Thank you so much for those who are still with me on this! I hope you continue to enjoy it.
Jeff had intended to be back at his son's side in less than a minute. Virgil was still weak, still sick, but had persuaded his father to fly to the middle of nowhere on a dangerous rescue mission. Jeff didn't – couldn't – regret it, though. Not if it meant finding Scott: not if it meant freeing them from this nightmare.
He planned to make sure Virgil was stable before following the others. He was painfully aware they had no idea how many men Blag had. It was him, and two of his sons, against a potential army. Despite sending them against nature time and time again, he would never have given a mission this perilous his blessing if it had been any other situation.
But as he turned from the radio, it crackled. Jeff snatched it up.
"Llina?"
"Mr Tracy." Her thick Russian accent was hard to decipher; interference was making the radio splutter.
"Hang on."
He switched channels, changing to a more advanced soundwave Brains had developed. It was the same communicator used in the Thunderbirds and no amount of snow would dampen the signal.
"Go ahead."
Her accent got stronger the faster she spoke but Jeff got the idea. The local police were fooled by John's breadcrumbs and were starting to investigate Llina's allegations. They wouldn't arrive in time to help the boys, though. For all Jeff knew, John and Gordon were already in trouble. But they would arrive and the last Llina had heard, the army was being mentioned.
Despite what Gordon had said, there was no plan. They didn't know what they were up against. Jeff doubted his sons had even known their destination when they had boarded the plane. He had acted on instinct – they were already airborne and he wanted Scott back as much as his brothers. But they couldn't do this alone. He didn't need the army though; they needed someone on their side with no questions asked.
"Good," Jeff said, distracted, mind racing. "They need to close down this operation for good."
When Llina fell silent, Jeff realised how quiet the plane was. He thought he would at least hear Virgil moving; his son would be raiding the supplies if nothing else.
"Call me back if you have any more news," Jeff said. "I have to go."
Putting the radio down, he paused.
He made another call, this time to the Global Defence Force. He kept it short, and knew they would demand answers at a later stage. He hated leaving the boys any longer than necessary but as he signed off, he knew assistance was on its way.
He replaced the radio and turned. The door had shut silently behind him without him noticing. But as he attempted to open it, he frowned. Tugging at the handle, Jeff tried to ignore the way his stomach flipped. But he hadn't been one of the first men on the moon, a successful businessman and a father of five boys by ignoring his instincts.
One last attempt confirmed his suspicions: it was locked. He moved back to the controls and pressed a series of buttons in a certain order. Brains had put thought into the plane, as with all of his designs. An intruder could be locked in the cockpit – they would never figure out the override. But a Tracy couldn't.
Being locked in didn't phase him. The reason why the door was locked, however, terrified him.
The door swished open and he stumbled into the main part of the plane.
"Virgil!"
Silence met his cry.
Just as he knew it would.
He ran a hand through his hair, shaking. The first aid kit was open, discarded on one of the seats and Jeff automatically picked it up, intending to close it. An empty wrapper caught his attention and he shut his eyes in resignation.
"Clever boy."
He should have known. Virgil wouldn't give in that easily, not when it was Scott on the line. He had played his father, and Jeff had fallen for it. He normally prided himself on knowing his boys but over the last few days, he realised how much they had successfully hidden from him.
He blamed it on exhaustion and stress but he feared something else. He was getting old.
He moved to the back of the plane. Virgil had at least shut the door behind him. Pulling down on the lever, Jeff squinted against the bright snow, peering out. All he could see of his sons were their footprints, leading to a dark door. Jeff's eyes narrowed.
His boys were in there.
There was only one place for him to go.
He couldn't go empty-handed though. Tossing the first aid kit back onto the chair, he grabbed a pistol, discarded it and picked up a rifle. It had been years since he last held a gun but hours of drills in front of a weapon's master were not lessons his hands would forget, and he made quick work of sliding new cartridges into the gun and storing the rest of the ammunition where he could easily reach it. There was a reason he understood what Scott and Gordon were capable of: he had been through it himself long before technology had digitalised weapons and equipment.
He did the same for the pistol before slipping it into his waistband. He had been at Blag's mercy ever since he had first seen the footage of Scott unconscious in the trunk of a car years ago. He refused to let the madman dictate their lives any longer.
He slipped the strap of the rifle over his head, adjusting it until it sat right. Then he moved back to the door. He didn't drop the way the boys had, but lowered himself down, tensing his legs to take the impact. He moved instinctively, his hands drawing the gun around even while he checked the immediate area for hostiles.
It was clear and he set off through the snow, head down, legs soaked, as he ploughed through. But when he was only halfway, a low grating sound reached his ears and he looked up, only to curse when he realised the door was opening. Hope momentarily flared – the boys were safe – but reality hit home when a figure squeezed through the gap and paused to let his eyes adjust to the bright glare.
Jeff was ashamed to admit he froze. It had been years since he had last been in a physical fight, not just staring an opponent down in a board meeting. The man was young, fit, and used to fighting.
He also hadn't noticed Jeff.
He wrenched the rifle strap, drawing it back over his head. As much as he wanted to fire it, he didn't want the sound to travel. He needed to draw men out from the bunker in order to give his sons a chance and a gunfight might make them flee deeper underground.
That didn't stop the rifle being an effective weapon though. He moved as fast as he could, lifting it like a club. The man heard him and turned, eyes widening as he gabbled something Jeff didn't understand. He grabbed at the gun, preventing it from making contact.
The pair grappled back and forth and Jeff had the horrible feeling he was losing as his feet began to slide on the treacherous ground.
The man had left the door open, though. Hearing gunfire from within, Jeff felt a surge of strength flood his body. He lunged forward and the man lost his footing, falling heavily. Jeff made short work of knocking him out and dragging his prone form away from the door.
He didn't have time to think of a plan. Caution wouldn't help him – or his sons – any longer. He had no cover, short of going back to the plane; getting closer to the building was the only thing that might offer him an advantage. A rough voice called out and before Jeff could react, another four men piled out the door, slamming it behind them.
He aimed and squeezed the trigger, stumbling from the recoil and trying to keep his balance. The first man fell with a shout, but the other three leapt over him, brandishing their own weapons as they advanced.
Jeff lost track of what was happening. But he realised he hadn't forgotten his own training and, despite having been there for some time, the men were no more accustomed to fighting in the snow than he was. He kept moving, forcing their shots to go wild, using their numbers against them, always making sure one was covering him from the others. One shot grazed his shoulder, but it only tore the fabric, not even breaking the skin. For once, luck was on his side.
Eventually, he was gasping for breath, sweat beading his face. He always rolled his eyes when his sons tried to include him on their training sessions and he was regretting it now. He had spent far too much time sitting behind a desk over the last few years!
But he suddenly realised there was only one left.
The final man was watching him guardedly, not making the same mistake as his companions and rushing in. He had circled them cautiously, seeming to realise Jeff's tactics and not wasting his strength or ammunition when he had no clear shot. Jeff swung the rifle around, covering every step the man took.
"He kill them," he said in broken English.
Jeff stared. "What?"
"He kill them himself," the man explained. "You last. You watch."
Jeff understood. Blag was always one for theatricals and it seemed the sort of thing he would do; lure Jeff in and use his sons against him. He didn't know if Blag knew it was the Tracys landing on his doorstep, or had just instructed his men on what to do if anyone matching their description turned up. He suddenly realised why Gordon had looked so reluctant about his father accompanying them – he had guessed what Blag might do before Jeff had.
"You're wrong," Jeff said. "He underestimated us then and he's done it again now."
The man sneered, then yelled when Jeff shot him in the leg before he could aim his own gun. If that was what Blag's plan, then Jeff had no qualms about taking his men out of action.
He secured the man with spare seatbelt straps from the plane, leaving him trussed up with his companions – a couple groaning, a couple unconscious. He dragged them away from the door, grunting with the effort, and left them to one side. The GDF could deal with them when they got here. The cold wasn't intense enough to kill them, although Jeff hoped for a few lost toes.
He turned towards the door, then froze. He looked back at the plane, then at the bunker and back again. His heart was telling him to rush in and reach his children.
But his head was telling him not to be rash. There was no telling how many men were down there. It would be easy for a few men to block the door and his sons wouldn't be able to get out again. Someone needed to keep an exit route clear.
He also vividly recalled the arguments when Mobile Control was first established. Scott had protested vehemently at being asked to stay in one place and direct his brothers into danger. But Jeff had made him see the need to have a centre point, a place to make contact and receive orders, otherwise they were running around with no clear picture.
Llina had said progress was being made with the authorities. The GDF were on their way. Someone had to liaise with them, ensure the boys weren't caught in the crossfire if they arrived before his sons came out.
No father wanted to admit their children were deadly but Jeff understood what his sons were capable of – probably better than they themselves did. He was the one out of practice and he already ached from his fight with the men.
Blag wanted to get to him – he always had done. All it would take was a well-aimed gun and Jeff knew he would surrender faster than he could think. And if he gave up, he wasn't certain the boys would carry on fighting. It was safer for them all if he stayed out of the way.
He had thought he had been making difficult decisions since starting his own business. But nothing compared to deliberately turning his back and walking to the plane.
Climbing in, he took up position in the open doorway, the scope of the rifle trained on the bunker door. After a moment, he dragged the radio down next to him. Regardless of how long he had to sit here and how cold it got, he wouldn't move. Nothing was getting in or out of that bunker without his say-so.
Time had dragged recently. Waiting to hear if the boys had survived the explosion. Waiting for Virgil to wake up in the hospital.
But now, knowing four of his five sons were just beyond his reach, every second lasted a lifetime.
He had no idea how long he remained there, crouched and poised, his concentration unwavering. He was just starting to truly feel the cold when he heard the door opening again. The gun whipped into position as he stared through the scope, ready to pull the trigger on whoever emerged.
Four people emerged.
And Jeff was running.
He didn't remember dropping the gun, or pausing to lower the steps. He recalled cursing the snow hindering him as he tried to run. But finally, finally, he reached his children.
Virgil and Gordon were first. His breath caught in a jagged gasp when he realised Gordon was badly bleeding and there were vivid marks around Virgil's throat.
But he swallowed his panic. They didn't need that right now; they needed their commander who always talked them through difficult situations.
He put a hand on Virgil's shoulder, not wanting to touch Gordon in case he hurt his son. He couldn't initially speak. Sheer relief at seeing them alive – wounded but alive – prevented him from saying anything.
"He's been shot," Virgil said. His voice was hoarse but flat. There was a hollow look in his eyes and Jeff knew shock was catching up. Virgil shouldn't even be out of bed.
"I'm fine," Gordon protested. A shadow of a smile touched Jeff's lips. Only Gordon would get shot and claim he was fine. There was a familiar set to his lips, a thin grimace they had all come to recognise over the years. Out of all of them, Gordon knew how to handle pain.
"Get in," Jeff said softly. "Put pressure on it."
His hand gently cradled the back of Gordon's head even as he squeezed Virgil's shoulder. He made eye-contact with his middle son.
"Get him to the plane."
Giving Virgil responsibility for his younger brother was the only thing that was going to keep him moving right now. It felt like a cheap trick to play, but until they were airborne, Jeff knew they couldn't let their guard down.
He took a step away, then turned back. Virgil twisted at the same time, knowing what his father wanted.
"Dead," he said.
Jeff shut his eyes, took a deep breath and opened them again before nodding at his sons.
"Get to the plane," he repeated.
His heart was thudding painfully hard as he turned towards John. His son's head was down as he trudged through the snow. He was struggling, but Jeff knew he would collapse before he let Scott fall.
"John!"
Jeff hurried, almost slipping in the snow. John looked up and his father was once again facing a haunted expression. As far as he could see, John didn't appear to be physically hurt but he looked more worn than Jeff had ever seen him.
But then his gaze slid past his son. A sharp intake of breath through parted lips stung the back of his throat as the cold air hit his lungs. It was like icy shards piercing him and he couldn't breathe.
It had nothing to do with the air temperature.
He reached out, hoping John didn't notice how badly he was shaking. He knew Scott was unconscious – he wouldn't be that still otherwise – and even looking at his back, Jeff could see spots of blood staining the thin grey tracksuit he was dressed in. He was suddenly terrified to see the full extent of Scott's injuries.
This was his baby, his little boy, the one who had cemented his parents dream of having a family. Jeff had sworn the first time he had ever held Scott that he would always protect him, always look after him. He could still vividly recall the way Scott's eyes had opened for just a few seconds, blinking at his father, accepting that promise, before drifting back to sleep, content.
He would do anything for Scott to open his eyes now. Even if it was to stare at his father in betrayal for breaking that promise – again. Anything to know they hadn't been too late…
"Come on," he said heavily, resting his hand against the back of Scott's head while looking John in the eye. "Let's get him somewhere warm."
He longed to take John's burden from him, but it would take longer to pass Scott over, not to mention risking hurting him further. Instead, he shadowed John, his hand ghosting over his son's elbow, ready to catch him if he should fall.
They reached the plane. Virgil was waiting at the top of the steps. Between the two of them, they managed to take Scott from John, awkwardly navigating their way into the plane. One of the chairs had already been tipped right back in order to make a bed, with a pile of blankets next to it.
They put Scott down. Virgil swallowed thickly.
"He was conscious," he muttered, his voice too soft for the others to hear. "He was lucid. Kinda."
Jeff nodded, unable to look away from Scott. His arm was clearly broken but it was the blood and bruises that drew his attention. Some were fresher than others. He knew what had made them: regular beatings. Blag hadn't just taken his son – he had repeatedly tortured him.
He was breathing deeply, his hands clenched into fists even as a roaring sound drowned out everything else. He had never known fury like it, not even when Blag had first taken his son years ago. This had been methodically planned – Blag had calculated every blow he had delivered Scott, mentally and physically.
"Dad?" Virgil's voice was muted through the blood pounding in his ears. "Dad!"
It was the hand on his arm that brought him back to himself. Jeff shrugged his son off and moved towards the door. He saw John look up from where he was standing over Gordon, uncertain of what his father was about to do.
Then Jeff slammed the door and locked it. He ignored his trembling hand as he turned back to face his children.
He didn't know where to start.
He realised Virgil had the first aid kit next to him and was constructing a splint for Scott's arm. His shoulders were hunched and his head bowed. Jeff knew that posture too well, and knew that, for now, the best thing for Virgil was looking after his brother. Jeff didn't need to ask to know what had happened: Virgil had seen exactly where Scott was being held prisoner, seen the conditions he was being kept in, and faced Blag. Focusing on his brother was the only thing that would keep him going for now.
He turned towards the other two. Gordon was hunched over, his face pale as he cradled his arm. John had a bandage in his hand but Gordon was refusing to straighten up. It told Jeff how much pain Gordon was in – and how hard John was fighting to hold it together. He could normally get any of his brothers, even Scott, to listen.
He crossed over and gently pulled the bandage out of John's hand. He guided his son into a seat, pulling a blanket over.
"No, I-,"
"Shh," Jeff soothed, shaking the blanket it out and draping it over his son. "You've done enough, Johnny. Sleep now. Rest."
He realised John must have spent every waking moment – and all the ones where he should have been resting but wasn't – searching for Scott. It was because of him that they had arrived in time. Jeff curled his fingers around the back of John's neck.
"You did it," he whispered, "you beat him."
For a rational man, John had a stubborn streak that was completely illogical. He had never forgiven himself for not finding Scott all those years ago, despite being a young child himself. At his father's words, however, he suddenly sagged, as if the shadow that had been hanging over him all these years was finally lifting.
Jeff stayed a moment longer, John's eyes shutting and his breathing evening out as he fell asleep. But as Jeff straightened up, he knew John was the easiest to sort out.
Gordon was still hunched but he had twisted so he could watch Virgil. He didn't notice his father crouch next to him. Jeff made sure he had the bandages in reach before gently prising Gordon's good hand away from his bad arm. His son flinched but his father didn't let go as he forced Gordon to sit up properly, allowing him to examine the wound.
"It went through," Gordon said, his teeth gritted. Jeff nodded but inwardly sighed in relief. Pulling a bullet from one son's shoulder was more than enough for him.
His hands moved deftly, applying pressure as he wrapped up Gordon's shoulder. It was bleeding heavily, but eventually Jeff had it under control and the wound bandaged. As he tucked the ends in, he realised Gordon's eyes had glassed over even though his brow was pinched with pain.
He reached over and Virgil anticipated what he wanted, pressing a phial of morphine and a needle into his hand without looking away from Scott. Gordon didn't notice until Jeff had prepped the needle.
"I'm fine-,"
"You're not," Jeff said. Placing his palm against Gordon's cheek, he forced his son to look at him. "You can let go now."
Gordon had always been the Tracy most likely to express his emotions. Alan could throw a tantrum that would be heard halfway down the street if they had still lived in a populated area. But Gordon's moods – good or bad – could infect the entire household. He had controlled himself for too long now and even as Jeff spoke, he felt an involuntary tremble run through his boy.
As Gordon sucked in a shuddering breath, Jeff inserted the needle into the crook of his arm. A few moments later and his son sagged back against the seat. Jeff knew Gordon was still holding back, but the pain relief started to work and he relaxed.
Jeff took a step towards Virgil but was distracted when Scott suddenly moaned. His eyes started flickering but before Jeff felt any relief, Virgil swore. Forcing his attention back to his middle son, he realised Virgil was holding Scott's wrist, monitoring his pulse.
"His heart's racing," Virgil muttered. Vaguely aware of Gordon sitting up behind him, Jeff stepped closer.
"Easy, Scott," he murmured. "It's over. You're safe."
But as he approached his son, he knew it wasn't working. Even with Virgil holding his wrist, Scott's hand had clenched into a fist, his nails digging into his palm. He was fighting with everything he had to wake up.
"Rest, Scotty," Jeff whispered, brushing his hand over Scott's hair, trying to comfort him. "Sleep."
But Scott didn't seem to hear him. His entire body tensed as he fought to wake up.
Gordon suddenly gasped and when Jeff looked over, his son was paler than before.
"Sleep deprivation," Gordon muttered, a half-frightened, half-furious expression crossing his face.
Jeff swore. "Of course."
"I don't get it," Virgil said. Jeff closed his eyes, trying to find the words but Gordon got there first. His voice was flat.
"I've heard prisoner of war stories," he said. "They're not allowed to sleep. If they do, they're woken and made to suffer the consequences of falling asleep."
"He hasn't slept?!"
"You said yourself Blag only gave you a few hours each night," Jeff said softly. He felt sick, watching Scott struggling to wake up because he knew what would happen if someone else woke him.
"But…" Emotion clouded Virgil's voice. "None at all?"
Jeff shook his head, knowing by Scott's behaviour that Gordon was right.
"Dad, he can't-," Virgil trailed off, still monitoring Scott's pulse. Jeff knew what he wasn't saying: Scott couldn't take this strain any longer.
Snapping into action, he grabbed the medical kit and started rummaging through. While most people would just stock a few bandages, Brains had prepared for everything. Jeff eventually found what he was looking for and pulled out a sedative. It was only mild, but with any luck, it would calm Scott.
He prepared it, then glanced at Gordon. His son nodded, agreeing with his father's course of action. Jeff slid the needle into Scott's arm, murmuring apologies as he did so. Scott flinched – even semi-conscious, he recognised the prick of a needle – but Jeff forced himself to move quickly.
After a few moments, Virgil sighed. "It's settling," he said, still gripping Scott's wrist.
Scott's head suddenly lolled to one side and his breathing became softer. Jeff still suspected broken ribs but it was better than before.
"Sleep," he whispered, brushing Scott's hair from his face and tenderly stroking it back. Virgil looked away to give them some privacy.
"Just sleep now."
But then he stepped away from Scott. They didn't have the supplies to do anything more than they had done. As much as he wished to stay by his eldest son's side and make sure nothing else happened, he still had another son that needed his attention. Virgil was conscious – unlike Scott. Right now, Virgil needed him more.
That didn't mean his son was prepared to accept that, however.
Jeff stepped closer, one finger brushing the marks on Virgil's neck. Virgil flinched away, not looking at him.
"Virg-,"
"I'm fine." Unlike Gordon, it wasn't just stubbornness and a reluctance to admit to hurting that lined Virgil's tone. He was frustrated and angry.
"Virgil-," Jeff took his son's arm, intending to draw him away. He wasn't expecting Virgil to elbow him. Not hard, but enough to make him back away.
"Shouldn't we have taken off by now?" he snapped.
Jeff knew there was no getting through to him like this. He took a step back, his gaze flickering to Scott. Then he checked on John and Gordon – the former was asleep, the latter staring into space, his mind resting even though his body was awake.
But Virgil was right – they couldn't stay here. No one else had emerged from the bunker and Jeff assumed his boys had handled whoever was down there. The plane was impenetrable now the door was locked. But Jeff didn't want to be there when the Russians arrived. He had no idea how to explain what had happened. It would be better if they were far away and the GDF dealt with the fallout. Everything else they would handle later.
Virgil didn't look at him and Jeff slipped into the cockpit. He took an empty first aid box with him though, using it to prop the door open. He wanted to hear immediately if any of his boys needed him.
He was glad he had been flying for years and had used this jet multiple times. He paid no attention to what he was doing, surprising himself when he realised they had taken off. Shaking himself, he knew he was as exhausted as his sons. But he had to hold it together; they had found Scott - the least he could do was get them home. He remembered Gordon's words back at the hospital about him being fit to fly, but it wasn't like they had any option.
After making some calls and confirming a flight path, Jeff levelled off and put the plane on autopilot. They were safe – it was time to make Virgil face up to whatever had happened in that bunker.
Gordon's eyes were closed but his father knew he wasn't asleep. Virgil hadn't moved; he was still holding Scott's wrist, although Jeff doubted he was paying enough attention to be monitoring his brother's pulse.
Jeff took his arm. This time, his grip was firm enough that Virgil couldn't shrug him off.
"Come on," Jeff said, his tone indicating he wasn't accepting any arguments. Virgil tensed.
"Don't wake up your brothers." It was a low blow but it worked. Virgil stayed quiet. Jeff pulled him into the cockpit, guiding his son into a seat. This time, he shut the door but ensured communications were open. Then he crouched in front of Virgil, his gaze lingering on the vivid marks on his son's throat.
"What happened, Virg?" His tone was soft and gentle. He would crouch as long as it took for his son to open up. Something was haunting Virgil – something more than everything that had just happened.
He didn't think his boy would answer. But raising five sons had instilled a patience in him that his mother was still astonished by. He simple waited.
…and waited…
"He pulled away," Virgil whispered. His hands were clenched between his legs, his gaze locked on them. He could have been ten years old again. Jeff wanted to pull him close but held still. He didn't speak.
"When I got there, he recognised me. He thought I was dead. He thought-,"
"We knew that would be the case," Jeff said softly. Virgil hadn't known the others had survived the explosion: neither would Scott. He wouldn't have known Virgil had been rescued either.
"No." Virgil shook his head and looked up. His eyes were swimming with tears. "He thought I was dead and had come for him. He-,"
Virgil's voice broke and he looked away. Jeff didn't move, even when Virgil angrily dashed the tears away.
"The only thing he asked was not yet. He…He thought he had died and didn't care, only it was the wrong time."
"He wanted to take Blag down first," Jeff said. He knew Scott. If he had honestly thought three of his brothers had been killed at Blag's hand, he would not have stopped until he had avenged them. While he hated what it had put his son through, he wondered if that burning desire for revenge was the only thing that had kept him alive.
Virgil nodded. "Why had he given up?" he suddenly yelled, driving his fist into the arm of the chair. "Why wasn't he fighting?"
"Virg-,"
"He should have been fighting!" His voice suddenly dropped and he ran a hand across his face. "I should have been fighting…"
Jeff smiled sadly. He had known ever since Virgil had pushed him away what was going through his son's mind.
"This isn't your fault."
"If he didn't think I was dead-,"
"Virgil, look at me." He waited until his son had complied. "This is not your fault. There was nothing you could have done."
"I told him I was scared."
"He would have already known. You know you can't lie to him."
"I should have-,"
"Virgil." Jeff repeated the same gesture he had used on John, cupping the back of Virgil's neck. "He knew how you felt. And you knew how he would react."
"He ended it," Virgil said. His voice was stronger again. "It wasn't me – I nearly got myself killed again."
Jeff hoped his wince wasn't too obvious. Virgil didn't comment on it if he noticed.
"He saved my life. He killed Blag."
Jeff smiled. For the first time since this begun, he felt relief. He was glad Blag was dead – he couldn't pretend otherwise. But knowing Scott had been the one to take him down meant he suddenly felt they could get through this.
"Now you can return the favour," Jeff said. "Come on. We should get back to them."
He stood up and offered Virgil his hand. To his relief, Virgil took it and allowed his father to help him up. Jeff wrapped an arm around Virgil's shoulders once they had passed through the doors.
"Oh, and you're definitely grounded for locking me in."
Virgil laughed weakly, briefly leaning on his father.
"Better me than you," he murmured. Jeff knew Virgil had shared Gordon's fears of what would happen if Blag got hold of their dad. But Jeff shook his head.
"Not for Scott," he said. Virgil didn't respond and Jeff knew there was nothing more to say. If anyone was going to pull Scott through this, it wouldn't be his father.
He just hoped it was enough.