eyes, lent his head back against the bar, and let the unwelcome memories wash over him.
Virgil and John had to haul Gordon off the ground after that kick. They heard Scott's chair scrape and the gasp as he was stopped, but they were herded out, the last to leave. Once they made it to the main doors they were pushed through and the doors closed behind them.
Police were waiting for them, and an EMT came over to run a scan of Gordon and bandage his head. They sat in one of the buses while he received treatment. Virgil sat with him while John, Kayo and Penny spoke to the police and guests outside.
The staff – the real staff – had also been released, and Penny and Kayo moved to questioning them while John spoke to his father.
'Are the police going to move in?'
'No, Dad. With Scott being the hostage, and at least 15 men with guns in there, they are taking their time deciding how to move.'
'Do you think that is wise?'
'I think that Jones and the majority of the men have already fled. They had begun disappearing as the guests were filing out.'
'I'm inclined to agree, John.'
'I am pretty sure that whoever the man is who shot Scott, he'll also leave via the kitchens and the staff entrance. There are four ways to get into the staff entrances and the police have them covered.'
'But…I'm sensing a but?'
'They haven't arrested anyone. The men have vanished without a trace.'
Jeff sighed. Hidden entrances or tunnels wasn't something unusual, particularly with old, established hotels. And this evenings' events were held in one of the oldest hotels in New York, so no, he wasn't surprised that there was another way in.
'Is your daughter working on it?'
'Yeah. She'll find it.'
'In the meantime, do we have any images of the man that has Scott, any idea who it was?'
'They definitely knew each other, and he kept calling Scott 'Captain'. There was obviously some history between him, because he reminded Scott that he had promised to shoot him the next time they met.'
Jeff froze momentarily before getting up. John listened as it sounded like his Dad was searching and he waited. When Jeff appeared back on screen he looked like he'd seen a ghost.
He held up an old picture. It was a group of eleven people, nine of them were around Scott's age, one was Scott and one was an older man. He pointed to one in particular.
'Was he this man, John?'
John stared.
'Yes, Dad. It was him.'
Jeff swore.
'Dad?' John sounded worried. 'Dad? What's going on?'