Part Four: The Rescue
Author's Note: For those who asked, a Virtual Season Archive has been set up. I'm going to add the link at the end of this chapter. Fanfiction.net is being evil when I tried to add it at the beginning of my document.
Steve sat, tremors running through his body as he continued to wait. A stun belt brought not only loss of control, but also pain and humiliation. The things were inhumane. But the waiting in the quiet and dark was worse. He knew what was coming, he simply didn't know when.
Time stretched and lost meaning as the silent stand off continued; neither side willing to give up the psychological edge. Steve refused to speak, unwilling to acknowledge his fear. The others, he knew, wanted to break him in that small way so that they could open the door to the next level of torture.
And then it came, firing like lava out from the middle of his back through to every nerve ending in his body. Total loss of control combined with the excruciating pain that seemed to go on and on and then suddenly it stopped. He was left dazed with the shock of it, almost whimpering with relief that it was over.
But it wasn't over. It was just a second's reprieve. The pain began again, seeming worse than before. It tore relentlessly through him, burning its way through his body as he shook uncontrollably. Surely he was dying. And then, blessedly, it ended.
But he knew, with absolute certainty that it was coming again. He wanted to weep at the inhumanity of it all. He wanted to cry out for them to stop, but he couldn't catch his breath, couldn't form the words properly. And then it was back. It shot through him, along his spine, to his brain and then he knew no more.
~*~*~*~*~*
Though bleary-eyed with exhaustion, Mark tapped at the re-play button on the computer's keyboard as he continued to comb through the video images. He hoped to gather more information while everyone waited for Ron to arrive. Though the agent had promised that he'd be there in less than ten minutes, Mark found that he couldn't simply sit and wait.
"All right, who is it?" Ron wanted to know.
Mark started slightly as the man's voice echoed loudly around the room. He had been so engrossed in the images and low-toned sounds coming through his headsets that he hadn't even noted Ron's entrance.
He took in his form, noting immediately that the other man had changed, obviously showered, and dressed in a different set of clothing. That set Mark's frazzled nerves farther on edge. No one else in the room had taken time to attend to such matters, having been too intent on doing what they could to try to help find Steve in the limited manner which was available to them.
Ron, seeming to notice the direction Mark's gaze took, raised a hand in defense.
"It's for appearances, Mark. I'm supposed to be working a routine protection case, not one that involves a good friend. I can't give any indication that my visit to this house has anything to do with the assignment. Ostensibly, I'm dropping by to pick up the jacket I left last night." To back up the claim, he displayed the jacket.
Mark relaxed somewhat. Information about Mikhail's true whereabouts was still a closely guarded secret, known only to the people who currently occupied his home. Even Steve didn't know, although from listening to the recorded audio, he figured that his son had guessed.
Mark ran a hand over his forehead, trying to put his thoughts in order. "Steve said that one of the agents had medical training, just in case it was needed. Would that agent have access to Mikhail's medical records?"
Ron frowned slightly, apparently not liking where Mark was going. "Yes, that agent would. But Agent Seymour has been with the Bureau for ten years and has an exemplary record. You're not suggesting . . . "
Mark turned to Mikhail. "You mentioned an allergy to eggs when Jesse offered you the potato salad."
"Yes. It is true. But it is not a serious one. I develop the hives and itch very badly. I did not vant to experience these things vhile in your home."
"Right. But it would have still been a part of your medical work up. Agent Seymour would have known about it."
Mark turned back toward Ron. "Can you describe Agent Seymour?"
Ron shrugged. "Red hair. Medium height."
Mark nodded. "He's the one who told Steve that dinner was ready, and the one who stood by and watched while he was taking the medications we gave him. He saw Steve eating the potato salad. He would have known that if he was truly Mikhail Jener that he had an allergy to eggs. It would have been an immediate tip-off that Steve wasn't who he purported to be. Which is probably why the took him, instead of . . . "
Mark couldn't finish the statement, but he knew that everyone understood what he meant.
"But he doesn't know anything," Jesse spoke up.
Ron raised his eyes thoughtfully in Jesse's direction. "That doesn't mean that they aren't going to try to get the information out of him anyway."
Those words added an additional weight of worry to Mark's heart. Not only was his son missing, but he was probably being tortured as well.
"You may be on to something, Mark," Ron continued. "I'll bring Seymour in. He was released from duty and debriefed after the incident. Once the gas wears off, the only symptoms that remind is lethargy and a mild headache."
"Is there anyway to tell if he got the gas after everyone else?" Mark asked.
"I'll have to check into that." Ron turned to the tech, who had long since insisted that everyone call him Joey, and asked him to look into Seymour's records.
The young man nodded his head. Judging by what Mark could make out on his laptop, he had already started. It helped a little that everyone seemed enthusiastically focused on finding Steve.
~*~*~*~*~*
"He's not talking."
"How many rounds of treatment?"
"Two. He's not available at the moment."
"We're running out of time. Wake him and move to the next step."
~*~*~*~*~*
Steve wasn't sure how much time passed before the water hit him. It was icy cold and it left him gasping with shock. He coughed and sputtered, struggling to catch his breath. All the movements aggravated muscles that had stiffened from being in the same position for an extended period of time. Then there was the bone deep ache that had nothing do with the way he was sitting.
The torment started against with the taser gun, silently immobilizing him. The man needn't have bothered because Steve didn't think he would have the strength to even remain upright in the chair much less try to struggle.
"Where is he?"
When the whispered voice sounded in the darkness, Steve at first thought that he'd imagined it. But he felt puffs of air as the speaker spoke very close to his ear.
"Where?" the voice demanded again.
Realizing that the opposing side had broken the silence first reinforced his determination. It was a psychological victory for the home team. Buoyed despite his continued physical helplessness, Steve remained stubbornly silent.
A rough hand grabbed unto his arm, startling him with its suddenness. In the next moment something was jabbed painfully into his forearm. This time he felt a burning sensation as something was again injected into his bloodstream. He knew immediately that it was something different as the man's next whispered words echoed and flowed around him. He had a difficult time grasping what he was saying. And then he felt the stun belt being reattached.
Steve's heart began to race, and he started to pant, seemingly unable to control his responses. He didn't want to do this anymore. He couldn't. But he couldn't tell them what they wanted to know either. While he'd guessed where the FBI was hiding Mikhail Jener, there was no way he could send a killer to his father's house. He'd die first. The application of the stun belt started and he wished that he could, if only to make the pain go away.
~*~*~*~*~*
The day dragged into evening, and still there were no leads on where Steve might be. Mark was reaching the end of his endurance with worry and exhaustion. He'd been up the whole of the night before going through the video. He didn't think he could get his eyes to focus if he wanted to. But he couldn't sleep either. When he closed his eyes, all he could think of was all of the ways that a man could be made to talk.
According to Ron, Agent Seymour had reported into the field office as usual. He'd been questioned under the guise of getting more information concerning what had taken place and the man had given nothing away. The other two agents at the safe house had been questioned as well.
Aside from Mark's assertion as to his knowledge of Mikhail's medical condition, nothing else had been found to implicate him. He'd only shown a little more residual tiredness than the other agent's displayed -- which he attempted to remedy by going back to his hotel room for a lunchtime nap. Ron had wanted to drop him as a suspect, but Mark had argued against it. Amanda had even joined in, supporting Mark's instincts. Eventually Ron had given in, agreeing to monitor the agent himself when he left duty that evening.
As Mark stood watching another sunset, he wondered if he would ever see his son again. Since the trial was due to start in 36 hours, arrangements were already being made to handle Mikhail's movement to the courthouse.
Steve had been officially missing for nearly 24. Though it wasn't mentioned openly, Mark had caught the hints that there was some worry about exposure of Mikhail's location. Apparently, Steve's comments regarding the beach house had been interpreted by the F.B.I. to mean that he had guessed the location as well. Mikhail was being moved from Mark's home to another secure location. Of those present, only Ron knew where.
The Russian had come to Mark upon hearing the news. He had obviously wanted to communicate his sympathy for the situation. Unable to come up with satisfying words in English, he had spoken a phrase in his own language before squeezing both of Mark's hands between his.
Jesse had come into the room then, wanting to do a final check of the other man's injuries, to ensure that they were healing properly. Amanda had followed on his heels, attempting to arrange a final dinner before he left.
Mark wasn't sure that he could eat. But as he heard Amanda returning, he headed back to the room containing all of the surveillance equipment. Maybe there was something else that he'd missed.
~*~*~*~*~*
When Steve awoke again, the thin pajamas he was wearing had dried, but the faint smell of ammonia and body odor remained. As he had woken slowly and there was no water beading on him, he figured that he was alone. The omni-present darkness prevented him from knowing for sure.
He was certain though that if there was light, the room would be spinning. He was having a hard time holding up his head, and things seemed fairly unstable even in the dark. Fighting against the pervading weakness, he tried to move his feet. They were bare against the cold concrete, and the fastenings were tight.
He tried moving his hands. A faint ray of hope flickered as he felt one of the bindings shift a little. He worked at them, aggravating the areas already raw from his movements during the shocks that had been inflicted upon him. He shuddered at the memory and redoubled his efforts to get his hand loose.
~*~*~*~*~*
"What about Agent Seymour?" Mark wanted to know. All of the agents had moved out of his home in shifts. It was as if they had never been there except for all of the dishes and carry out cartoons. Ron had called to tell him that there was no new information in the search for Steve.
"He had dinner with the other agents and went up to his room early," Ron replied, slightly exasperated.
"I want to talk to him," Mark said.
"Look Mark, I'm really sorry I got Steve involved in all of this. I'm not giving up on him. I will find him. But I don't think your talking to Agent Seymour is going to be any help."
"Fine. I'll go see him myself. I saw Agent Macey's screen, I know he's at the Riverdale Inn. I'll check every one of them in the Los Angeles area if I have to to find him."
Ron sighed heavily. "Okay, Mark. I guess I owe you. I'll meet you there. It's the one on Broadway. But do not go in without me. Understood?"
"Yes. I understand." Mark hung up the phone and hurried toward the door. He didn't argue when Jesse followed him.
~*~*~*~*~*
"Sorry I'm late. I couldn't contact you earlier."
"I take it he has not talked."
"No. Either he is unusually determined or he knows nothing."
"We've wasted enough time with him. You'll have to make your move at the courthouse."
"And the decoy?"
"Get rid of him."
~*~*~*~*~*
"How long before he's supposed to be here?" Jesse asked, looking around the darkened parking lot. They had been waiting for the other agent for close to 10 minutes.
"He didn't say," Mark replied, his worry growing. Surely Ron wouldn't mislead him about something so important.
He scanned the lot in search of the other man's car. A white Buick pulled in, but that wasn't the type of vehicle the agent had been driving, so Mark allowed his gaze to continue on. His attention was caught when Jesse touched his shoulder.
"Hey, check that guy out. He shouldn't be doing that. I thought those set off an alarm or something."
Mark followed Jesse's gesture and noticed a man moving through a side emergency exit. The man seemed to look nonchalantly around the lot before heading off toward the back of the building. The hotel butted against a section of older warehouses. In a brief spot of light in the corner of the parking area, Mark thought he caught the flash of red hair.
"Wait for Ron, would you, Jess?" He didn't wait for a response as he set off after the man. The distance was too far to make out the man's features, but something told him that the man wasn't about legitimate business.
"Mark! Wait!" Jesse called after him in a stage whisper.
"He should be here any minute," Mark assured him over his shoulder and continued onward into the darkness.
~*~*~*~*~*
Steve had almost gotten one of his hands loose when he heard a sound that sent a chill along his spine. It was the sound of a heavy door being opened. It echoed through the room, confirming the fact that he was in a warehouse.
A dim shaft of light invaded the darkness at the far side of the room and a man was briefly highlighted against the opening. Wherever they were, it was nighttime. Then the room was plunged into darkness again as the door slammed shut.
In that moment, his right hand broke free of its bondage. He struggled to reach across to release his other hand, but his muscles protested and his movements were uncoordinated and painfully slow. Meanwhile, the footsteps continued to sound in the room, not moving toward him, but along what he now knew was the far wall.
Suddenly there was a deep echoing click. The room was flooded in brilliant light. It shot into his straining, unprepared retinas and rendered him nearly blind. He squeezed his eyes closed in pain, reflexively lifting his right arm in an attempt to block the invading brightness.
He caught a watery glimpse of a red-haired man in dark clothing and the taser gun. He cried out, hoping to postpone the inevitable. The fact that the man was allowing him to see his face told him that he was no longer needed. The man didn't listen. He continued advancing and fired the stun weapon. It's energy tore into his muscle once more.
When it was over, he was half slouched to one side in the chair. He was helpless to respond as the red-haired man approached, a hypodermic in hand. His mind was a muddle, his energy was spent, and he knew it was all over. He only wanted to be able to say a final good-bye to his father.
"Dad . . . " The words slipped past his lips as his plea was answered. There in the doorway was an image of his father.
"You get away from him!" The hallucination came with sound as his dad's voice echoed around the warehouse.
Apparently the red-haired man heard it too, which caused Steve some confusion. He ignored it, protective instincts kicking in when the man turned toward his father with the taser gun. He didn't know for sure that his dad was out of range, but he couldn't risk it.
Using energy from he knew not where, he swung his free arm back against the dark dressed man, knocking him slightly off center. The taser shot went wild. But the man spun on him in response. Steve waited for the blow that was to come, but it was interrupted by the sound of a shotgun blast echoing endlessly in the cavernous room.
Time seemed to go out of focus as he looked up into the emotionless eyes of his attacker. The man toppled to the side in impossibly slow motion. The haze increased as he saw the images of Ron, Jesse and other men bearing weapons. There was a flurry of motion and sound all around him. He struggled to get a grip on it all, to understand the words, but found that he wasn't able. None of it made sense anymore.
All that mattered to his overtaxed mind and body was that when the hand that had been attached to the chair was released, and he collapsed forward, his father's arms were there to catch him. He closed his eyes and let go, allowing the darkness to take him.
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