Jim looked up from his place on the sofa, shutting his laptop. "If she's not the mole we can't risk alerting the real one that we're planning to move. If you want to find her, you're going to have to do it by yourself."
He nodded just a little, taking a breath. "I don't believe she is the mole, sir, so that seems a wise course of action. I'll start looking."
"Moran, if you find her and she's not dead... I want you to make it a very sure thing that she's not playing us. I've met many, many liars, but she may be the best," he snorted, shifting to pull his phone out of his pocket, starting to go through his contacts. "I'll give you what resources I deem invisible enough to give to you. Now, I would be under the assumption that the clock is ticking, if I were you."
"Of course, sir. Thank you," he said, nodding as he went to find his laptop. He had a lot of work to do, but the first was to watch the CCTV cameras.
Mallory kept his eyes on the woman, still smiling. Even in a hoodie and loose jeans, she was beautiful. If you looked closely enough, you could see the marks of her life- scars that marked her skin here and there, including strange networks of tracks across both arms, glinting pale in the fluorescent light. "Come on, we both know how this ends. So let's just skip the boring bit, shall we?"
Lorna shifted, subtly testing how much room she had in the manacles. If she was lucky, her hands were small enough that she'd be able to force herself out of them, in a real bind. No pun intended. "I'm sorry, I don't think I know how this ends," she snorted, not bothering to put on a friendly face for him. He was just a fucking kid. This was who was trying to take down Moriarty? "Usually it ends with whoever has me chained up clutching some bleeding appendage, but I guess my luck will only hold out so long."
He laughed, tilting his head back and reaching up to brush a hand over his hair. "I like you, I do," he said, smiling and nodding. "It would really be a hell of a shame- hell of a shame- to have to hurt you. But I'm going to have to if you don't smarten up a bit."
For a moment a sickeningly sweet smile spread onto her face. "Aw, does that mean you think I'm pretty?" she gushed, somehow managing to make herself look comfortable and at home chained to a rust-covered wall. Then the smile slid off her face, replaced by a cold mask. "You obviously know who I work for. This is my smartest course of action."
"Oh, I think you're beautiful," he said, unashamed. "But that's your strong suit, your ace in the hole. You wait for men to trip over themselves trying to get in your pants- trousers, I suppose it is here, although I suppose pants works just as well- and then you let them fall on your knife. Correct me if I'm wrong."
Lorna rolled her eyes. "I'm not going to be volunteering a speck of information, kid, corrective or otherwise. I do have a question for you, though. You gonna fuck me up yourself or are you worried you might chip your cute little punk nail polish?"
He smiled again, seeming genuinely amused by her. "You know, I've never really been the expert at all of this, but Mark is a good friend of mine. They're going to be heading up this operation, and I'll be flying co-pilot. Teaching moment. You know. I hope you don't mind if we have to try things a few times. If at any point you'd like us to stop, you know what to do."
"Yeah, go fuck yourself," she snorted. What happened to her happened. And when it was over, she was going to get herself the fuck out, maybe just walk away from this whole mess entirely. It didn't matter. None of this really mattered.
A woman walked in a few minutes later, and Keenan smiled. "This is Mark," he said, smiling and walking over to take a car battery from the pile of equipment Mark was carrying, setting it to the side. "Most people get confused by her at first, but eventually that becomes less of a concern."
Lorna gave them both an apathetic shrug. "Big fucking deal. Look, kid, unless you're hiding some very specialized beetles in that battery, I'm not even going to tell you my middle fucking name. You're wasting my time."
He shrugged a little, putting his hands in his pockets. "That's a lot of bluster. I'm sure Mark will enjoy finding your soft spots." The woman walked forward, a bucket of water in hand, and threw it over Lorna, soaking her.
She made a face, shaking her head to get wet strands of hair out of her eyes. "Ugh. Gross. What is this, sewer water? I mean, I appreciate the whole keeping the electrocution torture from being fatal thing, but rainwater from the gutter is probably cleaner than whatever the hell you just threw on me was." Electrocution hurt. A lot. But there were things that were so much worse. Electrocution wasn't like a burn, and it wasn't like a mental scar. When it stopped, all it left were some temporary muscles tremors, and, if you were unlucky, a bitten tongue.
"Mark, where did you get that water?" Keenan asked curiously as the woman stepped forward, jump cables in hand.
She shrugged a bit, and smirked. "She isn't too far off, boss."
"Well, I suppose it'll have to do. Well, Lorna? One last chance before things start to get a bit messy."
She spat at Mark's feet, disdain wrinkling her nose. "Go fuck yourself."
Keenen smiled a bit sadly at that. "Mark, if you would...?"
The woman stepped forward with a grin and pressed the clamps to Lorna'a chest.
She didn't know how long it was until Keenan held up a finger and drew his phone out of his pocket. It was enough time for her throat to be hoarse from screaming, and for her wrists to be crying out, since her knees had given out a while ago. "Mark," Keenan sighed, slipping his phone back into his pocket. "Something more pressing has come up. Come on. We'll be back, Lorna. Try to rest."
It took Sebastian thirty-seven hours to find her, start to finish, and while he wasn't pleased with the time, he knew he couldn't have done it any faster. So now here he was, armed with a bayoneted pistol in one hand and a Bowie knife in the other, his rifle left behind in favor of moving with speed and agility.
He'd timed two grenades to go off at the north side of the building to draw attention, and was moving in through the south. The guards were distracted and he smiled, stepping into them with brutality. The first's neck was snapped in a matter of seconds, and fifteen seconds after him his companion fell, gasping around a nickle-sized puncture through her jugular. Sebastian moved on, wiping the blood off of his bayonet as he walked.
Lorna had been left in her space alone for hours now. Wherever Mark and Keenan had gotten off to, she suspected that it wasn't close, and it was important to them. It just left her time to nurse her wounds, anyway. They had upgraded to beating at one point, of course. Mark was just too crass not to.
He left a trail of bodies, in no mood for mercy. He received a few nicks and cuts and plenty of bruises, but that was to be expected in any hand-to-hand situation, no matter how good you were. He moved quickly, because he knew that the instant the distraction was discovered to be just that- a distraction- his prey would come running. Which wouldn't be ideal, but certainly would be entertaining.
The second wave of bombs went off, and he picked up his pace, face and arms flecked with blood. Five minutes later he shot out the lock on the door to the holding cell and pushed into it, walking forward and looking Harrison over. She could have been worse, he supposed. She was alive and didn't appear maimed in any way. He bit back the relief that threatened to overwhelm him, Jim's words heavy in his mind. I've met many, many liars, but she may be the best.
He made no greeting, but holstered his gun and pulled the chain cutters out of his pack, walking forward and reaching up to close them around the manacle chain, the metal protesting for a moment, then giving in to the shears. Harrison's arm dropped, and he went for the other one. "Can you stand?"
She couldn't even really manage surprise at his entrance, although she had pulled her bloodied wrists harder against the manacles for a moment, to make sure she was still awake. Blood was streaked down her arms, but that had been her own fault. The cuffs were not large enough to slip out of. "Yes," she rasped, her dry throat resisting. It was possible she had a fractured rib - that Mark was a lot stronger than she looked - but that wouldn't impede her standing. "I'm impressed. I don't think that was two days."
"It wasn't," he returned, cutting the other chain and putting the cutters back in his bag. "We'll get those off once we're out of here. Come on."
She nodded, pushing off the wall and stumbling once before righting herself, stiff and tired. Relief was beginning to seep into her as she followed him, keeping her wrists pressed to her front to keep the manacle cuffs from rubbing her raw skin. She hadn't dared to hope for rescue. "Mallory," she started, nearly tripping over a bleeding body on the floor. "He's just a fucking kid. I don't know why I expected him to be old. He's fucking inexperienced with torture, though."
He kept her within his line of sight, never quite letting her drop behind. "Good to know," he said, eyes on the hallway as shouts sounded behind them. "But for the moment, let's focus on getting out."
"Yeah, okay," she agreed, picking up the pace a little. She had no interest in getting recaptured. A minute later and they were out in the light of the setting sun. Even that made her squint.
He walked her over to a waiting car he'd stolen a few streets away and opened her door, helping her in before walking around and getting into his own, starting it quickly and heading off down the street with a squeal of tires.
It wasn't until they were several miles away (with apparently no followers) that he pulled over, reaching into his pocket for what he needed. He got out and walked around the car, pulling the door open.
"Let me see your wrists," he said, reaching for the manacles as if to take them off. When she extended her arms, however, he grabbed them and pulled them behind her- not roughly, but firmly- linking the remaining chains with a padlock. "Okay. Just sit back and sit tight, alright?" he asked, stepping back.
"Sebastian, what the fuck?" she asked tiredly, slouching against the car seat so she could take some pressure off her wrists. But she knew what this was, didn't she? He thought she'd sold them out.
He closed the door, not responding and walking around to his side again, strapping in and returning to the road, taking a roundabout way back to the flat.
"It's not me, Sebastian. I'm not the mole," she sighed, leaning her head back against the seat, eyes out the window. "But I guess I can't prove it, can I. Christ... If you're going to kill me, I think I'd prefer sooner rather than later. You know I hate waiting."
"I'm not going to kill you," he said, eyes on the road. "At least not now. I'm going to figure this out. I'd prefer not to lose a valuable asset."
She swore, thumping her head back against the seat, her teeth grit. "Jesus Christ. So out of the frying pan, into the fucking fire, is that right? You know, I think I'm probably going to prefer the uninspired torture, so how about you just fucking drive me back to that fucking kid?"
He grit his teeth, but didn't say anything as they pulled into the parking garage near the flat. He grabbed a bulky coat, walking around to her door and pulling it opening, drooping the thing around her shoulders to hide her cuffed hands. "Come on, let's go."
"Yeah, yeah, fuck off," she spat, shouldering past him and heading for the exit. She knew better than to try and make a break for it. She was tired, and she was fucking pissed, but she wasn't stupid.
He walked close by, a hand on his gun, ready (physically, at least) to put her down if she tried to run. He refused to think about the situation, to allow any emotion to enter the playing field. He was under direct orders from Jim. Nothing got in the way, especially not personal attachments.
She led the way to the flat, steam practically shooting from her ears, and walked up the stairs before standing aside at the door. She gave him an expectant look. "Well, I'm sure as hell not going to open it."
He rolled his eyes, pulling out his keys and unlocking it, stepping back to let her go through first. "Be pissed off all you like, Harrison," he muttered, closing the door behind them. "It won't change anything."
"I'm not a fucking idiot, Moran, but I'm going to be as pissed off as I like about this, so shut the fuck up," she snapped, shooting a searing glance his way and taking a few more steps into the flat. She was furious that they thought it was her, that after everything they'd been through he could even have a doubt about her loyalty. She understood, but she didn't have to like it. And Christ, it wasn't like her being pissed could make this any worse. She couldn't prove that it wasn't her. It was likely that she was never going to leave this flat again.
"What do you expect us to do? Trust you?" he asked, raising an eyebrow as he closed and locked the door. "You know better than that. If the situation were reversed, I'd have been in handcuffs as quickly as you were."
"Do you see me trying to plead my way out of this? Do you see me pulling out my service record and waving it around in the air like a fucking flag? No. I understand. How many times am I going to have to tell you I'm not a fucking idiot? I KNOW why is this happening. But I don't. Have. To LIKE IT!" she snarled, pulling against her restraints until a fresh line of blood rolled down her hand and dripped onto the floor, then dropped her glare to the ground, grinding her teeth. "Now where the hell do you want to do this?"
He took a slow breath. "Fine. I suppose I just don't understand your insistence on getting so worked up about the inevitable," he muttered. He pointed to the couch. "Sit. I need to go talk to Jim. Don't go anywhere."
She sat heavily and fell silent, fuming. The fact that she was going to die over something so stupid...
He returned a few minutes later with a key in hand. "Come on," he said, nodding to her. "We're going downstairs."
She heaved herself to her feet to follow him, not bothering to speak. She didn't know what he had in store for her, but she knew it wasn't going to be fun for her.
He brought her down into the sub-basement, where Jim had rented out a storage room. He keyed into it to find the walls soundproofed, and a table with straps in the center. A wall of shelves at the back housed equipment. He closed the door behind them, and took Lorna's arm, walking her over to the table and lifting her up to it, strapping her ankles into place before walking around to unlock her wrists.
"Great, at least I get to lie down for this one," she said dryly, having entered ragdoll-mode as soon as he put her on the table. She sure as hell wasn't going to assist him. "I don't suppose I could get a drink of water before this? I wasn't offered any by our young friend Mallory, besides the water they tossed on me for the electrocution part. You can understand why I didn't want any of that. I hear dysentery really fucks up your weekend."
He took a slow breath, but really didn't want her dying when he left her, so he walked over to the shelves, returning a moment later with a bottle of water, handing it to her. "Drink up."
She chugged it all in one go, the water an instant relief to her parched throat, and handed the empty plastic back to him when she was done. "Thanks."
He didn't respond, just set it aside and pushed her down, strapping her arms and head in place. He walked over to the shelves, starting to assemble what he needed. "This isn't personal," he muttered.
"Yeah, I know," she sighed, staring up at the ceiling for a moment before just closing her eyes. It wasn't worth it, seeing what was coming. It wasn't worth having to accidentally meet his gaze. "If I thought you were a traitor I'd do the same."
He nodded just a little, wheeling the rig over and starting to set it up above her. The tank was already attached, and he waited for a drop to fall before repositioning it, checking to make sure it fell about central forehead, before he headed for the door.
Oh, fuck. She'd heard about this. Heard what it did to people. She remained silent as he left, trying not to flinch as each cold drop hit.
He closed the door, locked it, and tried not to feel sick. Tried to convince himself that this was the right thing. He took a breath. She could be the mole. Could be trying to bring down their network, exploiting him as a weakness. That's what she did. But the question of what would happen if she wasn't- if she was innocent- was still nagging deep in his gut.