As Guerrero approached the door to Dr Heatly's office he saw a woman walk out and lock the door behind her. She looked at him warily.

"Is the doctor in?" he asked.

She shifted her purse on to her shoulder. "Dr Heatly is at lunch until two o'clock, and even then you will require an appointment."

Guerrero nodded. "I'll call back later then."

The woman watched him suspiciously for a moment, and Guerrero pulled out his cell phone and wandered a little further down the hall, as if he was seeking a little privacy to make a call. This seemed to satisfy the woman that he wasn't about to kick the door down, and she headed towards the elevator. He waited until the doors slid shut behind her before dropping his cell back in his pocket and pulling out his lock picks. If the doctor was out to lunch he'd have a chance to take a look at his files before speaking to the man himself, and if he was having lunch in his office, he could skip straight to the interrogation.

It turned out to be the latter.

"Mary always tries to persuade me to have lunch away from the office," the doctor said, placing the sandwich he'd been holding back into the Tupperware container in front of him. He dusted the crumbs off his hands and looked up at the man standing in the doorway. "She thinks that eating in my office means that I don't enjoy a proper break. I think maybe today she's right. What can I do to help you Mr…?"

"You treat a Lieutenant Simon Grimes."

"I can't discuss my patients," Heatly said, leaning back in his chair. "Aside from the confidentiality issue, I don't even know who you are."

"I know you treat Grimes, and I know the guy has more than a few screws loose."

"And?"

"And I know something you don't."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really."

The doctor took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Okay, for the sake of argument, I'll concede that Lieutenant Grimes is under my care. Anyone could observe him entering my office twice a week, so that really doesn't count as privileged information. It is also in the public domain that his wife was murdered yesterday. I don't know what you think you know but-"

Guerrero grunted. "Dude, we both know he offed his wife. That's old news, and to be honest I couldn't care less." He stepped into the office and shut the door behind him, locking it. "What I know, that you don't, is that he threw a grenade into a stairwell full of people today. Mostly they were military police, but my colleague was also in that stairwell, and now both he and Grimes are missing."

"I see."

"No, I don't think you do."

"Oh, I think I understand perfectly. You're a man of violence, that much is obvious. The way you walked in here like you owned the place - I take it you picked the lock to get in? Mary finds my clientele very intimidating and she would have triggered her personal alarm if you had tried to push past her, so you must have waited for her to leave, and she always locks the door behind her. Then there's your clothes: casual, non-descript and chosen, I suspect, to hide that shoulder holster. I wouldn't be surprised if those boots didn't hide a knife or two either."

"Yeah, I get it. You're a shrink. You read people."

"I wasn't always a shrink," the doctor said, smiling. "I was a marine. And I know a mercenary when I see one. Right about now is the time when you should start issuing threats and ultimatums. In fact, I'm surprised you didn't lead with that. From your demeanour, I'd hazard a guess that it isn't just business to you, this seems to be a rather more personal issue."

"Yeah, it's fucking personal. What's the deal with Grimes?"

"As I said, that's not something I'm willing or able to discuss."

"You're right," Guerrero said. "I would normally start issuing threats, but we both know that you are the only person who has the information I need to find Grimes, so your life isn't really in danger." The doctor nodded. "And usually I would have done some research in to your life, to establish your pressure points. Everybody has them, someone they care about, a parent, a spouse, a child; or it maybe another aspect of their lives, their career or reputation perhaps. But I confess, I haven't had the time to find yours Dr Heatly."

"That does seem to weaken your position somewhat, Mr…?"

"Guerrero."

The doctor tried to keep his expression impassive, but Guerrero caught the subtle shift in his body language that gave away the fact the doctor was familiar with his name.

"You've heard of me," Guerrero said, his icy stare unwavering as he observed and catalogued the minute signs of stress on the doctors face: the set of his jaw, the slight tension around his eyes, and one tell-tale bead of sweat slowly forming on the man's upper lip. "That should expedite things a bit."

"If you are who you say you are, then yes, I have dealt with the aftermath of your handiwork on more than one occasion. I specialise in treating veterans with PTSD, but I am well aware that there are things that can damage the human mind far more than warfare."

"So you know I am good at what I do." The doctor nodded again. "As I said, I usually find a person's pressure points, but in this instance your patient has had the misfortune of stumbling across one of mine. There is nothing I wouldn't do to ensure my colleague's safety, and I mean nothing. Usually I would tailor my actions to target the people in your life that mean the most to you, but as time is of the essence here, I will take a less focused approach. I will simply kill everyone in your life: friends, family, neighbours, the chick who cuts your hair, the kid who bags your fucking groceries. Everyone you even so much as speak to will die. Everywhere you go, people will suffer and die."

The doctor's face went gray and bloodless as the scale of what Guerrero was threatening him with sank in. Guerrero glanced at the clock on the wall. "At two o'clock Mary will be back at her desk. That seems a good place for me to start. I'll even let you watch as I rip her throat open and let her bleed to death."

"This man, your colleague, is he really worth taking those kind of risks?" Heatly asked, in a desperate attempt to appeal to his sense of self-preservation. "Murder on the scale you're talking about would certainly mean that your own freedom, your own life would be in jeopardy."

"I know," Guerrero replied. "But failure is not an option here. Your choice: tell me what you know or face your own private Armageddon."

It wasn't pain that roused Chance the next time, it was the biting shock of the iced water that was dumped over his head and torso. As he spluttered and gasped for air, he realised that the hood covering his face had been removed, and he was momentarily grateful for this, before he realised that if his captor didn't care about him seeing his face, the odds were he wasn't planning on letting him get out of this situation alive. His captor had also removed his jacket, shirt, shoes and socks, leaving him wearing only his underwear and the pants from his delivery guy disguise. His feet were still bound together, and his captor had retied his hands behind his back. The pain in his shoulder had subsided to a dull persistent ache now that it was no longer dislocated, but the head injury and the damage to his ribs still left him feeling dizzy and nauseated.

A hand grabbed at his hair and jerked his head back. "On your knees!" a man's voice ordered. Chance recognised it as the same voice he'd heard earlier, from the man who'd fixed his shoulder, but he couldn't get a look at him because he was standing behind him. Chance managed so struggle awkwardly to his knees, not a task that was made any easier by the way the man was still gripping his hair.

The man placed a booted foot on the back of Chance's calves, to prevent him from trying to stand up, and released his hair in order to pass something through whatever was binding his ankles together. Once he had secured Chance's ankles to a ring set in the concrete floor, he removed his foot from Chance's legs.

"Look, I don't know who you think I am, but-" A hand came out of nowhere and smacked the injured side of his head in an open handed blow that brought back the bright points of light dancing in front of his eyes. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision and stave off another blackout. The hand grabbed at his hair again, steadying him before a noose of electrical cable was placed around his neck, and pulled just tight enough to ensure that he had to stay kneeling up to prevent himself from being choked. The man added another restraint, securing something to the bonds on Chance's wrists then fastening it off on the metal ring set into the floor.

Chance now had no option but to kneel perfectly still; he could neither stand up nor sit down. It didn't feel too bad to start with, but he knew that being forced to maintain the same position for a prolonged period of time would prove to be exhausting and painful. He couldn't help shivering, the icy water had soaked through his pants, and the cool air of the garage against his wet skin only added to his discomfort.

Satisfied that Chance was adequately restrained, his captor walked in front of him and faced him for the first time. As soon as Chance saw his face, a flood of memories returned: retrieving the discs and passing them to Ames; Grimes following him down the corridor; starting down the stairs; the sound of the grenade rolling down the steps before the deafening explosion that had knocked him from his feet and sent him tumbling head first into a wall. He been disoriented, his vision blurred from the impact with the wall, and then Grimes had been standing over him. He'd kicked him in the ribs, and Chance had been too dazed to do much more than grab his foot and hold on, to stave off any more kicks. It was then that Grimes had punched him, slamming his head against the wall and knocking him out cold.

"What are you trying to achieve here, Grimes?" Chance asked, taking advantage of the fact that his hands were out of Grimes' line of sight to investigate what he'd used to bind his hands and feet. It seemed to be more electrical cable, hopelessly knotted and twisted into a tangle that Chance would have been hard pushed to unravel even if he could see it. There was absolutely no give in the cable, and there seemed to be at least five ends which suggested that there were at least three pieces of cable involved, and that was just in what was binding his wrists together.

Grimes stared at him for a full minute, as if he were expecting Chance to attack him, despite the fact that he was bound tight, and effectively helpless. Chance was careful to maintain eye-contact, even as he took in the details of his surroundings with his peripheral vision. It seemed he had guessed correctly; he was being held in a garage, but he didn't risk looking around him. It seemed to be a fairly standard domestic garage, with the usual collection of tools and junk. His current predicament didn't allow him enough range of movement to make use of anything in his surroundings, so his priority was to attempt to build some kind of connection with Grimes himself, to buy Guerrero and Winston enough time to find him.

"I know," Grimes said cryptically, as if Chance was supposed to know what the hell he meant.

"Know what?" Chance asked.

"I know!" Grimes repeated, more sharply this time, holding something up between his forefinger and thumb. It took Chance a moment to recognise the object, but then he realised it was his ear-bud. In all the confusion, he hadn't even registered that it was gone.

"You watch and you listen and you follow! You think I didn't know you were there, but I know! You follow and you judge and you test me! You don't think I know that it's all a test? Well I do! I know!"

Chance's heart sank as he realised that making any kind of connection with Grimes was going to be impossible, his grip on reality was far too tenuous, and he clearly had some kind of persecution complex. Chance had seen this kind of thing before, back when he'd been working for the Old Man. If a man was pushed too far, if he didn't learn to compartmentalise the horrors he seen, and more importantly those that he'd inflicted, his mind could fall apart under the pressure. It was bad enough if it happened to a member of a unit, at least then there were people to notice and contain the situation; but if the man was working alone or undercover, the paranoia and feelings of persecution would spin out of control, unnoticed and unchecked until the man became a time bomb waiting to go off.

He knew that Grimes was too far gone to reason with. Attempting to do so was likely to anger him further, but if he said nothing at all it would make it easier for Grimes to dehumanise him altogether. He had to find a way to interact with the madman that would engage him without enraging him.

"I wasn't following you," Chance said. "That wasn't my assignment."

Grimes dropped the earpiece to the floor and trod on it, grinding it beneath his boot as if he were extinguishing a cigarette. "You're lying," he said. "There's no point lying to me. I know!"

Chance saw the move coming, but there was nothing he could do to avoid the kick Grimes aimed at his ribs. He braced himself as best he could, aware that if he was knocked off his knees the noose around his neck would tighten and strangle him. Chance felt rather than heard the crack as Grime's boot connected with his ribs. He was winded, and the sharp pain in his side, along with the sickening crack, told him that he'd broken at least one rib, but although breathing was painful, at least it didn't seem that he'd punctured a lung.

"I know that you've been testing me!" Grimes hissed at him, literally spitting with rage. "And now I'm going to test you! How well did they train you? Just how much punishment can you take before you crack and beg me to end it? There's nothing you can bargain with because I already know! I know everything! I know that this, that you, are a test too. My final test. Just me and you. You and me. What have they sent me? What do they think I can I can handle?" His voice trailed away from a shout to a mumble as he walked away from Chance, repeating the words "me and you" to himself as he began routing around in a battered old holdall that sat on the workbench that stood alongside one wall.

Chance realised that this was not an interrogation or a hostage situation, Grimes intended to torture him, pure and simple. There was no way to reason with him, and there was no way he could free himself, so all that was left was to endure whatever Grimes had planned, and hope that Guerrero found him in time. As much as he respected Winston, this was definitely a Guerrero situation.

It wasn't much of a consolation, but at least it seemed as though Grimes was determined to do well in his 'test', which probably meant that he wasn't likely to rush into killing him.

Grimes pulled a thick leather belt from the holdall and ran it through his hands a couple of times, before wrapping the end of it around his hand, leaving the end with the heavy metal buckle trailing to the floor. He walked slowly across the garage, the buckle scraping and skittering across the concrete floor behind him. Chance had plenty of time to observe the large metal studs set into the leather at regular intervals before Grimes took up his position standing behind him.

Chance steeled himself for the first blow, trying to create a distance between his conscious mind and the physical reality of his situation, but the anticipation was almost worse than the infliction of pain itself. Once the beating had begun, he'd have something to deal with, something for his mind to push back against, but the uncertainty of waiting for that belt to fall against his flesh made him vulnerable and unfocused.

"You lose marks for hesitation, you know," Chance said, out of pure bravado, trying to provoke Grimes into just getting on with it, preferring the certainty of pain to the psychological torture of just kneeling there, waiting for it to begin.

Chance felt a twisted sense of victory as the belt lashed against his back, leaving a fiery welt across his chilled skin. The metal studs bit deep into his flesh, and the heavy buckle gouged into his shoulder, but he grit his teeth and didn't make a sound. His body had taken this kind of punishment before, and there was nothing he could do to prevent what was happening to it now. What was important was to protect his mind, his sense of self, and to do that he had to try and detach himself as much as possible from the situation. He focused on the one person who had never let him down, whom he could trust without question, the man who even now would be tearing the city apart looking for him.