NOW:
Barreling down the street at a speed that he would normally pull people over for, Jaime risked another glance at the address displayed on his cell phone. He knew it was a risk, going to this place alone and without backup, but there was only one person he trusted to have his back, and he couldn't bear it if something happened to her just because he was half-cocked and stupid.
She's half-cocked too, he grumpily thought. He could picture her broad back fleeing from his still moving squad car not even an hour before.
I believe you, she had said just that morning.
Jaime forwarded the address to her number before he could back out, then pressed the gas pedal to the floor a little harder.
The note burned in his pocket: Robert knows.
He could feel his pulse pounding against his temples as the words leapt about in his head as easily as they did when he tried to read them on paper.
Robert knows.
He felt the prickle of sweat against the nape of his neck. Robert knows and I was going to nonchalantly have drinks with my partner. As if nothing was wrong.
He told himself it was to maintain some semblance of normality; possibly a set-up to unburden his soul with yet another deep, dark vile secret upon his hapless partner. Robert may know, may be aware of the depravity between brother and sister, but the man wouldn't do anything to them.
Would he?
No. What could a stag do to a lion?
Then the text appeared: We need to meet. Now.
It wasn't a number he recognized, but he wouldn't have put it past Robert to have an extra phone or two for his own philandering. If Robert wanted to meet the man cuckolding him, face-to-face, in some undisclosed location- Well, Jaime had no illusions as to what may happen when he arrived, but the moment between the two men was a long time coming.
Soon enough, he made the turn-off to a long, windy road that led to a looming apartment complex. It had been an ambitious undertaking, several years before, trying to revamp the condemned building and turn it into affordable housing for the lower class residents. It had ultimately proved too much work, and too costly, and was quickly left to the cockroaches and rats.
The complex, named Valyria Park, was made up of three visibly decaying buildings and surrounded by a chain link fence; rusted and barely set in the ground from the way it moved at the slightest breeze. It was like an island, secluded so far away from the main road like an unwanted sore.
And an eyesore it was. The gray-brown tint of the windows barely reflected the sunlight, so covered in a thick layer of dust. Some of the windows were completely absent, others just missing jagged pieces of glass. Those glittered up from the dry, brown grass and crunched underneath his boots as he cautiously stepped forward.
Jaime had his weapon in his hands, the gunmetal warm and a comfortable weight in his calloused palms. He scanned his immediate surroundings, noting nothing unusual, before looking up at the peeling numbers painted above the wood-chipped double doors of each building.
3-33 was the apartment number. The third building, boasting a faded 3 on the side, and the numbers 23-33 over the entrance seemed to be the obvious choice. He swiftly moved forward, knees slightly bent to make his tall body less of a bouncy target. He had to climb a set of four stairs made of crumbling concrete before reaching the door. He pulled the knob, and slipped his fingers into the crack, pulling the door back from the frame quickly and quietly.
Nothing but darkness greeted him. He would have swept the shadowed corners for threats, but the first level of the apartment revealed only a lone, closed door straight ahead and a disintegrating wooden stairwell leading to the second floor right directly next to it.
He kept his weapon pointed in front of him, but his eyes trained up the stairs. He cautiously took a step, feeling the wood creak under his weight, and figured that if he didn't linger and instead just jogged up as quickly as possible, then the wood wouldn't have a chance to absorb his weight.
Jaime used his left hand to fish out his cell from his front pocket, checking to see how long after he had dropped Brienne off at the station before he sent her the address. He felt comfortable believing she wouldn't be too far behind him, should he fall through the stairs. So with held breath, he ran up, wincing as something audibly cracked below him.
Once at the top, both hands once again wrapped around the butt of his pistol, he took a moment to glance at the closed door there. A small, dusty window revealed a vestibule with nothing in it but four closed doors. He concluded that those must've have led to their actual apartments themselves. He took a step back, cautious of the thin banister behind him, and peered up the next flight of steps.
A sudden rush of pain seized him just as a brawny armed wrapped around his neck. The thick appendage throttled him as he struggled to pry it away from his throat with one hand as he turned his pistol backward with the other, attempting to aim at an enemy he couldn't see. He fired off a blind round, striking only plaster, but effectively deafening himself in his right ear.
"Fuck!" He choked out.
Jaime threw his weight back, hoping to propel their tangled bodies into the wall, but hadn't noticed that they had twisted around in their struggle. He realized his grave error in judgment when the banister he had warily eyed earlier crumpled like a piece of paper under their combined weight. He could feel his eyes bug out of his head in petrified fear as he futilely tried to throw his hands out in the hopes of catching a hold of something secure. The arm around his neck blessedly loosened as they fell, and allowed him one last piercing inhale before they plummeted to the floor below.
Where he struck his head on the ground with an audible crack, and instantly rendered himself unconscious.
Jaime came to with a sharp gasp; limbs straining against thick bands of ropes. He let loose a beleaguered moan of pain, his head absolutely throbbing, and his right hand pulsing to the beat of his heart in piercing agony. He scrunched up his face, eyes already squeezed tightly closed, and fought a wave of nausea. He panted; his breath reflected off the floor he had his cheek pressed against, and left his stubbled jaw damp.
It took a few moments before Jaime thought he could open his eyes. When he did, he was greeted by a cockroach scuttling by, so close to his face that he could hear it's little legs scraping against the floor.
"Finally," a voice called out. It sounded wet, as if the owner couldn't quite control his tongue. "Never thought I'd be happy to thee you awake, Lannithter."
Fucking Hoat, Jaime realized in a rush of icy fear. He's not here as back-up, is he?
"Hoat," he croaked out loud. He tried to peel his eyelids back further, meaning to take in more of his filthy surroundings, but the pain in his hand had him slamming his eyes shut once more. The overwhelming nausea caused saliva to pool into his partially opened mouth, where some dribbled down the side of his cheek.
He managed to open his eyes again, squinting at a pair of trouser-clad legs that led up to familiar smirk outlined by a goatee. "Baelish."
"Tho, you're not completely fucking brain dead." Hoat cackled.
Where's Robert?
Jaime craned his neck, wincing at the slice of pain through his skull, and caught sight of a third man he didn't recognize. He frowned. "And who in the fuck are you?"
Baelish laughed softly. He was still in uniform, his thumbs safely tucked behind the band of his utility belt like always. "That is Littlefinger," he said with a small smile. "Or, rather, that is who he is pretending to be. You see, I'm Littlefinger."
Jesus.
"You little fucker," Jaime snarled before closing his eyes. "All this time. You were there, under our noses, all this time."
"I have," Baelish admitted uselessly. "And I believe my Bloody Mummers could have set permanent roots here, in Casterly Rock, that's how incompetent you lot are. How blind." Then he tsked to himself, almost in annoyance. "But then Brienne O'Tarth had to show up and ruin everything."
"O'Tarth?"
Brienne, Jaime thought. She should be here soon.
"Hm, yes. Brienne. How much do you know of your partner, Lannister? Did you ever wonder why someone as golden and honorable as her was assigned to our unit? Why a patrol officer was so interested in my lot, outside of the obvious?
Why was Brienne assigned to CRD?
"She was planted there," Baelish growled. Suddenly, his voice wasn't so silky. "I admit, I overreached by taking Sansa Stark. It was a personal move; my futile attempt to get back at her mother for choosing Ned Stark over me." He sighed wistfully, as if thinking of Catelyn Tully, and Jaime had to stifle the litany of questions he had.
Sansa Stark was kidnapped? Baelish knows Tully?What did he mean Brienne was planted?
"You weren't meant to get involved. Not initially. I understand you're O'Tarth's partner, but there was no need to lure you here just to remove your tow-headed pest. But Dany, oh sweet Dany. Her taste for vengeance is almost as strong as mine."
Jaime's head was spinning, and he wondered if he was feeling faint because of the information overload or if he was losing blood. He figured the blow to the head probably didn't help matters. He felt airy, as if he could float away at any moment. Baelish was still prattling on.
"I couldn't get my hands on Sansa Stark through any old means. The girl is the product of a powerful couple. So, I pulled a few strings, and called in a favor. Only, Dany Targaryen doesn't do favors. She trades. Something for something. I wanted Sansa Stark, and she wanted you."
Baelish could have been leering down at him at this point, for all Jaime could tell, but he couldn't be bothered to open his eyes.
"Catelyn Tully wouldn't let the disappearance of her daughter go without a fight, of course. My beautiful, feisty redhead. So, she pulled some strings of her own. Bought herself a few weeks of time before anyone came sniffing at her door with questions."
That explains why Sansa's kidnapping isn't front page news right now.
"She recruited the best bloodhound on her team, and sent that bloodhound on a hunt. A certain tall, freakishly large blonde."
Brienne, Jaime wanted to sob. She lied to me. She's been working for the FBI this entire time. Using me to get to my contacts. Using me like the IAB once used me. She was going to hang me out to dry, and I'm going to be the FBI's scapegoat all over again.
Jaime did let out a soft cry at that, curling into himself as far as his bound arms allowed him to.
"Lannister?"
That voice froze the occupants of the room. It wasn't from either of the men within, and while deeper than most it was distinctly feminine.
"Brienne?" he called out.
I believe you.
"Brienne! They're armed!"
A boot stomped down at his exposed side, and he felt the give of one of his ribs. He couldn't quite catch his breath, but used the last reserves of his energy to sweep his attacker off of his feet. The maneuver toppled over the Littlefinger impostor, and Jaime tried to use the dwindling vestiges of his adrenaline to get himself up to his feet, but then Baelish entered the room with Brienne at gunpoint, and Jaime's body gave out at the sight.
He didn't even see the slimy weasel leave. The Littlefinger impostor yanked Jaime up to his feet, hacking away at his bound arms and legs until he was able to bring his arms forward. He had no strength to stand on his own, much less attack; relying solely on the impostor's firm grip on the back of his aching neck for support.
"Do that again," Hoat drooled from across the room, "And we'll do far worse to your other hand than you managed to do yourself."
"Other hand?" Jaime echoed, aware of how faraway his own voice sounded to his ears.
"Jaime," Brienne called out in a hushed tone of voice.
Oh, Jaime thought dreamily, That's the first time I heard her say my name.
And then he looked down, and saw it. Protruding from his right hand was a shaft of splintered wood. It was at least two inches in width; punctured through the base of his fleshy palm at an angle, and sticking several inches out at its highest point. A thin stream of blood trickled from the entry point, but the wound was effectively plugged up by the object. He blinked muzzily at the grotesque sight, and was once again flooded by absolute agony emanating from the appendage.
He stumbled, the anchoring hand at his neck removing itself, and then he screamed.
He welcomed the sudden darkness of unconsciousness as a reprieve.
TBC...
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