A/N: I'm replacing this chapter for continuity reasons. I added a little bit to it after posting it originally. I was never happy with it the way it was either. I am working on the next chapter right now, and hope to have that up soon. I think that I'm nearly done. Sorry for the wait.
"Son of a. . ." Trent roared as he tore through his house taking in the mess left behind from his little brother's struggles with the men who'd come looking for him. If they wanted him so damn bad, why didn't they know that he was out of town? Why didn't they just leave Tom behind with a message, or even as the message? His last thought sent a shiver down his back, as the possible scenario played through his mind's eye.
"Tom?" Trent shouts as he comes through the front door to his house. Weird, he thinks, noticing that the door wasn't shut all the way. "Tom!" he shouts again dropping his camping bags to the floor by the door with a heavy thud. His heart catches in his throat as he quickly ascends the staircase. Where the hell was he? Why was the door open if he wasn't here?
With shaky hands, Trent opens the door to the guest room that Tom had taken over during the last few weeks. Nothing. Not one piece of furniture or clothing out of place. Letting a small sigh of relief escape, Trent moved on to check his room. Again there was nothing out of place. There was something very wrong with the picture. "Tom!" he shouts again, and again goes unanswered. Something's wrong I can feel it, he thinks as his feet carry him as quickly as humanly possible down the stairs.
"Tommy!" he lowered his voice this time; he didn't want to scare his little brother. But if he's playing a trick on me, he's going to wish that I did, he thought as he headed for the kitchen.
Fear's cold hand seized his heart in it's firm grip when Trent spotted droplets of blood on the floor leading to the kitchen. Maybe he just cut himself? Trent hoped as he followed the blood like a bread crumb trail.
"Tom!" the name stuck hard in his throat, almost choking him as he stared at the floor of his kitchen. "Tom!" this time sound came out, though it was just above being audible.
"No. no. no. no. no. no." he heard a voice saying, his voice as he dropped heavily to his knees on the once white linoleum next to his younger brother. Tears threatened to pour down his cheeks, but never got any further than the well of his eyes.
"Why?" Trent whispered staring at the beaten body of his brother. Blood matted Tom's blond hair to his scalp, leaving stains across his forehead. Clotted blood sat on Tom's upper lip, waiting to run down his face after it rolled out of his nose. The right corner of his mouth was caked in dark red blood.
"Tom?" Trent said hoarsely, reaching his trembling hand out to touch Tom's face in the hopes that maybe he was still alive; that the blood pooled beneath his little brother was just a dream or a cruel joke. "No," he sobbed when his fingers pressed into the bruised flesh of Tom's neck and found nothing. Lacing his fingers into the fabric of Tom's tattered shirt, Trent pulled his brother into his lap. "I'll get them," he promised, cradling Tom's head on his shoulder; he could feel the blood that'd pooled in Tom's mouth pour down the front of his shirt.
"Trent, you all right, man?" Carlos' concerned voice shot through him pulling him from the gruesome picture he'd painted.
"Not until we find Tom and get him home in one piece," Trent said allowing his body to fall heavily into a chair across from the couch.
"He put up a hell of a fight," Carlos said, absent mindedly as he also allowed his body to sink onto the couch next his best friend.
Trent wanted to agree with him, but he couldn't bring himself to. If it weren't for him, Tom wouldn't have had to put up a fight at all. He was sure that Tom didn't blame him for being kidnapped, but Trent knew all the same that it was because of himTom continued to find himself in situations like these. Damn it! He swore at himself. When I find you little bro, I'm retiring from detective work. He silently promised Tom and himself.
As if Carlos could read Trent's thoughts he said, "he wouldn't want that."
How would you know? Trent thought bitterly, as he considered Carlos' statement. Calm down. He told himself, forcing a deep breath. Carefully considering his words, Trent opened his mouth to counter Carlos' statement only to have his voice replaced by that of the shrill ring of the cell phone.
Agilely Carlos slid the phone out of the coat pocket he'd placed it in after the first call. Checking the caller I.D., Carlos punched the receive button on the mobile. "Sandoval," he said barely containing his hot anger and deep seated fear of what was going to happen.
"Go to your email box," The harsh voice he'd spoken to earlier commanded.
"Why?" Carlos asked, skeptical of what he'd find in the email.
"Proof that the boy lives."
Flipping the mobile closed, Carlos allowed a tired angry sigh to escape his lips as he stood and headed for the small computer desk in the back of Trent's dinning room. He could feel Trent's cool blue eyes staring question marks into his back as he moved through the room. Continuing with his silent following of orders, he reached out with a shaky hand and pressed the power button on the computer. At any other time the buzz of the computer would have brought a smile to his raspberry colored lips, but the speed at which the computer loaded at that moment seemed too slow. Was time even moving? He wondered as the screen icons slowly began to pop up in random order on the monitor. Sucking in the air around him as though it were being depleted, Carlos placed his thin fingers on the mouse and steered it to the email icon. Feeling Trent's weary eyes and suspicious thoughts at his back, Carlos waited for the page to load; thankful that Trent had gone with the DSL modem instead of dial up. "They sent us proof that Tom's alive," he said opening the email marked "proof of life."
"Son of a bitch," Trent breathed, taking in the pictures of his little brother; arms bound tightly behind him and mouth taped shut.
"Oh my God," Carlos whispered hoarsely, staring in disbelief at the digital images that burned through the computer screen to him. Wherever it was that they were holding Tom, there wasn't much light, and the flash from the camera cast dark shadows over the background making identifying the surroundings nearly impossible. Carlos couldn't help but smile wearily at the look of pure anger in Tom's eyes. That's our boy, he thought. "We need to get these cleaned up," he said finding his voice and crushing his anger before they lost any more time or hope.
"Still have that friend at the crime lab?" Trent asked, resisting the urge to rip the rest of his house apart in a futile effort to find out who had taken his younger brother. That wouldn't help him to find out who had Tom and where they had him.
