The glass rains inwards and Sonny's arms go up automatically to cover his head and face. Hands quickly follow in after the glass shards before he can get his bearings and are suddenly all around him, grabbing his arms, pinning his legs, tugging at the window and door. The speed of the assault takes him by surprise, has him forgetting where he is and what the situation is. All he knows is he is under attack and all his training, all his survival instincts have him pulling away, fighting to stay in the car, seeking out the shelter and the possibility of a vehicle escape rather than whatever awaits outside that car window.
He can't dislodge their hold and can feel the first half of his body losing the battle and going none to gently through the too small window frame so he scrambles and flails and manages to hook a leg through the window on his way out, knee crooked around the frame putting a halt to his momentum. He presses that advantage now, pulling and twisting back into the car and managing to break one arm loose and then another to reach back towards the interior seeking more leverage.
A hard punch lands and another but he only clings on harder, fingers scraping for purchase on slippery metal and plastic frames while he thrashes with the rest of his body trying to dislodge their grip. The distinctive sound of a baton sliding out to full extension registers, strangely audible amidst his own grunts and the foreign shouts and chaos all around him and then a short second later the metal pole lands with bruising force on the fleshy part of his thigh and sends a shock of pain down his leg. An almost instantaneous numbness shoots down after it and he loses his already tenuous hold on the doorframe. Immediately he gets wrenched out and down to the ground where multiple bodies follow him down and pile roughly on top of him. Sonny bucks and twists against their weight, fighting the manhandling and gets another glancing blow for his trouble this time to his ribs. Despite his best efforts the persistent hands win out and one of his arms gets wrenched back awkwardly. A knee finds a pressure point on his shoulder while another digs into his kidney and another unmovable weight pushes next to it on the small of his back, pressing him down even while the captured limb continues to get lifted back and up at an increasingly uncomfortable angle until the unmistakable feel of a cold metal handcuff finds purchase on his captured wrist before he can maneuver it free.
He struggles even harder as more greedy hands dig around at his side, ruthlessly seeking his other arm that was hiding there and when they finally do find it they tug it mercilessly backwards to join its mate even though his shoulder very much protests that movement. The bite of the second cuff has him cursing and again writhing around on the ground trying to buck off the people riding his back like he's a fucking bronco. He manages to get his head free, crans it up to try to get his bearings, to try to find Clay, but there are just feet and bodies all around. French voices ring loud and hot in his ear and then someone shoves his face aggressively back down into the cement, grinding his cheek into the coarse surface.
"Sonny, stop it. Just calm down."
The familiar voice, and only that, has him finally stilling on the ground. Sonny heaves several great shuddering inhilations as best he can under the multiple bodies and weight pressing down. He tries to catch his breath and his composure, breathing slowly in and out even as the adrenaline rush is still pumping, his heart still racing and all his natural instincts that make him want to keep fighting.
It takes all his self control to not react when they take advantage of his pseudo cooperation and hands start sliding up and down his body, methodically patting him down. First they find and remove his gun from his waist holster, then his knife from the other side of his waistband. Next they shimmy down his ankle to his back up knife and then ….dammit his backup-backup knife too.
After a few seconds of stillness and when they are seemingly convinced they've found all his weapons some of the weight on his back and chest thankfully eases up making it possible to actually pull in a full lungful of air. His relief is short lived though as almost immediately his arms are getting pulled up further behind him, too tight cuffs digging into his wrist bones and his highly inflexible shoulder joints complaining with each degree of tilt until he has no choice but to come up off his stomach and back up onto his knees to relieve the tension.
Still it's a preferable vantage point to the ground and as he comes up and blinks around him in the darkness his eyes search rapidly until he finds Clay a dozen or so feet away in a similar position but looking remarkably more calm and less dishevelled than he currently feels.
Sonny takes a small reprieve in seeing that Clay is seemingly alright, at least at first glance.
And yet his brain knows better, saw the blood on the seat, so his eyes keep searching, squinting as flashlights pan all around him until finally one beam focuses long enough in the right direction and he zeros in on a dark stain spreading on Clay's thigh.
Ok, a leg wound.
That's actually somewhat reassuring as well, much preferred to a messy gut shot or something where internal injuries could be an issue. But then again Clays pants are dark and it's hard to tell just how much blood there really is and Sonny knows all too well that an artery is an artery wherever you hit it.
Just look at how much damage that shrapnel did to Clay's leg last time.
He manages to pull his head out of that rabbit hole that leads nowhere good long enough to do a more thorough assessment. Another flashlight movement allows him to get a better look at Clay and he decides that while Spenser looks a little pale and uncomfortable, he doesn't actually look too worse for wear and doesn't appear to be in any immediate danger of bleeding out.
Cursory triage done and panic abating slightly, Sonny finally turns his attention back to the other little problem they have going on here.
Thankfully the police also seem to be trying to get their bearings and get a handle on the situation meaning most of them have backed off and are conversing a short distance away. Only a few remain close by, and there is a steely grip on each of his arms telling him that another couple are staying even closer to making sure he doesn't get any ideas.
However that's probably not actually necessary anymore. Now that he's calmed down and now that he can see just how many guns are pointing their way he is rethinking this situation slightly. He also has a great view of both Clay's leg and the corresponding bullet holes in their car, putting him firmly in the let's talk this out camp. Fucking French and their itchy fucking French trigger fingers
Still nothing seems to be in a hurry to happen right now so Sonny takes advantage of the momentary truce to throw a low, urgent whisper in Clay's direction. "Clay, how bad is it?
He doesn't get a response. Clay is busy watching the officers milling about, clearly trying and failing to catch someone's attention.
Undeterred Sonny starts trying to wiggle forward to get a closer look. His movements result in a firm pull on his arms to halt his movements and the very slight uptick in his struggle catches both Clay's attention and a few other officers whose guns ominously raise a few inches again, preparing for things to step off again..
Clay pins him with an exasperated glare.
"Stop, it's fine. We've got bigger problems right now" voice tight but firm.
Clay turns his attention back to one of the more important looking officers who has approached to check out the commotion and takes advantage of his attention to try again to explain their situation. "Ecoutez, c'est une grosse erreur. Nous sommes avec les Etats Unis."
He gets ignored, the police returning to buzzing around, and Sonny takes some small satisfaction in seeing that their radios don't seem to be working either. Mind you on the other hand that's also decidedly unfortunate because it seems to be causing quite a bit of discombobulation and confusion that is not helping their cause here and will limit any attempts to get in contact with their guys if they do somehow get the chance.
Clay isn't deterred though and tries again, raising his voice slightly.
"On est Americain, des soldats, vous pouvez verifier."
This time he gets a response, some words Sonny doesn't understand but quickly translates to something along the lines of shut the fuck up if the vicious punch to the gut Clay absorbs is any indication.
It sends Spenser doubling forward with a strangled, airy sound before the asshole behind him yanks on his arms, forcing him to slowly uncurl and pull back up to his previous upright position on his knees. It has Sonny seething in place again, blood pressure rising and rationality lowering as he watches his teammate's face twist in pain, the rough handling and movements surely aggravating the bullet wound these assholes put there.
"Hey shithead we are on the same side here" Sonny tries it his way.
Predictably that gets him a similar response, a hard blow to the face this time, although at least actually deserved, and for all the things the French suck at they apparently know how to throw a pretty good one. The punch has some good force on it, rocking his head back and dazing him for a moment.
When his vision clears, he sees Clay getting dragged upwards, struggling to hold his weight awkwardly on his good leg as he gets led towards the back of an unmarked cargo van that just pulled up.
"Hey, where's he going...Hey!"
His protective instincts surge again, any attempt at calmness gone but before he can get too worked up the grips on his shoulders and arms tighten. More officers swarm in around him apparently taking no chances this time with the not so cooperative one and he gets manhandled up to his feet and then shuffled in the same direction. He doesn't bother to fight it since wherever Clay's going he intends to be there too. However when the blindfold comes down and the lights go out he can't help his reaction and the automatic struggle that kicks in. Sonny drops his weight and digs his legs in pulling in the opposite direction as those trying to lead him.
A sharp blow to the back of his knees buckles his legs out from under him in one foul swoop. His chest tilts forward and hands on his back help fold him over until his body catches on a hard surface on the way down. New hands grab him from above and start pulling him forward along what he assumes is the van's floor and his legs dangle for a moment still outside before getting shoved awkwardly in after him. He lies panting for a second and can hear and feel feet climbing up and around him. They settle nearby, one or two of them actually settle on top of him and he would love to be able to rip them off right now but he settles for rolling slightly and trying to dislodge it. The boots shove him back down flat on his stomach and bling and bound he has to accept that they are probably going to win this round.
A door slams shut, an engine revs and then the van lurches underneath him. The driver apparently having much the same clutch issues as Sonny was and yet he doesn't see any misguided bullets flying his way. That bitter thought lingers as they are off and away wherever the hell they are going.
Sonny can't help himself from grumbling and muttering under his breath as he and Clay slide around on the dirty wet floor and bump into things each time the Van accelerates or takes a turn. Unrelenting feet keep pushing and prodding them back into the middle but other than that their new companions say nothing. The only other sound is the occasional grunt or patch of rough breathing from Clay behind him who apart from those noises seems to be continuing his zen, calm, understanding approach about the whole situation is really starting to piss Sonny off, sometimes he swears that is exactly why Clay does it just to be the opposite and prove a point. Surely no one can be this calm about this colossal a fuck up.
In fairness, Sonny kind of was to start with. Initially he thought it was fricking hilarious just how behind the ball the French were. That not only could they not catch their own terrorists, but they were busy shooting at their own allies instead. He also thinks there is some extra irony that after all the missions they've run sneaking in and out of non permissive environments and hostile countries, the first time he gets captured is in a friendly country where he has permission to be operating in in the first place.
So yeah this almost would be comical, one hell of a story to tell the guys once this all inevitably gets sorted out except for the fact that one of those misguided bullets landed.
A bullet put there somewhat in part by Sonny's driving snaffu. This all would be plenty comical if it weren't for that small fact.
Also the fact that this is going on just a little bit to long for his liking, and no one seems to be showing signs of even remotely considering the fact that they are telling the truth.
This drive is also going on too long for his liking.
He isn't sure where they are being taken but wherever it is it apparently isn't close.
And it's quiet… too quiet.
"Clay, you alright?"
"Ferme-le"
It isn't Clay who responds to him, and yep, theres that fucking baton again, poking him hard between in an unprotected spot right under his rib exposed by his arms still trussed up behind him. Sonny has a plan for where he's gonna shove that little bugger if he gets the chance,
Undeterred he tries again, a little quieter this time. "Clay seriously, how bad is it? Is it still in there?"
A sigh, and then to his relief an equally quiet response from the voice he was looking for "I'm fine Sonny"
That's not really an answer to his question. But apparently it's all he's going to get.
Clay's tone is tired and tight with anger, Sonny isn't sure if it's at him, the situation, or some combo of the two.
He tries one more time..
"Clay...what are we gonna do here?"
But when he just gets a long pregnant silence in response he has to resign himself to the fact that Clay doesn't apparently want to talk right now or maybe just doesn't have an answer for that question. Either way its fair especially since it's Sonny's fuck up that put them in this situation after all and he has no idea how to fix this either.
The quiet lasts a few more minutes until Sonny gets impatient again and can't help himself. He starts wriggling around, not even really sure what he's hoping to accomplish. Dislodge the blindfold? Somehow turn into Trent and be able to find, triage and treat the wound without actually seeing it or having full use of his hands? Stage a two man takeover against a van full of armed officers? Sure any and all of those would be nice.
Instead all it gets him is a sharp command and an accompanying kick to go with it. Then apparently Clay gets one too for good measure judging by the sharp huff of pain behind him.
That extra added guilt on top of how shitty he is already feeling about this situation is enough to finally convince him to stop and just lie still.
That said, he can't quite help himself from claiming the last word. Desperately trying to inject some humour into a situation that is no longer feeling remotely funny and choosing to believe that despite whatever rift is currently driving him and Spenser apart there is still something there between them to draw on now when they need it.
"Should have let me take the damn right turn."
Thankfully the rest of the drive is fairly short, which is good because Sonny's hold on his temper is tenuous and his patience long spent. He doesn't have much of either at the best of times and cuffed, stuffed on the smelly gross floor and acting as a french footrest is not even remotely close to that.
He has no idea where they arrive to, but they stumble awkwardly out of the van in the dark with no shortage of banged shins and F-bombs released on his part and then when the blind folds come off his best guess is that they are in some sort of police station. He blinks trying to adjust his eyes back to the dim, flickering lights that seem to be running off a generator and looks around in the vain hope that somewhere in this station there is somebody with at least one working brain cell who might be able to sort this out. As they get hustled through the main room it's clear that the chaos continues here and also clear that they aren't going to get any sort of chance to talk to anyone reasonable anytime soon. People are clustered around computers, tangled in wires and looking more like IT professionals than the law enforcement proffessionals he assumes they are.
Him and Clay get deposited into a room under the tight guard of an officer who glowers threateningly at them every time as Sonny so much as tries to breathe too loudly. Shortly after that they get moved again to another room and Sonny quickly comes to the conclusion that there are even less brain cells here that there were on the road. No one seems to know what to do with them or where to put them and its all just one big giant clusterfuck.
He rolls his eyes at Clay a few times but the kid continues on with the silent, composed game he's playing. The only time Spenser opens his mouth is to make a few more perfunctory attempts to explain their situation which despite what Sonny assumes is a flawless French accent still gets him nowhere and now he appears to have settled for simply waiting it out with a frustrating amount of patience.
Then just a few minutes later they get moved again, this time they are led down a sketchy looking hallway and then almost immediately start descending deeper into the bowels of the building where things quickly turn from a fairly modern law enforcement facility into what looks like something straight out of the 15th century. That's another thing he hates about Europe, everything is old and archaic. They always just refit and reuse rather than tear anything down. Preserving history or some crap like that. Sonny is firmly in the rebuild and start from scratch camp. As far as he's concerned the building codes have improved slightly in the last five centuries so that alone is a very good reason to say out with the old and in with the new.
He watches the walls grow ominously cracked and worn, switching from modern drywall to ancient rock and stone as the temperature drops precipitously adding to his unfavourable impression of where they are being led to.
Sonny can see where this is heading. Or more importantly where it's not heading which is towards any sort of phone call or hospital..
The first sight of doors that look suspiciously like prison cells has him breaking his vow of silence and stopping in his tracks "Hey, this is absurd. We have rights."
He gets shoved forward but turns and tries again, appealing to anyone who will listen.
"You can't deny him medical treatment. You fucking shot him."
Except apparently they can.
Clay's wellbeing It doesn't seem to be high on anyone's priority today.
They get dragged off to separate rooms. Sonny is thoroughly unimpressed with letting Clay out of his sight when so while it's more of a cordial escort for Clay it's very much a literal drag for him as he once again resists the direction they want him to go.
It doesn't matter though, like the rest of this shitty day it doesn't go his way and he ends up seething in a chair in a room by himself.
After a few moments, not nearly long enough for him to get remotely close to calming down the door opens and a new person comes in. He sits in the other chair across from him and Sonny sits up slightly with interest. Finally they are getting somewhere, this person has a different feel than the other idiots he's been dealing with, more composed, a different purpose, he can't quite put his finger on it but finally now it feels like things are about to step off here.
His interrogator breaks out some stilted English with no small matter of distaste to question Sonny fifteen different ways about why he was where he was in return lays on his thickest southern accent in case that will help them figure out that HE IS FREAKING AMERICAN and tells the truth. It feels like they still can't quite decide whether or not they want to believe him and his story. Frustratingly it's also very clear they have made no attempt, or at least no headway in trying to confirm their identity either.
At one point he gets angry and as his voice raises, two more officers come into the room and ensure he stays firmly in the chair. Continuing on with how everything else has gone tonight they aren't exactly gentle but they also don't go hands on for the interrogation yet. Which almost makes him more mad. The French can't even do this right. Just get it over with already.
Instead it's just lots of questions. Over and over. The same damn questions and he gives the same damn answers and finally he gives up on trying to convince them of anything
He just smiles at them and repeats his service number again and again no matter which of the questions they decide to try and throw at him again. As if his answer is going to change since they asked it five minutes ago.
The absurdity of this is making it so much worse.
Just one phone call could clear it all up.
And yeah there's the minor detail of the electricity problems, but clearly they've got some generators going, how hard is it to get some communications technology back up and running. Are they living in the damn dark ages just because they are still using medieval prisons, Are the French police so pathetically ill equipped they don't have any back up communications.
When he points that out to them and provides his not so glowing review of their emergency preparedness it abruptly ends his "interview" and gets him thrown into one of the cells they passed earlier. It's dark and immediately another few degree's colder, thick stone walls on three sides and a heavy metal door completing the depressing enclosure.
In a true dick move they leave the cuffs on and then as an added insult they connect the handcuffs to a metal chain on one of the walls further limiting his mobility in the cell. He has a few feet of motion in each direction, not quite enough to stand, but if he scoots on his butt and demeans himself just a little bit extra he can get an angle to peer through the little observation square that lets a tiny beam of light through the door.
He glares out through it at the two officers he can see. Swearing under his breath as they make themselves comfortable at a desk. There's a short stubby one who settles into a chair and pulls out a crossword and a larger guy who epitomizes pretty much every french stereotype he's ever known down to the weird little curly mustache growing on his face. Mustache man grabs the other chair and hits the knob to recline it and then swings his feet up onto the desk in a position that looks far too comfortable compared to the cramped, awkward one he is currently trapped in.
Sonny spends a little time testing his bonds but gets nowhere other than ending up with sore wrists to go with his increasingly sore shoulders.
He envisioned being taken captive one day. You had to get where he is. SERE for one is designed to make you think through that situation, evaluate your life and what you are willing to hold on for. But never in a million years did he expect it would be like this in a civilized country because some numbskulls can't even figure out who their allies are. If he's honest he also expected a whole lot more torture to be involved. That whole pliers, fingernails, electricity, waterboarding kind of thing and honestly he might prefer that to all this waiting around. Plus he has no idea where Clay is right now and what is happening to him. He hopes the delay means the kid is at least getting some sort of treatment but given their reception so far that is probably too much to ask for.
Frustrated, Sonny tests his cuffs one more time.
Finally seeing they aren't going to budge anytime soon, he scuffles back to sit against the wall in the shadows trying and failing to find a comfortable position that doesn't put too much pressure on his pinned arms.
Well this is just fucking peachy
He glowers at the wall across from him, noting a few deep cracks starting at the ground and branching up and outwards in both directions.
Wouldn't it just be their luck today if an earthquake brought this whole piece of crap ancient architecture down on their heads. That would truly be the cherry on top of the shit sundae.
Sonny takes a deep breath and fervently tries to think of anything but could be happening to Clay right now or what the chances of a natural disaster occurring in the near future are.