Guerrero had already done fairly extensive research into Lieutenant Grimes' background before they had attempted to retrieve the discs, but he obviously hadn't dug deeply enough. They'd been working under the assumption that Grimes was simply planning on framing Clinton for his wife's murder, but if that was the case, why did he toss that grenade? Guerrero suspected that it was something other than panic because Grimes had had the forethought to have the grenade on him, even before he'd spotted Chance acting suspiciously. If it wasn't panic then it had to be a deliberate act, and an irrational one at that from a man trying to get away with murder.
He barely noticed when Winston told him he was going in to escort Ames safely out of the apartment building, he had already pulled out his laptop and was scrutinising Grimes' file, searching for anything he might have missed the first time round. He was limited as to what he could access without drawing attention to himself; most of the operations Grimes had taken part in were classified, therefore the records were extremely well protected. It would take time to hack them safely, time he didn't have. He hadn't seen the point in trying to access them before. It had seemed unnecessarily risky when they already knew he was guilty of murder, and they had the means to get the evidence to prove it, but given Grimes' irrational behaviour, it was now essential to find out more.
He stared at the screen for a moment, racking his brain for a way to get at the information he needed, when he noticed that there was an attachment to the file concerning his latest mission. The document itself was classified but the attachment, for some reason, was not. He opened it up, but his heart sank when he found that all it contained was a single line of text.
Extended medical leave. Permission for private assessment granted.
Guerrero frowned and sat back, trying to think of a reason why a decorated Navy SEAL would choose not to take advantage of government funded healthcare. Grimes was from an affluent, well-connected family, so they could afford to pay for the best doctors, but what was wrong with him that he didn't want his superiors to know? He'd already looked into Grimes' own financial records and found nothing out of the ordinary, so perhaps it was time to take a look at his parents. Hacking into bank records was a much simpler task than accessing classified military documents, and it didn't take long for him to find what he was looking for, a substantial payment to a Dr Heatly.
The van doors swung open, making Clinton yelp with surprise. Winston climbed back into the van and slammed the door behind him.
"No Ames?" Guerrero asked, not looking away from his laptop.
"Can't get into the building," Winston grumbled. "They're claiming that there was a small explosion due to a gas leak, and they're not letting anyone in or out. Ames figures she stands a better chance sneaking out on her own via a fire escape."
Guerrero glanced at Winston, as if he was about to make a disparaging comment about his size but thought better of it. Winston was relieved that he seemed to have regained his composure somewhat.
"Grimes is nuts," Guerrero said.
"Yeah, well the grenade was kind of clue there…"
"No, I mean he's really nuts," Guerrero said. "He's been seeing a shrink. I think there's more to this than him just waking up on day and deciding to murder his wife."
"You think it's some kind of post-traumatic stress thing?" Winston asked.
"I don't think so no. If it was PTSD why not just let Uncle Sam pick up the bill for his treatment? I think he's been trying to hide whatever is wrong from his superiors. It's got to be something that would end his career."
"Makes sense I guess," Winston said.
"The doc's office isn't far from here. I think I should drop by and talk to him. Maybe Grimes has told him something that could lead us to him."
"Either Chance has followed Grimes or he was taken against his will," Winston mused. "Either way we need to find Grimes, and fast, before anyone else gets hurt. I'll take Clinton and the discs to the cops, although at this point I don't think Grimes is too concerned about the footage."
"There's definitely something else going on here," Guerrero said, "and I think the doctor is our best chance of finding out what." He tucked his gun away and slipped out the door, closing it almost silently behind him.
Winston didn't exactly feel good about letting Guerrero take off on his own to question the doctor, but he had a responsibility to get the client to safety, and he knew there was no chance that Guerrero would wait around while he took Clinton to the cops.
"But surely the doctor won't tell him anything," Clinton said. He hadn't wanted to risk angering the temperamental man by intruding on the conversation, but he found his voice once Guerrero was gone . "I mean, doctor-patient confidentiality and all that…"
"Confidentiality doesn't mean a whole hell of a lot to Guerrero," Winston explained. "If the doctor knows anything useful, he'll tell him."
The pain was still there waiting for Chance the second time he drifted back to consciousness, but his surroundings had definitely changed. The air was cooler, and although some kind of hood still covered his head, there was a sense of space and subdued light that hadn't been there before. The ground beneath him was cool, but also hard and unforgiving. He hazarded a guess that he was lying on the concrete floor of some kind of shed or garage. He could just make out a faint metallic tang in the air, along with a hint of what might have been motor oil.
Trying to move was definitely not a good idea; his shoulder was still extremely painful and most likely dislocated. He knew that any attempt to move any part of his upper body was likely to jar it, and he had no intention of passing out again. He tried to focus on what else he could hear and smell, partly to distract himself from the pain, but also to learn as much as he could about his current situation. His recent memory was still a bit of a blur, but he remembered walking into the apartment building and hearing Winston and Ames squabbling through his earpiece, but whatever happened after that was still a blank. The next thing he remembered was waking up in the trunk of a car, bound hand and foot.
It occurred to him that his hands lay by his sides and were no longer tied behind his back, and he decided to risk trying to move his legs, to see if they were free too. He was in no condition to fight, but maybe if his legs were free he might at least be able to make a run for it, assuming he could find a way to get to his feet without blacking out. He was lying on his back, his legs crossed at the ankles, so he tried to gently slide one foot away from the other, but it was impossible. Evidently only his captor had only removed the bonds on his wrists.
"Good," a man's voice said. "You're awake. I'm getting a bit bored with you drifting off like that. No discipline. No discipline at all." The man's footsteps didn't make a sound as he walked towards him, but from the sound of his voice, Chance could tell he was moving closer. "Looks like I'm going to have to fix you before I can break you."
Chance barely had time to draw breath to reply before he felt a dull weight suddenly crush his chest, knocking the wind out of him. It took a moment for him to realise that the unseen man was now kneeling on his chest. The man grabbed Chance's left wrist and bent his elbow so his arm formed a right angle across his stomach. Chance knew what was coming next, but as the man on his chest began to rotate his left arm away from his body, forcing his dislocated shoulder back into alignment, he could do nothing, not even take a deep breath, to brace himself for the pain. Muscles, ligaments and tendons were stretched and distorted to allow the bone to slide back into place, and despite his determination to stay conscious, the bone-crunching agony, combined with the man's weight on his chest restricting his breathing, proved too much. He didn't even have the breath to cry out before he fell back into the darkness again.