Sorry for the ridiculous wait - there was a death in the family and school started back and it was just intense. Regardless, I hope this chapter lives up to your expectations and I've basically finished the next one (and I'm on holiday as of tomorrow afternoon) so the next turnaround shouldn't be too long.
Shout out to Nicole for being a Queen Beta!
Also, don't kill me.
"Hey Ru–"
"Killian, you and Emma need to get out of there now!"
"What's wrong?"
"Neal is there, he's at the Paix Helvezia! You need to go now!"
"We need to go."
A broken door, a swarm of burly men, limbs thrashing with precise blows and equally unforgiving parries, meeting her gaze transitorily before he heard a grunt and a thud and turned again to see her fallen form, using the rage he felt wash over him at the image to fuel his every movement until his odds were simply too slight and he felt pain shoot through the back of his head and his vision blacked out. These thoughts swirled in his mind, a melting pot of pictures and sensations that drowned him.
And he was rapidly rushing to the surface, fingers scrabbling, legs jerking as he forced himself to escape the voices and memories and emotions suddenly swarming around him. There was the sound of skin slapping against skin, a sharp prickle blooming on his cheek as he felt his body jolt awake.
The chair rattled as he was brought suddenly and unceremoniously to consciousness and he felt more than saw the binds that held his arms behind his back in the stiff seat. They were bound so that his biceps hugged the taut wooden back, both arms looped around the spine of the chair so his shoulders already ached from the tight, uncomfortable angle at which they sat.
Inhaling deeply through his nose Killian lifted his head slightly and opened bleary eyes to a bright overhead light swinging near-indiscernibly back and forth. There were two nebulous figures a short distance away but he didn't care, blinking away the haziness brought about by a mixture of exhaustion and what he assumed was possibly a concussion until the image before him was sharp. As it came into focus, he found enough concentration to briefly take in his surroundings before the two unnamed individuals stepped forward: a small room, high ceilings, flaking yellowish paint, boarded windows that kept out only darkness, an unsteady chandelier with missing droplets that looked to scatter several corners of the dusty wooden floors like fallen stars.
He was jerked back to his acquaintances when he felt a rough palm hot on the side of his face and the stinging returned. The force of the slap knocked his head to the other side and he coughed once before turning to face his assailant.
"Good Morning Sunshine," the man before him leered.
Killian recognized him; he was one of the men who had swarmed the hotel room. He had short dark blonde hair, a receding hairline and a crew cut that reminded him oddly of a drill sergeant and combined with the lumbering stature and broad shoulders – he fit the bill of a hired gun. Long lines marred his forehead and deep brown sunken in eyes stared the agent down where he sat, a look of unrepentant amusement glinting on his unnaturally shiny face. It looked like a bowling ball.
There was a woman beside him; all caramel skin, smooth high cheekbones and ebony black hair that sat flat on her head and fell to her chest. Her feline eyes stared him down with an indifference that would have been disturbing if he wasn't utterly consumed by the fact that Emma was nowhere in his sight. Panic mingled in with his pain momentarily as his eyes darted around every crevice and corner of the room visible to him.
Schooling his features into an expression of boredom and swallowing the urge to spit insults and demand her location, he let his gaze flit between the pair.
"If you think it's still morning, you're both dumber than I've given you initial credit for," he smirked in response, nodding deliberately to the golden afternoon shafts of light streaming in through the windows and tilting his head to the side to study them both.
The man stepped forward with a cruel grin, "That's big talk for a guy who's strapped to a chair."
"Greg," the woman warned in a stern voice, sensing the undercurrent of desire to maim in the clearly testosterone-overloaded male. Honestly, it wouldn't have surprised him to hear the human incarnation of Godzilla was on steroids with the way his veins protruded sharply out from the muscles on his arms.
Killian shrugged, as though the advance hadn't affected him in the slightest (which it hadn't – he was far passed being phased by overconfident ass holes using their brute strength to intimidate).
"Eh, give me a minute," he shrugged as much as his current position would allow.
His female captor finally sidled up to her companion and fixed the restrained agent with a cocked eyebrow, scrutinizing his face like she was searching for a chink in his armour. She clearly had no clue that of the two people who'd ever successfully been able to do that, one was dead and one was god knew where.
The latter of which was chewing increasingly on Killian's mind, reminding him every second that stretched out that Emma was in very real danger at the hands of a man he had yet to meet, but – from what he could tell – had a vendetta that spelled anguish and bloodshed.
"You don't have a minute," the woman informed him curtly, drawing him back to the present.
His lips pulled into the infuriating smirk he'd honed so well over the years, the one that didn't quite reach his eyes as they instead flashed with mockery, "Does that mean I can bargain for an hour?"
"You're awfully jolly considering the fact you're restrained, weaponless, and your partner is elsewhere with Neal," the man called Greg enunciated each description with the clear intent of reminding Killian of just how outnumbered he was in his predicament, pausing so he could crouch down in front of him. Killian's gaze narrowed fractionally as he maintained eye contact with him.
"And let me tell you," Greg continued conspiratorially, "he's quite angry with her."
Both of their eyes remained intent on the agent, searching for any reaction but he kept his face void of emotion. Suspiciously void of emotion considering the retorts he'd previously been dishing – but he couldn't quite manage anything else. He was actually surprised they didn't take note of the way his jaw clamped tighter, the muscle in his neck jumping as he restrained the urge to struggle against his binds.
He had to bide his time and wait for the opportune moment.
And really, giving them his only really leverage so early on in this situation wouldn't go anywhere to help him. If they knew about the complexity of his relationship with Emma or the weight of sway her life had over him, he'd be talking in moments. And if they really wanted information, Killian couldn't find a reason for them not to drag her in and force him to talk.
Because no amount of government training could condition him out of that response: the need to protect the ones he loved at all costs; patriotism be damned.
"So now he drops the sass," Greg chuckled, standing up again and turning to the woman.
"I guess he finally realized the gravity of his situation," she replied in her severe voice, thankfully oblivious to the real train of thought in his head.
"Well, I'm clearly not in too much trouble if I'm being taken care of by Neal's bitches," Killian hissed. Both heads turned in his direction and the man was swift in doling out a retaliation, throwing a fist into his abdomen so he curled over in the chair, coughing. When he looked up, his eyes snapped onto those of Greg's short-tempered brown ones and noticed quickly the way the woman had placed a petite hand on his shoulder.
He pulled away and pivoted to face the woman, "I don't need you to reign me in, Tamara – Neal doesn't give a shit as long as we don't kill him."
She tilted her head down, lowering her voice, "If you hadn't noticed, he's trying to rile you up. I don't know why – perhaps it was a knee jerk reaction to us mentioning the blonde but either way, we have our orders. So get your head out of your ass."
The woman named Tamara turned briskly away and back to Killian. So she wasn't so oblivious to his reaction after all.
"Who else knows you're here?"
He held her gaze intently, unflinchingly.
In for a penny, in for a dollar.
"Where's Emma?" he retorted. They knew at the very least that he cared, so what was the point of being covert about it anymore? So long as they didn't think about how deep that concern went, he might be able to hold out for a while.
She rolled her eyes, like he bored her with his antics, and started to pace leisurely around the room while Greg stood quietly in the shadows, watching with narrowed eyes as Tamara conducted the interrogation. It was obvious who wore the pants in that dynamic.
She continued to move back and forth at a slow pace even as she spoke to Killian.
"That is not of your concern right now. Right now, all you should be worried about is us and what we're going to do to you if you don't answer our very simple questions."
He snorted in dark amusement, shaking his head and letting his eyes drop the ground, "You clearly don't know me if you think that's my concern right now."
Again, the look of tedium stole her features and twisted them unkindly. Pulling to a stop in front of him, she frowned down at him, exasperation saturating her tone as she almost considered him pitifully.
"Don't be noble, Jones. It won't buy you anything here."
"What need do I have for nobility – I've never been concerned for my skin," he rebuked nonchalantly (honestly), hoping his shoulders weren't moving too much as he manoeuvred his wrists so he could finger at the knot that secured his binds. Greg, it seemed, decided to return to the party at the moment, waltzing up so he stood beside Tamara.
"That's just sad," he said.
"Actually it's quite liberating," he replied, his tone half candid, half derisive.
"I don't really give a shit," Tamara interceded sharply, "Who else knows you're here?"
"Oooh, that was sudden," he sneered, narrowing his eyes sardonically up at her before smirking with the most ire-inducing condescension he could muster, "Was that supposed to lull me into a false sense of security?"
He didn't see her fist coming until it was buried in stomach, pain singing in his muscles so he grunted. She rained hit after hit down on him, his shoulders, his face, his chest, until his breathing was heavy and he was fairly certain his arms and chest were covered in multi-coloured bruises. It was clear from the way she delivered each strike that she'd been trained in a martial art; the distinct way her flattened palms sliced through the air making it obvious to Killian she wasn't a simple thug. Which, while distantly he acknowledged as somewhat impressive, made her that much more dangerous. When she finally pulled back, Greg was grinning, arms folded across his chest.
"I'll ask again," Tamara said, wiping her hands on her jeans before casually cracking her knuckles, "Who else knows you're here?"
"Bite me," he spat in return, earning himself another onslaught.
"Let's try something else," Greg interrupted, looking mildly amused as he tapped a finger to his mouth in thought before eyeing Killian again, "How much does the CIA know about Neal and his whereabouts?"
It was a long moment before he caught his breath long enough to respond, simpering up at the man, his eyes underlined by a hatred so potent he was sure that if looks could kill, Greg would have been a pile of fine ash on the floor.
"How should I know?" he remarked sarcastically.
After the third beating, he barely felt each hit, each fist marking his skin so he was sure he would feel the pain for weeks afterwards.
"Come on, Killian. It's not fun for us to beat you either. Just tell us what you know and what the agency knows," Greg pleaded mockingly because it was blatantly obvious that he was enjoying this escapade. It was obscene really, just how much joy he seemed to source from it actually. But that thought was put in the backburner as Killian adopted an expression of contemptuous surprise.
"Funny, I thought you two were having a blast."
"And I thought you were smarter than this," Tamara said disappointedly.
He grinned at her, "And I thought you could hit harder than my mother, but we all make mistakes."
Her face curled into a scowl but Greg beat her to the punch, slapping Killian so hard he spit blood. Chuckling faintly, he returned to face them, a small feeling of satisfaction blossoming in his chest as he watched their frustration grow. He really should have been worrying about getting himself killed – but he knew they needed him and he also had a feeling they were holding back on their punches for a reason.
Sure, they'd hit him enough. But Killian was a trained fighter – he'd dealt and received hits for years. Which meant he could tell when someone was holding back, reserving the strength of their blows. There were several reasons someone might do that; typically, to ensure longevity in the situation.
But they weren't doing it for that reason – no, Tamara was keeping her hits swift and sharp and painful but not damaging. She was bruising him, but not breaking him. And he had a hunch that was because someone else wanted that honour.
And yet there was no feeling of foreboding, no ominous threat looming over his head.
The only worry he could muster was for Emma and that threatened to overthrow his barely sustained control. So he chose not to think about her, not until he was out of the chair. Then he would let it take over, let it lead her to him. Until then, he needed to focus on (a) escaping the chair and (b) evading death.
"Who else knows you're here?" Greg asked, getting down on Killian's level so they were eye to eye and separated by mere centimeters, attempting some form of close-proximity intimidation (the idiot clearly had no idea that he enlisted such tactics for a living). He was about to throw back a retort when Greg continued speaking, sentence apparently unfinished, "Or I'll make sure I send my personal regards to Emma."
The lascivious grin that split his thin lips snapped what little restraint the agent had, his previous control momentarily disappearing as he registered the underlying promise there. And despite the fact he knew he wouldn't –would never be allowed to fulfill such a vile promise, he couldn't help his reaction.
It was a knee jerk response to the concept, like putting a finger over a flame and expecting the owner not to instantly pull away from the burning heat. Except, Killian didn't pull away – he surged forward on the chair like a caged animal lashing out at the iron bars of its cell, attempting to head-butt Greg, his restrained arms keeping him from doing any damage.
"And finally we get a response," he leered, leaning back and stroking his jaw, "The blonde is his weakness."
He turned to Tamara with a knowing grin, "Should have known he was pining over her."
The woman actually cracked a smile, thin lips tilting at the edges ever so slightly so it was almost indiscernible. She cocked her head to the side, Killian's glower flitting intermittently between the two of them.
"Tell us what you know – I would hate to have to take out your idiocy on Emma," she said, voice saccharine sweet.
"You wouldn't dare," Killian ground out through his teeth, "Neal wouldn't let you."
Tamara lifted an eyebrow incredulously, "And how would you know a single thing about Neal?"
He glowered up at her, letting the uninhibited venom in his voice do all the talking as he replied in a decisively patronizing timbre, "Because he's had the opportunity to kill her numerous times and hasn't taken it. He still loves her, even if it's toxic. Which means, dumb and dumber, that he's not going to kill her and he'd sooner rip out your liver than let you touch her."
Greg and Tamara shared a passing glance, so fleeting it could have been missed in the blink of an eye. But he didn't, and he saw the wariness that was exchanged between them like a wordless conversation, drifting between the two and solidifying his allegations. Snapping his gaze onto Greg's, Killian made sure to saturate his words with a mixture of acid and amusement.
"And besides, Emma would bite your itty bitty dick off, you shit bag."
Greg's eyes flashed with the recognizable flames of anger just before he threw a punch into the agent's jaw. Killian's head was snapped to the side with the harsh impact and he instantly felt a mean bruise begin to form as his neck ached, eyes glazing over at the whiplash it caused. As he opened and closed his jaw, testing the mobility there and blinking away the haziness it had wrought, he listened carefully to their conversation a short distance away.
"I don't think we're going to get anything out of him yet," Tamara muttered.
"I agree," Greg huffed in return.
"I'll contact Neal; see what he wants to do. Be back in a minute - you stand watch outside the door."
A door opened and closed and when Killian looked up again, the room was empty.
8888
It was a long while before the door re-opened and Killian's eyes instantly latched onto the silhouettes as they slipped into the room, masked by the shadows so only their outline was discernible. He waited with an indifferent expression, entire body forcibly impassive so no one could distinguish just how uncomfortable he was. His position combined with his shallow injuries provided just enough pain and soreness to be annoying but not agonizing.
However, his attention was drawn from his current state to the people in front of him when his brain finally seemed to register something important about the dark figures: there were three of them.
And he was fairly certain he knew who the newcomer was before he even stepped out of the shadows.
"So you're the partner," Neal said, walking into the light and canting his head to the side with mocking intrigue, studying Killian as though he were a curious insect; something pitiable, something breakable and weak, something he silently loathed. He looked older than the image Ruby had found and had an air about him that screamed 'mad, bad and dangerous to know.' When he saw the man's teeth flash in an unkind smile, the agent smirked back without mirth, eyes narrowing as his lips twisted apart.
"So you're the psycho ex," he countered with a sharpness that wasn't lost on the man in front of him.
"You're quick, I'll give you that," Neal returned a dark chuckle, folding his arms across his chest and meandering forward – although it looked more like a lion stalking prey with the way he was scrutinizing him.
Killian maintained the smarmy grin, "Don't forget devilishly handsome."
"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder," he replied with a shrug before his muddy brown eyes narrowed ever so slightly, "And apparently we have similar tastes."
It wasn't lost on Killian to what he was referring, the connotations obvious as he eyed the agent purposefully. Neal watched his reaction intently, gauging the effect mentioning her had on him, probably judging whether or not he was being too subtle. Unwilling to let him have even a morsel of satisfaction, he turned to the man and shook his head in apparent confusion.
"I'm going to need you to elucidate on that."
"Emma."
"What about her?" Killian retorted impassively, expression undeterred by the bluntness of his interrogator. Hell, he did it for a living; he knew every single trick the man before him would use in an attempt to weasel some sliver of information out of him, some kind of reaction or weight he could pull mercilessly.
Neal chuckled derisively, "Don't be coy, Jones. You and I both know she's not just your partner," he paused and there was a sharpness in his tone that hadn't been present before, like the jagged edge of a knife glinting in new light, "if only in your eyes."
He was being purposefully vindictive, and try as he might to ignore Neal; Killian couldn't quite shake the way his hackles rose up, the man's words successfully riling him up. Hack it up to an excess of testosterone but Killian was already prepared to beat the man within an inch of his life.
And if Killian was skilled at one thing, it was retaliation. It was the source of much strife during his earlier years at his first boarding school in Dublin – his inability to withhold the need to strike back against personal attacks. Memories of the boys in his dorm flooded his mind as he remembered their jibes about his deadbeat father, their taunts about his brother whose legacy he would never live up to.
There was a scar on his cheek that was the physical remnant of one fight in particular. It was one of the first wounds he'd ever received and the longest lasting by far. Regardless, petty spite he could deal with, dealt with it on a regular basis through his job and the crude, malicious criminals it exposed him to. However, the second an attack became personal; the second someone brought in his friends or his family or the people he loved most, all self-control flew out the window. It was one of the things he had in common with Emma.
Shifting in the hard chair, Killian's eyes tightened and his smile wavered, "At least she willingly suffers through my presence. You on the other hand…" he let his voice drift off and shrugged in a self-explanatory gesture, letting Neal read into the implications underlining his jeer. The man's eyes narrowed fractionally and a vicious smirk tugged at the corners of his lips.
"Do you think it wise to provoke a man with breathtaking anger management issues who also has you restrained?" he asked quietly, no doubt going for an air of admonishment: the type parents and teachers used on unruly kids – but that had never worked on Killian when he was in school, let alone now when he was a grown adult with a penchant for being a smart-ass.
"I've never claimed to be wise," he quipped in return, shaking his head as he stared at his knees. Grinning almost madly he glanced up at Neal through his eyelashes, "And I'd really like to see you try and break me."
He guffawed at the comment and eyed the agent with false amusement, "You would?"
Shifting in the chair so he was sitting up straighter, Killian matched his intense glare with one of his own.
"Do your worst – I'm not telling you a goddamn thing."
"If that's what you want."
Without another word, Neal rolled up his sleeves and threw his fist into Killian's chest, every ounce of air escaping his lungs so he coughed and sputtered at the impact. But he had no time to recover as blow after blow rained down on him, grunts and groans of pain occasionally managing to escape past his firmly closed lips. He was biting down on them so hard; the coppery taste of blood was soon fresh on his tongue, mixing with the remnants still clinging to his mouth from Tamara's knocks to his jaw.
When Neal eventually pulled back, Killian was fairly certain he had three cracked ribs, if the discomfort and inability to breathe deeply were anything to go by. Withholding the urge to slump forward, he threw his head to the side and pretended he was purposefully leaning to spit the blood from his mouth, even though his muscles resembled stones being forced to grind against each other.
Gaze slightly blurry from the beating, he lifted his eyes to the man standing over him with bloodied knuckles and a stained shirt.
"Ready to talk yet?" Neal asked, the self-assured waves rolling off him and effectively prodding his captive's temper.
Hacking several times so more blood escaped his mouth, spraying on the floor at his side; he could feel Neal's surprise when he managed to cough out an answer, "Yes." His ice blue eyes, heavy with exhaustion, traced the ground, studying the three sets of feet before him. The pair closest to him took a step back as their owner spoke with a self-assured lilt that lit Killian's temper on fire.
"That's what I thought."
Smirking imperceptibly, he shook his head, feigning despair as he took a deep breath. His voice was utterly serious when he replied, "My favourite colour is green, I love waffles and the smell of vanilla – unf!"
Killian's vision blurred as his head whipped to the side, a sharp pain flourishing on his other cheek.
"Still being a smart ass?" Neal hissed, kneeling down so he could catch his gaze. The agent pulled his head back around so he could face him straight on, ice blue clashing with brown in a murky meeting of sky and earth. Neal shook his head and barked a ruthless laugh, "You realize this is no time to impress Emma – you won't be seeing her again."
The subtext to what he was saying didn't go amiss to Killian and he felt a wave of despair crash over him briefly before his resolve hardened. It was probably the truth; his chances of seeing Emma again were slim to none and though those chances were actually broadening by the second, he couldn't help the sliver of panic that wormed its way into his soul that there was still a very good chance he would never lay eyes on her again.
The very thought made his heart clench inside his chest, but it also fuelled the fire of determination slowly building with every syllable that dropped from Neal's mouth like bile dribbling down the air. He would not leave Emma to the mercy of this imp of a man who hid behind the pretence of righteous revenge. And he most certainly wasn't about to break under his threats – verified as they may be.
Regardless, Neal was acting as though the deal was done – his death as signed and sealed as Emma's fate. But if there was one thing he knew about his partner, it was that she was a survivor.
So, refusing to give in to his fear tactics, he rolled his shoulders drolly and ensured his eyes were intent on his captor's as he replied in a honey-sweet tone, "On the contrary, Neal, I don't need to impress Emma and honestly, unless you have her in a strait jacket chained to the ground with metal chains, I know for a fact she'll be out of here in no time."
His genuine words forced his adversary to falter.
Neal's eyes narrowed and he stilled, watching Killian carefully, "And how would you know that?"
Leaning forward so he was as close to Neal as he could get, Killian replied lowly, seriously, unperturbed by the way the man's gaze spelled murder with every sharp word, "Because I know her, and I know she'd rather kill herself trying to get away from you than be within a one-kilometer radius of you."
Needless to say, it was the last words Killian got out before he was thundered into the chair with a rainstorm of merciless jabs and hooks that managed to draw every wisp of breath from his lungs. In fact, by the time Neal finished and whirled on his heel, storming out of the room with flashing eyes and ravaged knuckles, he was teetering on the verge of unconsciousness. His heaving chest made him wince with every breath, the feel of his lungs pressing against his ribs making him certain they were broken. Briefly sparing a glance at his arms, he tried not to overthink the way they were dotted with aching bruises.
Eyelids dropping like leaden weights, his body's desperate bid to make him rest, Killian kept his eyes rooted firmly to Neal as he murmured something to Greg and Tamara before exiting completely. The door shut behind him with a click of finality as his two interrogator's eyes landed on him with feint amusement, hatred woven in between the threads of vile joviality.
And, despite the voice in his head that reminded him where he was, what he was doing, what he still needed to do, Killian couldn't hold himself up. And then everything went black.
8888
He jerked awake, unsurprised even though he felt his heart beat pick up at the suddenness. The second he'd moved into unconsciousness, it had only been a matter of when they re-woke him in their vain attempts to gather information. It was also to his infinite lack of surprise that they'd gone about such a simple task using violent means. And, as he looked to the window where no light could be seen, he knew it couldn't have been long since he'd passed out from the mixture of exhaustion and pain.
Sucking in a deep breath through his clenched teeth, Killian lifted his head groggily to face the familiar faces that hovered before him. Tamara was playing with her nails as Greg circled the chair; the man really had watched too many Hitchcock movies if he thought that was intimidating. It was also annoying since it put the agent's escape plan on hold, his hands held limply together by the now-loose strand of thick rope encircling his wrists.
Distantly, he felt a part of him looking to the heavens with gratitude, thankful that the two idiot's who had been charged with his restraint had no clue that he had extensive experience with tying ropes and that they obviously didn't know how to tie a decent handcuff knot.
His musings were brought to an immediate halt when Greg's voice interrupted him, deep drawl almost attempting something close to amity, like he might be able to fool Killian into forgetting about the past hours. If it weren't for the fact he was struggling to stay awake, he might have felt amused. But the truth was that his eyelids were dropping and he wasn't sure what the foremost culprit of his fatigue was – which was faintly alarming.
"Ready to talk yet?"
The agent didn't withhold the withering glare he shot as he spat, unworried about revealing his emotions, "What do you think?"
Greg shook his head in admonishment, circling the chair again, "I think if you don't start talking, you're not going to have a very nice time."
Killian chuckled under his breath, the small action making his chest hurt as his lungs expanded against his ribs, the shooting pain forcing a wince from his features. "You remind me of someone – have you ever watched Southpark?" he jeered.
"No, but I've also never suffered unrequited love."
Tamara's sharp voice redirected his attention and his head snapped to her figure as she stepped forward and into the light again. A small smile appeared on Greg's face as he shuffled back into the shadows, clearly impressed with his female counterpart. Meanwhile, the agent's expression hardened as her words finally registered in his fatigue muddled brain.
"I've no idea what you're talking about," he managed to reply, face unreadable, tone flat.
Tamara outright laughed at him, the typically joyful sound eerie and cruel as she dragged humour from his insecurities, "Don't be daft – it's pretty obvious she doesn't feel the same way about you." The woman waltzed up to stand directly in front of him and placed her hands on her hips in a pose of empowerment. Grinding his teeth together, he stared at her shoes instead as she cocked her head to the side and shrugged, "According to Neal, she hasn't even mentioned you, isn't even worried."
"That's a lie."
Faster than he was prepared for (or perhaps that was just the aftermath of Neal's beating finally settling in), she was kneeling in front of him, studying him with a gleeful kind of pity that made his blood boil, "Is it? Is it though?" Tamara sighed, "Come on Killian, do you really think she could ever love you?" she whispered, faux empathetic.
Killian closed his eyes as the emotion roiled and toiled within him. With his physical and mental capacity so hindered, it wasn't surprising that his emotional walls weren't as fortified as usual. And as much as Emma might like to boast her own walls of steel, oftentimes she forgot just how guarded he was. What many people forgot, or perhaps didn't even realize, was that he was just as broken beneath the surface as she, if not more so. The only difference between he and his partner was that he was more adept at hiding it – that while she hid behind a mask of hardness and indifference, he shrouded his wounds in a façade of innuendos and charm.
Everybody suspected a sad past in the girl with intimacy issues and a heart of stone. Nobody ever asked about the arrogant ass hole with a penchant for graphic allusions. It was his defence mechanism, his armour, the one-up he had on Emma that everybody was oblivious to.
Stripped of that, of his ability to deflect with humour, he had nothing. They were finding his chinks and he was defenceless, no witty remarks perched on the tip of his tongue, no scathing remarks to reciprocate their harsh battle of words. He swallowed away the tightness in his throat, maintaining Tamara's gaze as she sized him up with obvious disdain before continuing.
"We read your file: your formerly crippled left hand, the ugly scars that are surely still there, the drinking problem," she leaned in closer, each of his demons rising up without warning and swarming his mind, "You destroy everything you touch."
Lips clamped tightly together, he refused to respond to her words, even as they cut deep – deeper than the physical wounds he already harboured from their interactions. She smirked and gave him a deliberate once-over, eyes clearly lingering on the scar on his left hand.
"I mean, you're just damaged goods."
And if looks could kill, dear gods help her. Bricks of hatred assembled with cement of fury began to build up in him, blocking out the rest of the world as he stared at the woman. Cruelty twisted her attractive features until all he saw was a monster, a vicious and merciless beast with feline eyes. Tamara grinned, white teeth stark against her caramel skin, obviously pleased with her work as her gaze flitted over his face.
It wouldn't have been difficult to discern the amalgamation of black emotions churning within him, if not his eyes than the clench of his jaw would have given it away (and the way his fists were curled into white blocks behind his back, but she couldn't see that).
"There's really no use in being honourable – just for a girl who probably sees you as a nuisance," Greg said, interrupting the silence and stepping into the light again, effectively breaking the moment.
Killian actually felt mildly grateful to the imbecile, the attempted jibe nowhere near as effective as Tamara's pinpoint tactics. He saw as she turned around to shoot Greg a fleeting glare, evidently irritated with the interruption when she probably felt she was on the cusp of breaking their captor. Returning his attention to his hands, he made sure to act as though they had his full consideration as Greg walked slowly over to stand behind Tamara, although his face was now a blank sheet. He took only a moment to rebuild the emotional walls that had cracked under her words.
"Tell us what we want to know and we'll make it quick. We might even talk to Neal about letting you go," Greg said with a nod of perceived thoughtfulness. Transparency, though, was something second nature to Killian and he saw right through his measured sympathy and offer.
Whether he told them anything meant naught – if Neal had anything to do with it, he was dead anyway. In a way, he'd made sure of that himself when he'd incited a thrashing when the man had visited earlier.
As though to punctuate the thought, his ribs ached as he took a deep breath and he glanced between the two. Tamara's face was pulled into an expression of contentment; patiently waiting for what she was sure would be an admission of knowledge after the old wounds she'd dredged up. Clearly, the woman had no idea just what sort of shit Killian had been forced to deal with throughout his life if she thought pulling out a few demons was going to break him.
It would only fuel him – especially as he forced himself to think about Emma, imagined her face in his mind, reminded himself that she was still in danger and that, even if she hadn't mentioned him, even if she didn't give a damn, he wouldn't let her fate be left to the devices of these monsters parading as men.
Enlisting a tool he'd honed from his younger years, Killian let everything he felt pool into one formidable thing: determination.
He held Greg's gaze as he spoke, flitting between them appropriately as he replied in a low tone, "Firstly, woman. Not girl. Secondly, you're both shitty liars. Thirdly, I'm still not telling you a damn thing." A feral grin tugged his lips apart so it looked more like he was baring his teeth in a threatening glance, "So have at it."
Tamara stood up almost instantly, anger and frustration mangling her face as she turned and walked quickly towards Greg. He too was frowning at the agent, his response evidently not what they had expected after the physical and emotional onslaught.
Again, they'd made the mistake of underestimating him.
As the woman spoke in hushed, sharp words to her acquaintance, Killian let his focus wander from them to his hands, a genuine smile of satisfaction twitching his lips as he felt the restraints become loose. Carefully, so neither of the individuals before him noticed, he slipped his hands out of the ropes but held them so neither noticed, keeping his hands clenched together so it appeared he was still tied to the chair.
When he looked back up, Tamara was stepping angrily around Greg and storming out of the room, the door slamming shut behind her. Alone with Greg, Killian lifted an eyebrow and asked, "What's she doing?"
The man still looked as though he'd bitten into a lemon, eyebrows scrunched together on his forehead, "Going to get Neal – double checking if he wants to do the honours. He has a particular distaste for you."
So they'd finally decided this nut wasn't going to crack.
Oh well, that made this his prime opportunity.
Killian shrugged and pursed his lips before responding, "Good."
"What?"
Greg's confusion seemed to overlap his frustration as he took a small step closer, tilting his head down in disbelief. The agent sighed and rolled his shoulders, tensing every muscle in preparation. Some ached, others burned, but he wasn't about to complain – not when he finally had a shot at escape.
Emma's face flashed in his mind's eye again, a silent reminder as to what he was doing this all for and he set his jaw.
"That gives me time," he admitted unabashedly, nodding towards the closed door, "and an opening."
"For what?"
"For this."
Greg was unprepared as Killian surged forward, dropping the rope and springing towards him. Using his momentum, he threw his fist into the man's face, a satisfying crack echoing in the empty room, followed quickly by his growl of pain. Turning feral eyes on the agent, he retaliated with a sharp kick to his lower stomach, thankfully avoiding his already damaged ribs.
It hurt, but Killian had suffered through much worse. So, swallowing the desire to land flat on the dusty floor in a boneless heap, he wrapped his arms around the man's waist in a bodily tackle. He threw him unceremoniously backwards so his broad body cushioned his impact on the ground. Coughing, Greg tried to grapple for something around the area of his waist and it took less than a moment for Killian to realize what as he glanced in that direction.
Lifting himself up on shaky limbs, the agent snatched out for the gun at Greg's hip. However, they reached it at the same time and the other man used the firearm as leverage to pull Killian down again. Grunts and growls reverberated off the peeling walls as they struggled for several moments. Their hands were locked together, fingers clenched so tightly around the handle and barrel their knuckles were both white, their palms vibrating with strain.
Killian's muscles screamed at him, his lungs burned, his head still bloody well hurt.
In a matter of moments, Greg would melee the gun from him – it was inevitable at this rate. He hadn't been beaten, he hadn't been in a chair for hours and he had arms twice as large; Greg would win if the suspended moment held any longer. Thoughts spinning and teeth clenched, Killian realized he would have to resort to more than brute strength. But, he supposed, that was what he'd been trained for in the BAU.
Sucking in a quick breath, he let go of the gun only to drive his elbow into Greg's chest so he arched off the ground from the pain. Gun now held between his fingers, he tried to aim it at Killian even as his eyes bugged out with undeniable agony from the sharp blow between his ribs. But he was gasping again when the agent took a firm purchase on his wrists and thrust upwards, shoving them and the butt of the gun unceremoniously into his nose. Unfortunately, that proved enough of a surprise for the man's thick fingers to twitch over the trigger and a bullet lodged itself in the door with an explosion of sound.
Greg's roar of pain was wild and, combined with the sound of the gun, undoubtedly drew attention, eliciting a curse from his prior captive who snatched the gun from his unfocused grasp.
Standing up and stumbling on the spot as he regained his equilibrium, Killian's head snapped up as he heard heavy footfalls slapping the floor past the door. Delivering a severe kick to Greg's side, leaving him completely incapacitated, he moved to stand with his back against the wall beside the door, gun held close to his chest as he tried to quieten his rapid breathing. With moments to spare, he realized the light was still on and reached blindly for the switch with his free hand – darkness would serve him at least some element of surprise.
The light switch clicked and the room was submerged in blackness.
His breathing was still heavy and, combined with the loud thump of his heart against his ribs, Killian was almost certain they'd have him pinned before he made a move. He would try anyway.
An eerie quiet encapsulated the room for a short moment, broken only by the sound of Greg's wet hacking and pathetic groaning as he writhed on the ground. The men were directly outside the door and the agent braced himself, flexing his fingers over the handle of the handgun as he heard shuffling on the other side of the wall.
A thin strip of brighter light drew a line across the floor as the door opened quietly, its rusty squeak cutting through the dank silence like a knife. The tip of a gun peaked out from behind the edge of the now wide open door and Killian sucked in a breath.
Now or never.
Bullets sprayed the opposite wall as he thrust the door towards the men on the other side, catching them off guard so their fingers pulled back their triggers in shock. Seizing the opportunity it provided, Killian pressed his gun to the door and shot several rounds. The bullets moved straight through the door to the other side and, hopefully, his attackers.
He didn't take the time to check it out though, instead using the distraction to swing the door wide open again so he could take a look at what he was dealing with. Three men dressed in cargos had fallen to the ground, blood spilling rapidly from wounds in their sides and arms. Two of them were unresponsive; the third was glaring at Killian as he attempted feebly to lift his gun. Kicking it from his grip, the agent spared no time in jumping over their heaped bodies, escaping into what looked like a long hall that turned sharply at both ends.
And here came the thinking part.
Shouts were echoing from his right which indicated two things: the majority of the protections had been fortified in that direction which told him it was the most likely place Neal was holding Emma since he'd want her surrounded. But it also meant there were far more dangers and a far greater chance of getting himself killed in the process.
Yet, if he didn't take that route, he was risking running around aimlessly in what he was sure was a renaissance-style mansion if the elaborate high ceilings, white trimming and once-intricate wallpaper were anything to go by. Making a mistake on that platform would mean possible hours spent searching for Emma; time he wasn't willing to spare with her life on the line.
Cursing again, Killian turned around to pick up the handguns from the incapacitated men, throwing his near-empty one to the ground. Tucking one into his belt, he grabbed a firm hold on the other. A loud yell sounded from down the hall, giving him just enough time to aim before the owner of the voice came barrelling around the corner, gun in hand.
He didn't make it one step before Killian had a bullet in his head – and honestly, he felt no regret as he was reminded by a voice that sounded oddly like Ruby that these were mercenary's and they had no qualms with killing him or his partner. They didn't deserve his mercy and he wasn't willing to grant them it. So, swallowing any residual feelings of moral obligation to injure and not kill, he started moving down the right wing of the hall.
Gun held steady, he killed another man that made his way around the corner before he reached it. As he did, he listened intently for any sign of rapidly approaching movement but heard none. Tilting his head, he looked past the edge of the wall to the continuation of the hall where it extended several meters before making a sharp right. Luckily, it was empty, a wave of momentary relief reinvigorating his aching muscles and sleep-deprived brain.
He was halfway down the long corridor when four more people rounded it. Two he recognized. Two he didn't. And as muddy brown eyes locked with his, surprise glinting there as Killian's presence registered on Neal's face, the moment was seemingly still. Tamara looked just as shocked, but it was truly the man beside hers reaction that lit a flame of smug satisfaction in the agent. Watching Neal, Killian could only hope he read the promise to compensate him for all the shit he'd caused. But before he could ponder the small triumph any longer, all hell broke loose.
Almost instantly, all four were pulling out their guns and aiming for him as he ran towards a (thankfully) open door. He reached the threshold by the skin of his teeth, bullets spraying the walls in his wake, wooden splinters and debris scattering out onto the hardwood floor. Knees crashing against his chest, he grunted at the pain it sent rocketing there before righting himself, panting all the while.
He shuffled close to the arch until he was on the precipice of falling into the hall's line of vision, gun held up to his aching chest as he waited for an opportunity to strike. Crouched low like that, it also afforded him the chance to listen as Neal stopped firing and began yelling at them - most likely at Tamara.
"If you let him past here, you will mourn the day you were born – do you hear me?" he threatened furiously, venom dripping from his tone before there was the nearly undetectable sound of footsteps retreating.
Hearing the man's desire to keep him barricaded from Emma did nothing but introduce a fresh wave of fervour that washed over Killian with a jolt of adrenaline. The gunshots were less frequent and more sporadic now – Tamara and the guards finally having realized that they were only wasting ammo firing at the wall and doorway. Soon, they would advance on him so he had to eliminate them before that could happen.
Mustering up every bit of technique he'd acquired over the years, Killian pivoted on the spot, exposing himself for a microcosm of a moment so he could aim his gun and fire two succinct rounds. By some stroke of immense luck, he landed both and one of the guards fell with a lifeless thump as he ducked back into the doorway as Tamara and the remaining guard started shooting again. Again he waited for a pause before jumping out again and taking down the other guard so only the woman remained.
He heard as she swore and started moving, footsteps landing softly against the wooden floor as she walked backwards. Killian took it as his opportunity to strike and before he could second-guess himself, stepped out into the fray. Her eyes were focused on her own handgun as he moved out into the open, her fingers dancing nimbly along the shaft as she reloaded. The second he stepped out, she clicked the ammo into place and lifted her weapon to shoot.
Dodging her aim, he fired a round to distract her as he sprinted across to another archway – though this one's door was closed. Through some feat of luck, or perchance it was a miracle, he made it generally unscathed to tuck himself into the indent of the doorway in the wall. Bullets glided by his body, the sound numbing his ears as she continued to fire aimlessly in his direction. Cursing, he pressed himself into the wood as her spitfire grazed the wall beside his chest and head. He hissed in pain when one managed to draw an angry red line across his upper arm.
"Come on, Jones," she taunted, "You don't really thing you're going to get out of this do you?"
"Oh, I don't know, you did say I wouldn't get out of that chair and I'm fairly certain your boyfriend would beg to disagree on that front," he called back. He could hear her growl of indignation at the mention of Greg.
"You won't find her – not before he does, anyway. Even if you do get past me, it'll be too late."
A feral sneer warped his face as he registered her words and it seemed to send a thunderbolt of adrenaline coursing through him, especially when he pictured Neal anywhere in the vicinityof Emma.
Breathing deep, he closed his eyes.
If he could just get past Tamara, he'd have a fairly clear shot at finding his partner. He'd already taken care of seven guards, including Greg, and though Neal was wealthy – he'd been in a Korean prison camp for over a decade. There was no way he could have hired too many more mercenary's to do his bidding which meant Tamara was probably (hopefully) one of his last lines of defence. It also would have explained why he was so adamant about keeping the agent from passing the end of the corridor; because that led to Emma.
Emma.
They could get out of this alive, they had to: she had to. It didn't matter what happened to him, as long as she came out of this alive. So long as he could secure that, he could die content.
With that thought repeating like a mantra in his head, Killian stood a little taller. And, it seemed, at that moment some form of higher power decided to grant him a favour because there was a click as the gun belonging to Tamara jammed, the sound distinct. Turning out from his place against the wall, he lifted his gun and fired but the woman was smart and she ducked and rolled.
Unfortunately, that meant the last of the bullets in Killian's handgun lodged themselves in the walls instead of his target. Instantly he dropped it, running headlong for Tamara as she pulled herself up from the ground.
The moment they engaged, it was a battle of limbs and jabs, moves and countermoves. For every strident lunge and punch thrown by her, a swipe and kick was delivered with a swiftness and accuracy that left even Killian stunned. Honestly, he attributed it to the pure adrenaline he was running on – and the way conjured images of Emma's restrained form kept attacking his mind. Eventually, though he would never really know how, Killian managed to deliver an upper cut that sent his opposition reeling back.
Tamara stumbled backwards as she clutched her bloody nose, staining her shirt and sending scarlet in little droplets across her prominent collarbones. She fixed fiery eyes on Killian and snarled before lunging like a jungle cat. Using her momentum against her, he was indiscriminate in his brutality as he pulled her up and around, slamming her down onto the floor so she heaved a painful breath of air, arching off the ground.
Killian leaned over her where she squirmed pointlessly around on the ground.
"Never underestimate a man whose motivation is a woman," he cautioned through clenched teeth, ignoring the pain it caused him to be curled over. She simply glared up at him. It didn't bother him in the slightest, not even when he pulled her up by her collar to knock her out completely, her unconscious form landing flat when he dropped her again.
Pulling himself up, he extracted the handgun he'd tucked into the back of his belt and followed the hall around the corner. And without another word, he was sprinting down the corridor again. He'd only just turned another corner when he was faced with one last guard standing directly in front of a deep-set mahogany door. He could tell, could feel in the depths of his bones, that he was close – inconceivably close now. Everything in his gut urged him towards the room behind the man.
So, brow set with mixed determination and anger, it didn't matter that his arm was bleeding from the graze that the bullets had inflicted, it didn't matter that his arms were smattered with bruises, that his muscles felt like they were on the verge of liquefying beneath his skin, that his chest ached with every excessive breath. Nothing mattered except the simple action of aim, inhale, trigger, exhale. Killian felt a whoosh of air leave his body as he watched the man crumple to the ground at almost the exact time he heard a resounding crack like wood being broken.
His head snapped up at the commotion and, holding his gun up higher again, he moved swiftly towards the door.
Grasping the handle, Killian tried to discount the way his nerves felt oversensitive, a feeling in the pits of his gut telling him to stay alert, to tread carefully, to maintain focus. Swallowing it all, he opened the door with a forceful shove, expecting to enter another hall or another obstacle, gun held high for that specific purpose. But any thoughts of the next fight evaporated as his eyes landed on her. She was sprawled amongst the ruins of what once must have been a coffee table, her blonde hair in a disarray of knots; face sallow from what he could only assume was mental and physical fatigue.
And, even knowing that they were both still a long way off being home free, all he felt was relief as he drank in the sore sight of her in what could only have been a matter of no more than three seconds, his breath coming out in a whoosh as he managed to take a step forward, "Emma."
It was only when he registered the utter terror in her eyes, the way they flickered between him and something beside the door that he felt a sense of foreboding. And it wasn't until after she reached out towards him, her blood-curdling screech, "No, Killian!" that he realized his mistake as he felt a domineering presence come close behind him and acute agony spike in his left side.
Everything seemed to freeze in that moment as his eyes dragged down from Emma's face to the splinter of wood buried deep into the left side of his waist. Shock submerged any and all urges to cry out in pain and he simply grit his teeth, dropping the gun as his hands instantly reached for the offending object, desperate to pull it out as he felt it twist and catch and rip his sensitive flesh.
"Ah yes, hello Killian, how nice of you to join us again," Neal's acrimonious voice hissed in Killian's ear as he struggled with the man's grip on the wooden shard, "I was just explaining to Emma that actions have consequences. For example, she pulled a trigger which killed my brother. But I don't think she appreciates the importance of this concept." He bit out the last word before finally ripping the splinter out and throwing it to the ground so it stained the floor with Killian's blood.
Unfortunately, the agent could do nothing to withhold the sob that ripped its way out of his throat in response to the pain that erupted where the dagger of wood had once been. Eyes pulled shut; he clenched his teeth tightly together and focused on not dropping out as he felt Neal turn him around to face him. Once there, he forced his eyelids apart and levelled the man with a gaze so saturated in abhorrence, Satan himself would flinch.
Neal grinned conspiratorially, both hands purchased firmly over Killian's shoulders as though he were about to give him a golden morsel of advice.
"I'm really not even sorry about this – you brought this on yourself," he chuckled humourlessly instead with a feint shake of his head.
"Go to hell," Killian managed to spit out.
"Save me a seat."
Something inhumane glinted in the man's eye just before he pulled back his elbow and drove his fist into the agent's side, hitting him deliberately where his torn flesh was already causing him immense pain. Killian doubled over as tendrils of anguish threatened to overwhelm him, the blood pumping in his ears nearly drowning out the sound of Emma behind him gasping and grinding out for the other man to stop. But Neal paid her no mind, holding Killian's shoulders before shoving him down and lifting up his knee to drive it onto his chest.
This time, the agent couldn't hold himself up and fell to his knees with a loud crack.
Slumped forward, he watched Neal take a step closer to him, smug grin already curling his lips up.
Wood creaked behind him and he watched Neal look away from his face to the blonde who appeared in Killian's line of vision as she surged forwards. Pressing his hand into his wound in a futile attempt to staunch the blood flow and the pain, the agent stumbled to his feet, watching with ire as Emma was thrown unceremoniously into a wall. It left Neal's back exposed though, and Killian managed the two steps it took to reach him before wrapping his arms around the other man's neck in a restrictive manoeuvre.
He tightened his grip reflexively when he felt fingers grapple with the skin of his forearm, biting down on his lip to withhold the pain desperate to be vocalized. He could feel it every time he moved, every time he breathed, the way his muscles stretched apart, the way blood stained his skin and soaked his shirt. Blackness bit at the edges of his vision and his grip slackened – purely from the pain he was causing himself.
As though to drive his incapacity home, Neal threw an elbow violently backward, knocking the wind out of Killian and throwing him off balance so his arms fell away. Turning around, Neal punched him, sending him to the ground with a loud smack of skin on wooden floor boards. He blinked rapidly, the air around him thinning so that when he looked up, the world was spinning like a roulette wheel.
It only stilled when he felt someone drag him into a kneeling position with a rough hand in his hair. Killian's eyes fluttered and he swallowed hard. There was a pin prick at the side of his neck and he finally compelled himself to focus enough on his surroundings to register that Neal was standing behind him and that there was a knife at his neck, ready to be drawn across.
Yet, there was something stopping him.
Gaze drifting down, Killian's eyes landed on Emma who was standing directly opposite, his forgotten handgun lifted up so it was pointed at Neal. She still looked fairly queasy but she appeared far more stable than her partner. Her green eyes were locked on Neal whose insincere chuckle sliced the air with its jagged edges.
"Stop or I'll shoot," Emma warned, regardless of his obvious dismissal.
But Neal was unperturbed; the blade pressing harder against the skin of Killian's neck so he was sure a small scar had been torn into the soft skin there.
"No, you won't."
She clicked the safety, hands trembling ever so slightly as she tried to keep her voice steady and firm, "Touch him again and I will."
Killian felt Neal laugh again, the movement rumbling through him as he felt the blade's pressure even out marginally, taken by the concentration he was now attributing to Emma.
"See, I know you won't. Because I know you and deep down, you still love me – I can see it. It's why you hate me so much, it's why you hate yourself. Because you could never stop loving me, no matter what I did or what I'll do – I own your heart and you certainly won't kill me," he sneered arrogantly and the way Emma's brow furrowed, her entire expression drawing tight in inner turmoil made Killian's heart stutter. A feeling of dread welled inside of him and he watched her shift her weight from foot to foot as the silence drew out with her refusing to contradict him.
He watched her intently, desperately almost, but she didn't look at him, her gaze fixed on the man holding a knife to his throat.
The grin was evident in Neal's tone, "Thought so."
"Say goodbye to your boyfriend, Emma," he continued and Killian closed his eyes in resignation, readying for the mortal blow.
Is this a bad time to say; trust me?