Officer Tom Hanson slouched in the back booth of the local Rocket-Dog, sipping a soda, waiting for his partner to join him. Of course the world didn't see him that way. The casual observer saw some punk high-school kid in a white bandana, with angry eyes and a sneer for human contact. The students of the school he had been inserted into knew him as Tommy McQuaid; trouble-making, drug-dealing, dangerous brother to the equally bad (and currently over-due) Doug McQuaid.
He glanced out the window, looking for Doug. For all that he was a kidder, Doug was a good cop, and late just wasn't like him. Tom's brown eyes met those of some accountant-looking guy passing by, and he snarled just for effect. The man flinched a little and continued on his way. Tom might gripe about using the McQuaid persona, but of all the identities he had used over the last six months, it was growing to fit him best. It was like wearing a bullet-proof vest. He felt stronger, tougher as McQuaid. Something about the sleeveless denim jacket, the leather belts, the gleam of the chrome buckles made him feel good in a way he had never allowed himself before.
McQuaid didn't let people mess with him. McQuaid didn't get hurt. Tommy McQuaid would never have lost his virginity to some guy he met in a bar, and he sure wouldn't have been sad that the man left as soon as they were done.
Tom frowned at the memory, then deeper as he saw the door to the Rocket-Dog open and not Doug, but the drug dealer they were supposed to buy from come in.
"Asshole, you're late!"
They argued and snapped at each other and in the end, the dealer's threat of "Now or never," convinced him to make the buy alone, rather than risk his cover.
The second he stepped through the huge sliding doors of the abandoned warehouse, he knew he had made a mistake. Something hard and heavy smacked the back of his head and before he could recover, some gorilla had his left arm pinned behind his back, a monster of a hand holding his throat. The weasely punk dealer grabbed his right hand, holding it with both of his. Tom fought, twisting and kicking, but he was still dazed by the blow to the head and the hand on his windpipe was choking the resistance out of him.
Another man stepped out at him. A knife flashed in the dim light, and he cut open the sleeve of Tom's shirt from where the punk held it at the wrist to above his elbow. "What are you doing?" Tom demanded, struggling anew as a length of rubber tubing was wrapped around his upper arm. Three taps and the vein stood up from his arm. The man reached behind him for a hypodermic needle, squirted a tiny bit of fluid out of it into the air, then stabbed it into that bulging vein.
He realized they were letting him see their faces. They weren't going to let him live to testify. Whatever was in this needle wasn't meant to kill him, but it seemed they expected him to die soon enough.
The bite of the needle was like fire as it tore through his skin. He shouted and tried to yank himself away; heard the sickening pop as his left shoulder was wrenched from the socket.
"Get the fuck off of me!" he screamed, knowing the warehouse was too far out of the way to hope someone would hear him. The men ignored him and started dragging him towards the far end of the building. Whatever they had put in his arm began to fog his senses almost immediately. His body seemed to slip away from him. He could feel the odd pressure of his shoulder, but not the pain of it.
The edge of a loading dock dropped away in front of him, the open trunk of a car below it waiting. With a grunt, the man behind him tossed him over the edge.
He fell forever, limp and weightless in an unexplainable darkness. He wondered if they had accidentally killed him with whatever was in the needle. He wondered if he would ever hit the trunk.
The smell of woodsmoke and a stench like burning hair burned his nose. He hit packed earth on his bad shoulder, hard enough to knock the wind out of him. He couldn't move for a second, trying to gather his wits despite the drugs in his system. Smoke and flames surrounded him, and he couldn't figure out how he had arrived here from the warehouse.
A man was speaking, but all that Tom could understand was "Safe," and "Going home." He wondered what had happened. He wondered if this guy was a paramedic, and he wondered where Doug was.
His hand was lifted, and he felt lips press to his fingers. Not right. Not good. Hebegan to struggle anew. Wherever he was, it wasn't where he should be.
"You're dead," Tom groaned as he was lifted into the man's arms. The drug was slurring his words, and he wasn't sure if he had spoken them aloud, or just thought he had.
"What was that?" So polite for a drug-dealing kidnapping asshole. Tom made the effort to be clearer the next time.
"I said...You picked the wrong guy, scumbag... Doug's gonna mess you up. Nobody fucks with the McQuaid brothers..."