**** TRIGGER WARNINGS****
Kidnapping, graphic physical violence w/ knife, shooting, threat of rape
_
Jim and Hans walked out to the rental car. Of course, Hans would take the time to rent some sort of fancy ass foreign car. What was wrong with American made? Jim was taking this way worse than he could ever imagine. He knew he was acting childish, but he hated that damn German so much.
Hans slid into the drivers seat as Jim huffed his way into the passenger side.
"Well?" the commissioner barked. "Get a move on... it's over an hour drive to New York."
"Might I see your glasses first?" Hans asked politely.
Jim furrowed his brow in confusion as he removed his glasses to hand to the man.
Slam.
Before Jim even realized it, Hans had grabbed him by the back of the head and slammed his face into the dashboard before calmly returning the glasses. Jim tasted blood as he cursed under his breath.
"Don't ever touch me in front of Grace again, Gordon," Hans warned. "In fact, don't touch me at all. You have no idea who you're dealing with. I will cut you slack— I know how much you love Claire, whether or not you want to admit it. But disrespect doesn't sit well with me. I won't tolerate it again. Understood?"
"Yes, Gruber," Jim reluctantly replied. "Loud and clear."
Hans rubbed his sore jaw from earlier. "Now we're even," he smirked.
Jim scoffed. "Yes, I suppose we are."
A few moments passed as they drove towards the city until Jim finally broke the silence. He couldn't stand not acting, not talking, not doing something toward finding Claire. "Alright, Gruber. Let's come up with a plan."
XXXXX
Claire slowly blinked into awareness. Her arms prickled as what was left of her sensation struggled against her bindings. Her head lolled back until her vertebrae cracked with resistance. Sweeping her head forward again, she was able to snap herself out of her trance.
Focus on your surroundings.
It was dark in the room... no sign of the outside aside from a hopper window which allowed a solitary beam of sunlight into a dark corner. There wasn't much to see besides concrete walls that were stained with mildew from obvious water damage. There was no furniture in sight, only a large wooden beam from which she hung in the center. She was able to just touch her toes to the floor to give her poor shoulders a brief respite. She hung by a rope that was wrapped tightly around her bloody wrists. As she looked over the rest of her body, she noticed several dark bruises over her legs and hips.
Finger marks. He had forced her somehow. But she couldn't remember what had happened. All she could remember was going on a walk.
Her nostrils flared as she took in the scent of a musty old basement— that sickening sweet smell of mold mixed with stagnant air and water. There was a strong scent of blood and urine as well. She supposed that was from herself; she could taste the metallic blood inside her mouth. Her jaw was sore... had he struck her too? How long had she been here?
She focused on any sort of sound to give away where she was. Straining in the darkness, she could only hear the dripping of an old pipe. She forced herself to move on— that sound alone would drive her insane. Some scuffling came from a dark corner; whoever it was that took her was walking down the old stone stairs. Inhaling deeply, Claire centered herself and tried to cut off all emotions. This was her best chance at survival.
"Ah. You're awake. That's good," the man stated coldly.
"Where am I? Who are you?" Claire demanded. Her hands contracted and relaxed, willing blood flow to return.
The man chuckled. "Didn't Stan ever mention me? I was his third in command after all." He paused, waiting for her to speak up. When she didn't, his ire only increased. "Of course he fucking didn't!" he spat. "Why would the great Norman Stansfield mention anything about anyone else? Typical." His words were laced with venom.
"What do you want?" Claire asked, willing herself to remain calm. She studied his features— burly body, shaved head, tanned skin. Him. Of course... Kay's random dance partner at the holiday ball. But it clearly wasn't random. All their years working together, Jim would say he didn't allow himself to believe in coincidence. Claire now understood why.
"I want what is owed to me, bitch. Stan left you all that money. I helped him get the money. I killed for him. I went to jail for him. And he gives it all to you. So... princess ... do we think your commissioner lover or your twisted 'father' figure will get to you first, hmm? Do we think they can figure out where you kept the money and bring it here while there is anything left of you?"
"There's nothing to give, you fucker. I don't know what you're talking about." She felt a sharp sting where he slapped her cheek, and she could taste a new trickle of blood where he'd opened an old wound.
"Don't talk back, bitch. I've been following you for months. I plotted this for fifteen fucking years in prison! You don't deserve to live."
"No one is coming for me, so you might as well just kill me. Jim won't come for me... we... we're done." Claire tried to choke back her tears. Saying it aloud made everything real.
Jim wasn't coming— he hated her. He had barely looked her direction at work these past few weeks. Hans wasn't coming; he was in California. Truthfully, either man potentially might help... IF THEY ONLY KNEW SHE WAS MISSING. Perhaps Grace would notice? Unlikely— she'd been putting in so many hours at the hospital lately. Claire decided her only hope was to pray for a quick death instead of some sort of prolonged torture.
"Oh no, princess," he laughed. "They are coming for you. They will bring the money. You underestimate the power of your perfect little pussy. You must be a good fuck to get Stan to leave you everything. And now you have the goddamn police commissioner tripping all over himself for you? Maybe I should sample your abilities for myself, hmm? Would you like that?"
The man chuckled darkly as he approached her. Reaching out with one large hand, he gripped Claire by the throat and squeezed. She tried to relax, to give into the fatigue her body was feeling. She willed herself to stop fighting, to just give in and sleep. Blackness crept in from all angles until finally she felt no more pain.
XXXXX
"So it's agreed then? You'll do things your way and leave me to mine?" Hans questioned.
"Yes," Jim responded grumpily.
"And you aren't going to have me arrested when we are finished?" He lifted his eyebrow, challenging the commissioner.
Jim sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "No, Gruber. I won't have you arrested. Hell, if we pull this off and save Claire, I might even do you a favor and forget your face."
Hans grunted as he pulled into an abandoned lot. This would be their fourth stop in as many hours. Each time, the men had gotten into arguments or bumped into each other in a dark corridor. Once, Jim had almost shot the German. He had apologized and chalked it up to nerves, but Hans knew better. It was getting late, and the men's tempers had started to flare. They needed to find Claire quickly if they wanted the statistic on their side.
"What is this place?" Jim inquired with disgust. He had heard all about the other locations and their nefarious purposes. This shit hole looked horrible; he couldn't imagine Gruber coming here.
"One of Stan's old storage places. He'd keep the product here while it waited for shipment out west. Remember your promise— no arrest," Hans warned quickly.
They walked closer to the building, creeping more and more quietly. Jim took out his gun and signaled for Hans to take the rear entrance as he defended the stairs. Hans slipped away, every bit the silent assassin Jim knew him to be. He didn't even make a noise as he moved weightlessly across the gravel.
XXXXX
Searing heat awakened Claire. She was disappointed to wake up. She thought for sure he would have killed her. She glanced down— still fully clothed, and she didn't feel any more sore than before. He must not have touched her... not sexually at least. She felt a heat coming off her left thigh.
The man had turned on a dim overhead light. A solitary yellow bulb hung down from the ceiling. It wasn't enough to light the room— rather it made her feel like she was on display. The entertainment... probably the subject of photographs as well, that he would use to get what he wanted. He must have had to use the light because the sun no longer cascaded through the window. How long had she been down here?
Looking down again, she saw three slices in her leggings. He had cut her with some sort of blade. It didn't seem to be deep, from what she could tell. Likely just enough to wake her up.
Then she felt it again. A quick slash. No pain. Odd. Once her brain caught up to her body, the heat blossomed. It was the same searing pain that had startled her awake. He was slicing her back now. He remained shallow with his cuts, careful to not scar her, she assumed. He must want her somewhat intact.
Fuck, it hurt. She had sliced her finger while cooking once and had almost fainted. This was much, much worse. She started crying, trying to move her body out of the way, but she was unsuccessful. The man laughed at her feeble attempts. He walked around to her front, showing her his switchblade.
"You look beautiful like this, kitten. Red really is your color." He reached over and wiped his knife off on her shirt.
"P-please. Stop. Just kill me. No one's coming. Just make it fast." Her breathing was shaky now, and she was hardly able to get that statement out over her tears. She wanted to vomit; the room was spinning, and she felt the warm, sticky dripping of her blood. That's when she heard it— the thundering boom of the door being kicked open.
"Help!" she screamed instinctively. "Please, help!"
Her kidnapper spun around, obviously stunned. He quickly moved behind Claire, holding the knife to her throat.
"Put the knife down, Benny."
Jim.
Jim pulled his gun and focused on the man. He blinked rapidly, trying to get his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He slowly crept down the stairs, careful not to focus too much on the crying and bloodied woman. He needed to keep his senses.
"I won't ask again, Benny. Put. The knife. Down," he commanded.
"No, I don't think I will. Where's my money?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Has the bitch never told you? Her old man left her 500 grand when he got himself blown up. That money is mine. I deserve it! I worked with him. I bled for him."
"I'm sure we can come up with a deal," Jim assured the man. "Just put the knife down and walk away."
"Spoken like a cop," the kidnapper chided. "I'm a cop too. Did she tell you that? Stan and I were DEA. I know all the tricks. You can't talk me out of this. I won't be made a fool of anymore." He pressed his knife deeper into Claire's throat, causing a whimper and a small cut to form. Jim's eyes finally broke away from Benny to observe her.
Broken. She looked broken. Her face was bruised, one eye swollen shut. She was covered in blood. By the looks of it, they were shallow cuts— nothing looked too deep. His eyes snapped back to the criminal.
"Just... just wait, Benny. Give me some time to come up with the money," attempted Jim.
"I had plenty of time — 15 years! In max security!" he screamed. "Do you know what the fuck it's like to go to prison as a cop, commissioner? No? It's fucking hell. Had the shit beaten out of me daily. Assaulted. Tell me... should I do that to your woman in front of you? I'll forget about the money for a bit of her pussy — what do you think? Deal?"
Jim set his jaw and growled. He didn't have a clear shot; the clever bastard kept himself hidden behind Claire. Where the fuck was the German?
"This is between you and me now, Benny," Jim attempted again. "Leave her out of this."
"Mmm, no. No, this actually has nothing to do with you," concluded Benny. "This doesn't even involve you. You're... dispensable."
"Good. Cut her down and let me take her place. Gotham will pay you for my life. I'm sure of it," Jim bargained.
"Fair enough. Come on then, get her down and take her place." Benny smiled at the commissioner and gestured for him to come forward. "Put the gun down first," he whispered.
Jim carefully laid his weapon down and stepped forward.
"Jim, no..." Claire weakly whispered to him.
"Shh. It's ok, kiddo. It'll all be ok." Jim reached out to caress her battered face.
Jim felt the knife slide in smoothly. There wasn't any pain. Not at first. He felt the pop of his skin as the tip of the blade slid in, and then just some pressure. After the knife slid out, he felt hot. So hot. He was burning up and wanted to vomit.
"Jim! No!" Claire screamed.
Jim dropped to his knees, his hands going to his ribs where he felt the warm, sticky fluid pooling.
"Tsk tsk, commissioner. You're slipping. Always clear the corners," Benny mocked.
Jim swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing as he looked up at Claire. So much wasted time. If they never would have fought, they wouldn't be here, dying. He thought of his kids. How was this going to get explained? He'd go down in some sort of scandal. He looked up at Claire, sadness reflecting in her eyes. This was it. Benny had already admitted this wasn't all about the money when he'd entertained the thought of trading it all for a taste of Claire. He was clearly thirsty for revenge — what better way than taking out the head of the police force?
"It's okay, kiddo. It'll all be okay."
How poetic... the very words he said to his son when Dent had forced his hand. Why did everyone he love have to face this much danger? They all deserved better than him.
"Make it quick, Benny," muttered Jim. "Let's not draw this out."
Benny stalked behind Jim, moving quickly to pick up the commissioner's discarded gun. He walked back over to Jim. "On your knees, hands behind your head. Look at your woman. Every man deserves to look at something beautiful while he dies."
Benny cocked his gun. "1... 2..."
Bang.
It was like a firework popping. Claire's ears felt deafened from the gun shot. She started screaming but couldn't hear herself. Was she making noise? Was she silently screaming? Jim was face down on the filthy floor, hands splayed out.
Claire started hyperventilating. She didn't want his blood all over her. It was chunky. She knew there was tissue on her as well, but she wouldn't allow herself to think about it. It was over. It was finally over.
"Always clear the corners," the German purred to Benny's trembling, bleeding form.
"Come on, Bunny. Let's get you and your man out of here, hmm?" Hans said, almost cheerfully.
Jim turned over, glaring at the German. He winced in pain as he pulled himself into a seated position. "You couldn't have shot him before he stabbed me?" demanded Jim. "Fuck!"
"I like to make an entrance, what can I say?" Hans shrugged. "Come on, Gordon. We need to get you both to a hospital. Are you stable enough to make it back to Grace?"
Jim took off his jacket and applied it to his wound. "I'll be fine. Apparently Stan didn't have the brightest or most skilled henchmen. I've had worse. How's Claire?"
"She's in shock," Hans stated as he cut her down. "Nothing looks fatal. She should be fine for the trip back." Hans gathered her in his arms, bridal style. "Can you get back to the car on your own, or shall I carry you too?"
The men smirked at each other.
"I'll make it," Jim grumbled. "Come on, let's go."
Note: Benny was a real character in Leon: the Professional. He was a side character, the only one of Stan's henchmen to survive (of the ones we know about, at least), and only appeared briefly in the film. But the actor who played him was a real-life superhero— an NYC firefighter who died on 9/11. So while our character Benny ended up being super creepy here, the actor was pretty awesome. Just some interesting trivia!
