A/N: Thank you WishfulThinker66 for the lovely review! I don't know what I would do without you!
It feels great to be back on a regular schedule and have our show to look forward to!
I hope you all enjoy the unfolding drama. ;)
With his heart in his throat, Deacon screeched his car to a halt outside of Reagan's house. Red and blue lights bounced off the neighboring buildings, illuminating the faces of bystanders who had come out in their pajamas to see what the fuss was about. He spotted Luca sitting on the tail end of an ambulance as a paramedic checked the man's bloody forehead.
Jogging over, Deacon asked, "Luca, what the hell happened? Are you all right?"
Luca waved away the medic. "I'm fine."
"You don't look fine."
The paramedic, who appeared barely old enough to be out of high school, said, "He's got a concussion and a bad cut that needs stitches. I think he also broke a few ribs so we'll get an x-ray at the hospital."
Deacon shot Luca an unimpressed glance.
"I'm not going to the hospital!" Luca insisted. "Deke, we need to get these sonsabitches! Who knows what they're gonna do to her! We're on the clock here!"
Deacon felt that stab of panic rise up again. "Tell me what happened. Anything you can remember."
Luca sighed and brought his hands up behind his head, rubbing them over his spiky hair. "It happened so fast, man. I heard noises outside—thought I was dreaming. They broke down the door and gave me a beatin' while they got Cassie. I tried to shoot at their van, but I don't think I could've hit the broad side of a barn at that point. I might've clipped the bumper…"
"Is there anything about them that stood out to you? How many were there?"
"I think there were four guys. On the way out, the last one said, 'we'll be in touch.' His voice, it had a Spanish accent." Luca blew out a tense breath. "What could they want with her, man?"
"It sounds like they're setting up for a ransom situation." Which was good and bad—good for Reagan because it would give her more time, and bad for the team because it would no doubt put them in a tricky position. No matter what, though, they would get her back.
The rest of the team arrived then. Street removed his motorcycle helmet as Chris exited Hondo's vehicle. They all took in the sight of Reagan's demolished front door and the strip of police tape that whipped up and down in the ocean breeze.
"So somebody just took her?" Street hollered to them over the commotion, a sharp line cutting between his brows. "Why would they do that?"
Luca told his story again, appearing more tired with every word. It was nearly four in the morning and he'd endured a lot. Deacon wouldn't blame him for feeling run down after the adrenaline tapered off.
Hondo squeezed Street's shoulder and said, "She'll be okay. We're gonna get her back," to which Luca agreed.
Deacon realized that those two must have thought Street was still having relations with Reagan, and it didn't bother him because it took the heat off his own back. He could tell the man still cared for her and probably had feelings that went beyond friendship. In this moment, though, they all were concerned about Reagan and would do anything to return her home.
Street may not have known the extent of Deacon and Reagan's relationship, but his confession on the rooftop must have clued him in to its intimate nature. That was solidified when he looked directly across at Deacon and said, nodding, "We'll get her back."
Body-wracking shivers brought Reagan out of her unconscious state. The unforgiving cement floor pressed into her joints and made them ache. She pushed herself up to sitting and almost fell back over when her head spun. Putrid smells assaulted her nose, a mix of mold and various bodily fluids. She touched a hand to her forehead and brought it away sticky. It was too dark around her to see its color, but the metallic scent told her it had to be blood. That would explain why her head hurt so much.
Where the hell was she?
A tiny crack of light lit up one spot on the floor. She felt around her and realized the walls were very close by and the light came from under a door, but there was no knob. She had to be inside some kind of empty closet or storage room. There was literally nothing but dust.
She backed up against the wall and curled up her legs, holding them to her chest as the shivers continued. She cursed the fact that she'd chosen to wear only a tank top and underwear to bed, but who would've thought they'd end up somewhere else by morning?
Reagan tried to remember what happened before this. She'd been having a good dream—about what was beyond her now—and had been startled awake by a dark figure. She recalled being scared and screaming for Luca.
Oh God…was he okay?
She knew that man would fight until his last breath to help someone in need, but he hadn't saved her, so something had gone seriously wrong. She wasn't overly religious, but her job brought her a certain level of faith. When getting shot at on a daily basis, she had to turn to some kind of higher power to keep a level head. She prayed that Luca was all right, that he'd made it out and called for backup.
Deacon.
Reagan felt a fissure in her resolve. She took a deep, shuddering breath and touched her forehead to her knees. Deacon would be so worried about her, and it put him in a difficult situation. He would be moving mountains right now to get her back, all while hiding the fact that he was more than just her CO. He'd have to keep his own level head, and she didn't think she would be able to do that if roles were reversed.
A distant noise and approaching footsteps had Reagan suddenly on high alert. She pushed up to standing because she was determined to face her captor—not cower away from them on a dirty floor. Multiple locks clicked on the other side and the door swung open. Reagan blinked against the assault of light as someone grabbed her arm and wrenched her out of the closet. She stumbled but regained her footing. Her bare feet slapped against cold concrete and another tremor traveled through her whole body.
"Who are you?" she asked, trying to keep the shakes out of her voice. "What do you want?"
The man glanced back at her and she couldn't help but recoil.
He wore a classic Day of the Dead mask with dark holes for his eyes, which made them look black and beady.
"Cállate," he muttered in Spanish.
Reagan dug back in her brain, trying to dust off her Spanish from when she'd spoken it with her family, but she still didn't know what it meant.
He tugged her through what looked like a warehouse, and then to an open office space at the end with three more men. One sat at a computer station in the corner and the other two, both with the same style masks, stood in front of a camera. She had a bad feeling about this.
"No. No, no, no..." she said, trying to pull back from them and drag her feet.
One of the masked men came forward and jerked her out of the other's grasp. With force, he shoved her onto a dingy carpet in front of the camera. When she cried out, her original captor yelled out, "¡Oye! ¡Cuidadoso!"
That she knew meant 'careful.' But why would he say that?
The aggressive man lowered himself to her level, knees bent, and said, "Oye." When she ignored him, he yelled it again and gave her head a quick smack. She stared at him, eyes blazing. He reached over and grasped under her chin, squeezing hard. "Officer Cassidy, who is in charge?" he asked in a heavy accent.
She shook her head like she didn't understand the question. She wondered how they knew her name, but it told her that this was personal and not random.
"LAPD SWAT. Who is in charge?"
Reagan now understood what he was asking her. She kept her eyes down and mouth shut. She didn't see the man look past her and nod, which was followed by a crack to the back of the head. Bright light burst behind her eyelids, the equivalent of seeing stars.
The man grabbed her face again. "Look at me! Tell me his name!"
When she ignored him again, she braced for the second blow. It still hurt more than the first.
"Officer Cassidy! We are trying to help you!" He cocked his pistol and put it under her chin. "Tell me his name. I won't ask again. You have more friends who could take your place."
With that, she looked at him. No way would she put her teammates in harm's way.
"Commander Hicks…"
The man nodded. "Gracias."
Someone from behind grabbed each of her wrists and she felt a zip-tie slide into place. The man in front of her picked up a roll of duct tape and she tried to turn her head, but he was still able to slap it over her mouth. He stood and directed his attention to the tech guy in the corner.
In Spanish, he asked if they were ready. When he received a nod, he said, "Let's begin."
Deacon rubbed a hand over his face, feeling the effects of a very early morning. He, along with Street and Hondo, had been scouring as much evidence as they could back at headquarters. They'd successfully sent Luca to the hospital, but only under the guise that he be released after the last stitch was finished. Chris had volunteered to tag along in case he became a flight risk.
The man was livid—and Deacon completely understood that, because he felt the same way.
They didn't seem to be getting far on much. That changed when Captain Cortez stepped into the doorway.
"You guys need to come with me."
This can't be good… The unspoken words were exchanged between the three men.
They followed Cortez down the hall and into Hicks' office. The commander stood in front of his computer and gave the new arrivals a quick glance. His expression was tight. Deacon had seen that look before and it never made him feel any less nervous.
Hicks pressed play on his computer and a video began streaming on the TV across from them. He circled around his desk and joined the foursome below the flat screen.
"Hello, Commander Hicks," a man said, his face startling in a classic Mexican skull mask. Deacon heard the accent that Luca had referred to as the man carried on. "As you know by now, we have one of yours." He stepped back from the camera and revealed Reagan, who was flanked by two more masked men.
Deacon wanted to throw up—or punch something.
Reagan was on her knees, wearing a blue tank top and matching bikini underwear, and that was all. He wondered if she'd slept like that, or if the men had removed some of her clothing. Either way, he felt his anger run so deep, frankly, it scared him. He was pretty good at keeping a level head and had prided himself on that over the years. But this was different.
He focused on the TV once more, trying to put his rage aside so he wouldn't miss anything important that could help get her back.
"You arrested one of ours. Our lieutenant…" the man continued. Deacon understood he was referring to someone high up in their gang hierarchy. "Miguel Rodriguez. You are holding him in the California State Prison. Bring him to us and a small plane at the private airfield west of LAX, and you will get her back."
Deacon watched as the man unsheathed a machete and seized a fistful of Reagan's dark hair, twisting her head back. His eyes widened and he almost looked away. If they executed her and he had to see it, it would ruin him.
Her captor rested the blade against the column of her neck, which looked so pale in the video. Deacon couldn't help but think about all the times he'd kissed her there, enjoying her velvety skin as they'd made love. Now the sight only brought him fear. He watched a trickle of blood slide down from just the smallest nick. Reagan squeezed her eyes shut and her chest heaved from where it was thrust forward in the awkward position.
Deacon couldn't bear to watch this anymore. He felt like he wanted to crawl out of his own skin. He wished he was there in her place…
"You have three hours to comply. Or else it's bagpipes for Officer Cassidy."
The video ended, frozen on that last jarring image.
Reagan tried to take deep, calming breaths, but the duct tape wouldn't allow it. She felt immense relief that the man hadn't cut her throat or any other body parts. She wasn't sure, though, how much her team could do in three hours. That wasn't much time…
Her original guard came forward and hooked a firm hand under her elbow. She was able to tell him apart from the others by the orange flower on the forehead of his mask. He lifted her to stand and propelled her back toward the closet in the warehouse.
She landed hard on the floor, knowing more bruises would come from it. The man took something out of his pocket and kneeled in front of her, invading the small space. She drew back, something she wouldn't have normally done, but being defenseless made her lack her usual confidence. He ripped the tape off her mouth and held out the open wrapper of a protein bar.
Carefully, Reagan took a bite, chewed slowly, and then spit it back in his face.
The man flinched, swearing under his breath. Swiping a hand over the mask, he finally lifted it off.
Reagan stared back in shock. She couldn't fucking believe it.
"Tommy?" she whispered.
The handsome man glared at her. "Hola, sis."