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It felt like his brain had been replaced by a bag of cotton. And some bird was trying to pick it apart. With a very sharp beak.
Danny carefully opened his eyes, not knowing what he would find, but certain before hand that he wouldn't be enjoying it.
The only thing he could focus on, before the sharp pain inside his head forced him to close his eyes again, was wood. His kitchen table, by the looks of it.
He was seating up, barely, slumped against the table, his face laying on the polished surface. Beneath the table top, tied with something that was tickling his wrists, were his hands, growing numb from the position they were in.
The knowledge that he was restrained, and at the mercy of whoever had bounded him, was enough for the CSI to swallow the bile inside his throat and convince himself that he needed to get his eyes to open again.
His back muscles complained when he raised his head from the table top and leaned back against the wooden chair. The dizziness didn't last long and when he felt that he could, more or less, coordinate his movements, he brought his bound hands to rest on the table, unconsciously moving his fingers to get some feeling back.
Danny coughed against the gag in his mouth, part from the cloth's wool feel, pressed against his tongue, part from surprise, when he opened his eyes and understood why the bounds around his wrists were tickling him.
It was some sort of cuffs, but instead of the metal ones he usually carried while on work, these were made of some sort of red tissue, with feathers and lace decorating it.
Lots of red feathers.
Lots of red lace.
Something you would find in any sex shop worthy of the name.
"Don't worry, you're not my type," a male voice cut through Danny's grim thoughts. "They are, however, a very nice way of you keeping your hands where I want them, without leaving those nasty burn marks that rope and metal cuffs usually do."
Danny tried to focus on the face of the man seating in front of him, in the opposite end of the table. He knew who was talking; he could recognise the voice and general figure of the FBI agent that had come to his door; he just couldn't comprehend why on Earth the man was doing this to him.
His eyes fell on the objects lying on top of his table. Instead of yesterday's newspaper and the half eaten pack of chips that he had left there before going to bed, there now was a small portable TV set turned to face him, an unopened bottle of vodka whose label he couldn't really read, one of his kitchen knives and a digital camcorder, set on a tripod stand. A red light was blinking on the camera. It was recording. Him.
"I know this must be a tad confusing for you," the man said, leaning back in to his chair, relaxed, "but I really don't give a fuck about that."
The cotton inside Danny's head was gradually clearing up and he felt a sudden urge to leap out of his chair and break the face of the other man. Deep down, however, he knew that would be unwise.
He'd been unconscious for an unknown amount of time, so he had no idea if the man was alone or not; he couldn't see any weapon on him, but he had no way of knowing if the man was hiding one or not and, more disturbing that anything else to him, he had no idea what this man wanted with him.
The other man leaned casually over the table and clicked the TV set on. On the small screen, a black and white figure started moving.
"Here, let me help you," the other man said, rising from his chair, grabbing something from the kitchen counter and moving behind his prisoner.
Danny felt his own glasses being slipped over his nose and adjusted to his ears. The intimacy of the gesture made his anger boil harder. When he finally managed to focus his gaze on the image still playing on the TV, his anger rapidly cooled off to the point of making his blood run cold.
He could recognize Mac, Stella and Aiden, as they occasionally passed in front of the camera, moving around in some room he'd never seen before. The place seemed small, claustrophobic, without any windows in sight. They seemed busy, oblivious of the camera filming their every move.
From what he could tell, the camera was hidden behind some opaque surface from their end, see through surface from the camera's end, not unlike the mirrors they used in their interrogation rooms.
And what they couldn't see either, because it was hidden next to the camera, was the bomb's timer, large digital numbers showing minutes and seconds, ticking its way towards zero. It read 55:36 and showed no sign of stopping.
"Very well, Daniel," the man said, back in to his chair, chewing an apple, "now that I have your attention, this is what I want you to do."
Danny struggled to tear his eyes away from the TV set and stare at the man, his face looking directly at the recording camera.
"Tonight, before this tape reaches its end, in about" the man said, looking at his wrist watch, "55 minutes, you will commit suicide, or your friends will die."
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