Anderson Cooper. The first thing that entered his head as he brushed the surface of consciousness was Anderson Cooper. The CNN talking head was blabbering about an auto manufacturing plant that was shutting down in upstate New York. Through the haze he heard the anchor bemoaning the greed of the car companies. And this coming from the son of Gloria Vanderbilt, the Poor Little Rich Girl. As the reporter's voice continued it took on a high-pitched tone. So high as to be almost undetectable by human ears. The pitch increased in volume and intensity until Warrick thought his ears might bleed. As he continued to fight his way back through the blackness he realized that it wasn't Anderson Cooper's voice. It was the ringing in his ears and the pain in his head that he was hearing.
Warrick had had hangovers a-plenty in his lifetime. The one after his impromptu marriage at Circus Circus was one for the record books. But this … a wave of nausea washed over him and he let out an involuntary moan. Each fiber of nerve in his body felt like it had been plucked from his body, dunked in acid, and then unceremoniously shoved back into place to continue to burn from within.
And his muscles…no workout, no fight, no knockdown drag-out no- holds-barred rumble he had ever had, had caused this kind of debilitating all-encompassing soreness. It wasn't pain so much as if his body was one giant tender bruise. It left him weak as a kitten, unable to even lift a hand to wipe at his eye where the blood from his newly reopened cut had dripped.
The blood grew more annoying and he made a more valiant attempt to raise his hand, only then realizing that a leather strap held it to the chair in which he was sitting. The adrenaline surge at this new information woke him up further, increasing the throbbing in his head and on his neck. The stun gun … he remembered now.
And he remembered his partner… he raised his head to look for his friend and noted Nick in a chair to his right. The CSI was still unconscious, slumped in a chair like his and restrained in similar fashion. The fact that his partner was still out worried him.
Some of his cop friends in the academy told him how they had to subject themselves to Taser usage so they would know what it was like. It was supposed to sensitize the officer to its use when subduing a suspect. Each of the cops had told him it was like getting punched really hard at the weapon discharge site, then your legs went out from underneath you for a few minutes. They said they were weak-kneed for a while afterwards and had some pain where it hit them … but this… this was obviously not your father's Taser gun. Warrick had read an article about EMD - Electro-Muscular Disruption technology. It was supposed to be ten times the power of traditional stun guns and incapacitate its victims for upwards of an hour. It was also supposed to be in the early stages of testing. Not too early he guessed.
He opened his mouth to call Nick's name when he realized they weren't alone in the room.
A man was seated in a high-backed red leather chair in front of them. Between him and the two CSIs stretched an elaborate wooden table; the wood it was made from must have stripped an acre of rainforest. His face was in shadow, the light from a huge bank of TV screens back-lighting him. All that could be told of him was that his form appeared short and slender, and he wore a dark suit. A hand left his lap to rest on the arm of the chair, the blue light from the monitors reflecting eerily off his smooth hairless skin. Slender fingers began to drum out a light staccato on the chair arm, as if he was perfectly comfortable to wait in silence.
The TV screens behind him were tuned in to every channel imaginable. News programming from CNN, Fox, the BBC, Al Jazeera. Anchors against backdrops of every major metropolitan city. London, Beijing, Sydney, Baghdad, Seoul. Other TVs had horse races, college football games, and even what appeared to be a Texas Hold 'Em game out of the Flamingo in Vegas.
Anderson Cooper's voice had gone away, to be replaced by that of a woman speaking an Oriental language of some kind. After a few seconds of her, the boisterous voice of an anchor from Australia chimed in to talk for three seconds about a bonzer rugby match. The Aussie was followed by Spanish, German, English, Farsi. He caught the mystery man's other hand moving in the shadow and realized he held a remote in it, controlling the TV screens. He was the one flipping through the channels at lightning speed, still sitting in his chair in the shadows without uttering a word.
Warrick tried moving in his seat, but he soon discovered another leather strap had been drawn across his chest, holding him firmly to his chair.
As adrenaline burned away the last remnants of fog over his brain he realized who the man was sitting in front of them. The Voice.
As if reading Warrick's mind, the man made a small motion with the remote, muting all the televisions instantly, but leaving their images on the screens.
He leaned forward, further into the ambient light, his face still obscured by shadows.
"Welcome to my home, Mr. Brown." The same mellifluous tone. Asian inflection, mellowed by a slight British accent. And cold and hard as steel.
Anger coursed through the CSI at the casual tone. He struggled briefly against his straps, but his sore muscles, compounded by the pain in his injured shoulder were completely sapped of strength and he quickly stopped, aware that he was wasting precious energy. He was also soon aware that his actions were cause for amusement to their captor as a smug chuckle emanated from the darkened chair in front of him.
"You God damned son of a bitch! Where are we? Where's Tina? I'll kill you, you sadistic mother-"
He was brought up short by the sight of the man's slender hand rising from the chair arm to wave a finger at him, chiding him like a Catholic school nun. "Tut, tut, Mr. Brown. You may vent your spleen at me as much as you care to. I feel I must warn you though, that when you let your emotions be known it weakens your position. And your position is, of course, already quite weak. Ahhh … I think your friend is joining us. Allow me to help in his revival. I grow impatient waiting for him." He took the same finger and gestured to someone behind the two CSIs.
A large man, possibly one of those sent to Warrick's home, moved into his peripheral vision. The henchman moved to plant himself in front of Nick who had indeed begun to come around. A meaty hand reached out and backhanded Nick across the face. Warrick lunged against his restraints to no avail.
The henchman stepped back around to return to the shadows behind them as Nick shook off the pain from the blow and blinked his eyes several times. A small trickle of blood colored the corner of his mouth.
Warrick watched as his partner's eyes widened as he realized their circumstances. Warrick felt his stomach turn as he saw Nick begin to struggle against his restraints. Nick's claustrophobia had been a well-kept secret. So well kept he didn't even know if Nick realized he knew of its newly formed existence.
His partner's eyes never made it over to him. He couldn't even tell if Nick knew he was in the room. Instead, he saw Nick begin to thrash vainly in his seat, his arms straining mightily, the veins in his forearms popping out at the effort.
Nick was used to waking from nightmares. They had become so knitted into the fabric of his life that he had worked out ways of dealing with them. When he awoke, tangled in his bed sheets, he knew enough to take deep slow breaths. To accept the rush of adrenaline with a minimum of fuss and allow his body to quiet for a bit. Normally, he'd take advantage of his supercharged wakening by throwing on sweats and hitting the streets for a run, burning off the stress hormone, replacing it with exercise released endorphins.
Here, the deep slow breaths made things worse. As his chest was restrained each deep breath worsened his feeling of confinement, the pressure on his sternum holding back the full expansion of his lungs.
As he continued to labor against his captivity a sudden sharp pain burst like a fireball in his left hand. He stared dumbly down at the origin of the agony, the sight of his swollen broken wrist bringing it all back. The car chase. The kidnapping at the Lab. He finally started to look around him, his harsh breathing the only sound he could hear. Another small dark area, illuminated only by the bank of monitors, the harsh electronic light hurting his eyes. The set up was too familiar. He squeezed his eyes shut. His mind was racing off, horrifying memories flooding back.
And much like the last time, it was the voice of his partner that brought him back.
Warrick had been sitting, struck speechless as he watched his friend awaken to a living version of his worst nightmares. He had been torn. His concern for his partner battled against his reluctance to show it in front of their captor. He didn't yet know how much The Voice knew of his and Nick's friendship and his mind was fomenting a plan. He was going to write Nick off as a nosy co-worker. An annoyance. Anything to make this guy think that Nick's presence was nothing to him. Nick's reaction upon reviving was worse than he thought it would be. Should have known it would be. Once again he cursed himself for allowing Nick to help and getting him caught up in this tempest.
And Tina. His new wife. She had no experience in dealing with criminals. She was soft and kind-hearted. A nurse who liked to kiss scraped knees and put SpongeBob bandages on them. Who liked to soothe worried brows with a cool hand. She would have no ability to last under any sort of duress. Not that he and Nick would fare much better …
Concern won out temporarily and he tried to put Nick out of his mind. Needed to at least let Nick know he was there and hope his words helped bring his partner back down.
Making a show of ignoring Nick's presence he concentrated on the man in front of him. His eyes had adjusted somewhat although the strobe affect of the flickering screens made it hard. Now he could see better, he noted the man's physical appearance. Not all that threatening. Small and wiry thin. Dark suit. Impeccably tailored. His face was thin and hairless. Grey silvered the temples bracketing almond-shaped eyes.
Eyes that were currently staring at Nick's struggling form. A small smile twisted at the corner of his mouth.
"So what do I call you? Mr. Voice?" Warrick asked with scorn. It succeeded in getting the man's attention. He also noted Nick's struggles slow beside him.
The man appeared to think for a moment. "You may call me Mr. Sang."
"Mister Song? What kind of name is that?" he continued, trying to needle the man and work at the infuriating demeanor of nonchalance.
"It's Sang," the man repeated calmly, the pronunciation difference subtle but apparent. "It is the closest translation for Voice that your limited American education would allow you to be able to speak. So. Now that we have been properly introduced let me inform you of your choices. You tell me the whereabouts of Mr. Longman and you, your wife, and your friend leave here relatively unscathed. Or... I utilize alternative methods of abstracting the knowledge you conceal from me, and then you tell me the whereabouts of Mr. Longman. None of you leave unscathed. The quality of decision is like the well-timed swoop of
a falcon that enables it to strike and destroy its victim. Choose your answer wisely, Mr. Brown."
Warrick held the fates of four people in his hands. It was a daunting and undesirable role to be forced into. He didn't risk a glance at Nick to seek his silent council. As much as Kenny and his partner didn't get along, Nick would not succumb to this scumbag and neither would he. He was sure that once the information was obtained they would be all killed. No, he needed to stall and allow time for them to find a way out of this, or hope that someone was out there tracking them down.
Warrick could tell that Nick had calmed somewhat. He heard him mutter something under his breath; it had a strange rhythm and cadence. After a moment he realized Nick was counting backwards. It was a technique he'd heard him use perhaps once or twice in recent months; more than likely Nick wasn't even aware he was doing it.
Warrick kept a steely glare on his captor. "You made a big mistake snatching my wife. I'm not going to tell you anything. I'm no fool. As soon as I tell you where Kenny is, you'll off me, Tina and my annoying partner. The way I see it, I hold all the cards."
Warrick's tone was confrontational and held all the challenge and bravado of a professional athlete trading trash talk. He even raised his eyebrows in mock one-upmanship. Warrick could ooze smugness at a drop of the hat.
The Voice didn't seem very impressed by his act. "It's obvious that you don't hold much regard for your new bride. But what about your friend, Mr. Brown?" the Asian man challenged, glancing at his partner who had stilled over the past few moments.
Warrick snorted as he glanced callously over at Nick. "Stokes? Man, he's my assigned partner and a nosy one at that."
"You ungrateful asshole," Nick cursed loudly enough in the room for both men to hear.
Warrick kept his game face on, knowing his pal caught on to the charade. He rolled his eyes and stared straight at the mob boss.
The Voice shrugged. "Very well, Mr. Brown. It doesn't really matter to me. I'll get the information that I seek. My methods have never failed me."
The Asian snapped his fingers twice and the henchman that had struck Nick left them. After a long moment a female sauntered into the room.
Warrick tried to keep his expression neutral as this new player in the game stood beside her boss. This lady definitely meant business; the vibe emanating from her made his body stiffen at the power she evoked. He watched Nick's expression out of the corner of his eye and could sense his awe at her presence. She was tall and athletic looking for an Asian. She stood six feet, maybe more with her stiletto heels. She was very alluring, in a kinky Marilyn Manson sort of way.
The woman wore tight black leather pants that accented her shapely hips and a white semi-see through blouse. The first three buttons were unclasped to show off ample breasts, barely obscured by a lacy black bra. Her long jet-black hair was pulled up into an intricate bun, held together loosely by long jeweled hairpins.
"This is my personal assistant, Madame Chu," Mr. Sang introduced with a slight smile. The Voice turned to face the woman. "She's quite a temptress, but most men cannot handle her unique abilities."
Warrick was oddly mesmerized by her. She was a tantalizing mix of pure sexuality coupled with some twisted sense of inner menace. There was a strong yet strange resemblance to some freaky version of Lucy Lu, if the actress hung out at industrial S&M clubs.
"Madame Chu was trained as a physician many years ago. Of course, her skills were wasted on healing the weak. Now she's devoted them to the extraction of information."
As he spoke the dominatrix- looking woman carefully placed a sleek leather medical bag on the table. She rummaged through it with her impossibly long enameled nails. Each one was a deep crimson color, and they made a clicking sound as they brushed over her various objects. Chu spread out a red velvet cloth and began placing what looked like thin wiry needles in perfect order. Each one was about three inches in length, with some sort of rubber tube encasing them.
Madame Chu finished setting her instruments down and sauntered towards Warrick. She raised an eyebrow at him, her eyes carefully appraising every inch of his face and down his body. She ran her fingertips along the side of his neck and cupped his chin.
"I enjoy my job, Mr. Brown," she said in a voice reminiscent of the Far East. "I take great pride in my perfection of the art of pain. In fact, the name Chu translates to pain and suffering. It goes back over three hundred centuries. For three millennia my family has carried this name. Now, as much pleasure as I receive from the agony of others, I always give the option at the beginning for my patient to acquiesce. There's no shame in defeat. I've left many men cowering and begging for mercy."
Her voice grated on his ears, but he wasn't going to fall to her intimidation. "I'm not some clown you can try to shake. I won't hand over Kenny to you two-bit hoods. Friendship is something I honor, a term I think you know nothing about." Warrick's words were brave, but he would be lying to himself if he didn't admit that this situation had just gone from bad to worse. Pain wasn't something he was afraid of, but he'd rather not have to endure it.
Nick looked over at his partner. As much as he wanted to keep up the charade of a hurt and pissed off colleague, he couldn't help but fear for his partner for what was going to transpire. The freaky chick was rubbing the end of her thumbnail along the edge of Warrick's lips. The doctor looked way too interested in Warrick's reactions. She was motivated by power, but Warrick just glared at her coldly. Madame Chu ran her fingernail along the center of his throat, over his chest, and let it continue down along the buttons of his shirt.
She licked her lips. "Very nice," she cooed.
Nick felt his body shiver involuntarily. He couldn't just sit there and let this woman torture his best friend. Nick's right fist clenched and unclenched unconsciously, his eyes never drifting from the movement of the
woman's nails. He adjusted uncomfortably in his chair trying not to squirm too much. The feeling of being restrained was somewhat more bearable now and his pulse had slowed down as he adjusted to his surroundings.
He still felt like he had run a marathon without warming up. His muscles were sore, and he felt a burning sensation where the Tazer had connected with his neck. He tried to force back the pain from the past few hours, back into the same depths of his mind where the remnants of his near panic attack were currently hiding.
He was about to say something when a set of green eyes flashed at him to keep quiet. Warrick had only glanced at him for the briefest of seconds but the silent signal sent his way was easy to interpret. Don't do anything; don't let them win. This was all just a game to these lousy excuses for human beings. They lived in a whole other world where they didn't have to abide by society's rules. Nick felt his jaw tighten at the prospect of sitting back helpless.
The doctor moved away from Warrick as she dug through her little bag of secret goodies. She found the item she desired and set it next to her collection of torture devices. She glanced over at Nick and grinned at him coyly. "Smelling salts."
Nick didn't give her the satisfaction of showing her his revulsion at the giddy tone she used to answer his unvocalized question.
Not willing for the focus to shift away, Mr. Sang reached to one end of his elaborate table and took in hand a leather- bound file box. He sifted through the contents and pulled out an 8x10 photo of Tina Brown, apparently taken in front of the hospital where she worked. He waved it in the air and let it float down to the table. "Rulers seize power by striking fear into others. A powerful general obtains every weakness of his enemy and presses his advantage during battle. Your wife, Mr. Brown, is one such weakness."
Both CSIs remained mute, each one knowing that this man used every reaction as a tool. Warrick kept his hot temper under wraps. He would not relinquish any more control to this man. He sat defiantly in his chair. Mr. Sang's assistant picked up one of her needles and idly twisted it between her delicate fingertips.
The Voice pulled out a few files and thumbed through the contents. "My appetite for information is boundless and my reach is limitless. Your nosy neighbor called 911 after our visit to your home. Of course, the call was simply re-routed. Your police friends have no idea where you are."
He licked the end of his pointer finger and pulled apart the sticky forms. "An enemy has many weaknesses; that is why the powerful exploit every aspect and shred their opponents with it."
The Voice got up and moved to their side of the table, his gaze never wavering from Warrick. "You're a formidable looking man. Your endurance I'm sure is quite admirable. But tell me, how much pain do you think Mr. Stokes can take? Despite his equally athletic physique, I know he's lived through quite a bit of trauma already."
Warrick couldn't suppress his shocked expression, stepping right into The Voice's trap. Madame Chu strolled over towards Nick and loomed over him. She slid her slender fingers into his silky hair. Nick straightened as much as he could in his restrained position, his narrow eyes averted to hide his distaste at her actions.
"You're not gonna yank my chain threatening him," Warrick scoffed.
The Voice shook his head disappointedly as he tapped his file against a designer slacks clad thigh. "You know, your psychiatrist kept detailed notes of your visits after Mr. Stokes's little incident last summer. The guilt you carry around from that coin toss must still eat away at you at night. How glad are you that it didn't turn up tails?"
Warrick felt his bonds rub through his clothes as he tried to lunge out of his chair. His cheeks flushed with the fiery anger that burned in the pit of his stomach. "You asshole! You have my medical records?" Warrick let spittle fly through the air at his fury.
He didn't dare look at Nick; this kind of personal violation was a sickening slap to the both of them. The Voice's smug smile only served to enrage the CSI. He cast a weary glance at Nick who had paled at the words, but remained defiant. The vile woman remained stooped over giving his partner a free peep
show of her ample cleavage. She began to stroke the left side of his face, her eyes admiring his strong jaw line.
"You also harbor doubt over your involvement over the assault that your dear friend suffered at the hands of a Nigel Crane. Tut tut, Mr. Brown. You have this bad habit of leaving people behind in unsecured areas. Your first mistake got Holly Gribbs killed, and your last few miscues have resulted in unfortunate events for Mr. Stokes."
Warrick was seething. He leaned as far he could in the chair, his arms trembling from pulling at his restraints. His mind raced with so many emotions there were no words to express them rationally. The Voice leaned back, his hand seeking his television remote. He pointed it at the bank of screens and mashed down on a button.
All the plasmas morphed black then flashed brightly with the images of a news reporter. The anchorwoman was busy speaking into her microphone, her words muted to showcase the flurry of activity behind her. A mass of reporters surged in the wake of an ambulance that pulled up, the news lady yammering away as a stretcher was pushed inside.
Warrick saw himself and Catherine run alongside Nick as he was being rushed in. The cameraman had focused on the dramatic scene, capturing Nick's bite-riddled face and the swarm of people taking care of him. The camera had zoomed in on Warrick's hand clutching Nick's, his head bowed. Catherine was on the other side, her hand on the young man's shoulder, and then the image disappeared as they vanished inside the doors of the Emergency Room.
Nick had to swallow the bile that churned from his stomach and threatened to make him sick. He bit his lip, his eyes staring at his bound arms. He kept his head when Sang had threatened him with the interrogation techniques of the vile woman in front of him. He didn't flinch when he revealed Warrick's secret. He wasn't going to add to the humiliation or strip away any more of Warrick's dignity by reacting to the violation of the secrets divulged to his therapist. He knew Warrick carried some burdens after his attack, but trying to soothe his friend would only play into their captor's hands.
But seeing his rescue in living color…while having some clue that it might have been broadcast, re-living it was like a punch to the gut and he had to avert his gaze. He couldn't suppress the shivers that racked his body, fighting to keep his nausea at bay. He had stared down the sultry woman as she tired to rattle his cage with her caresses, but now she was leering at him, studying his every facial expression. A smile tugged at her features at his inability to watch the recorded news broadcast.
She moved over to his ear and whispered sweet nothings there as if she was his lover. Her giggle sounded like a rusty gate being forced open and made him clench his teeth. Her hand squeezed his knee gently before it slid along the inside of his inner thigh. "Perhaps when I'm done with you, I may enjoy the pleasure of your company. I've never had to practice my skills on such loveliness before. And I must admit it's quite a turn on to see a handsome man scream under my ministrations," she whispered in a husky voice.
Nick glared at her, happy to have a chance to channel some of his anxiety from his near death experience into something more focused like blazing at the heartless woman.
The Voice smiled at the display. "I must admit, I admired Walter Gordon's plan quite a bit. He had almost every detail meticulously calculated. His ability to inflict total chaos and fear into his enemy was a sign of great power."
"You're a sick little man," Warrick growled.
Sang chuckled. "Don't ever underestimate me again. Mr. Stokes is your weakness, I'd say more than your new bride. Right now she's just extra insurance. I have you exactly where I want you. Right under my thumb." He flicked his wrist and pointed his finger signaling for his assistant to begin.
Madame Chu picked up her first needle. "The first few years after medical school, I practiced ancient Chinese acupuncture. The body has different areas for controlling energy channels. Of course it's easy to alter the flow of qi by applying pressure to the right areas. However, using the needles to inflict pain… well that's an art."
Warrick watched in horror as she twiddled the needle between her fingertips in gleeful anticipation.
Tbc...