Author's Note: I want to apologize for how long it has taken to get this chapter up, and it isn't even that long either. I understand if people have moved on from this story, but I haven't stopped thinking about it even if I barely have enough time to sleep. Promise to get something more up soon, since I'm on a roll tonight.

Thanks to everyone who has given me support so far in the fic. It's very much appreciated.

Chapter 11

Samantha drove like hell down the slick highway, windshield wipers slashing through the rain that poured down around her. In the passenger's seat. Her mind was racing, and it seemed the faster her heart seemed to pound against her chest, the harder her foot pressed against the gas pedal. To her right, Mrs. Davis had her head tilted back against the headrest, fingers drumming along the strap of her purse.

"How much further is this garage?" Samantha demanded abruptly. Mrs. Davis shut her eyes. "Answer me!"

"About a mile more," she sighed. "There's no use hydroplaning off the road, Agent Spade. Killing your boss now won't get him an ounce of what he really wants."

Samantha barely heard her. She fumbled in her pocket for her cell phone and glanced down at the keypad. Call someone, call someone... Sam's fingers trembled noticeably, and she struggled to swallow. Almost ten years of training and suddenly she was a rookie facing the barrel of a gun she couldn't remember how to disarm. Mrs. Davis jerked into an upright position.

"Watch it!" She shrieked, pulling the steering wheel to a sharp right so that Sam swerved back into her lane. A cement truck blared its horn loudly as it sped past her, and Samantha had to stifle a sob. She could feel the tears building up behind her eyes and choking her. What am I doing? she thought as Mrs. Davis berated her from her seat I can't ... I can't do this on my own. What the hell am I supposed to do alone?

"You've past it." Samantha shook herself and slammed on the breaks. The car went into a fishtale in the middle of the road and made a complete 180 degree turn. Mrs. Davis clutched her purse, and more noticeably, something inside of it. Pulling off the road where an abandoned tin-roofed garage stood, Samantha grabbed the woman's bag and felt inside of it. "What the hell are you..."

"You're carrying a gun...and---and drugs," Samantha breathed, parking by a dumpster. Mrs. Davis stared at her in surprise.

"Well, wouldn't you in this scenario?" The agent paused, fingers hovering above her holster. "What's the plan?"

"You'll stay in this car," Samantha said, suddenly aware of the cold sweat that trickled down her face. Her muscles twitched along her body as she unfastened her seatbelt and stashed the drugs in her pocket. "And call for back-up if you hear gunshots or screaming coming from inside. The number's the last I dialed."

The last she dialed. Martin. Last night. This morning. Pregnancy. Samantha pressed a hand against her abdomen and suddenly felt pure, unadulterated fear plummet through herself. Get a hold of yourself.

She looked to her right and realized Mrs. Davis was speaking to her. "...all that government efficiency bullshit, and you're terrified when you're not at a desk somewhere typing up reports. And I guess you're just taking it on good faith that I won't drive away and leave you here to die, Agent Spade."

Samantha kicked open the door and stared the woman hard in the eye. "Honestly, Mrs. Davis, I don't give a shit what you do."

She walked through the rain, gun raised in front of her. Her boots sank deeper into the muddy gravel with each step she took. It was happening, as it always did as she approached any situation. Concern for herself and her life retreated in the back of her mind. There was one priority: search and rescue. Protect the victim.

At the warped door that was slammed shut from the inside, she placed her shoulder against the aluminum and listened. She could hear footsteps and coughing and soft sobbing, and suddenly she looked down at her tensed body. Then, Samantha Spade did something she hadn't done in perhaps twelve years or possibly more. She prayed.

PleasehelpmepleasehelpmepleaseGodplease.

She called out into the rain and identified herself as a federal agent. The blood pounded in her ears.

Please. Help me. God. Keep me safe.

The coughing was silenced. A crash. And the footsteps came close to the door.

Keepmesafe...keep him safe...keepmesafe...

The door opened slowly. She was pulled inside by a force outside her body.

She could not see for the darkness and the stench of sweat and humidity dumbed her senses. The kid stood by a chair, gripping onto it for support. He was rasping, yelling, trying to appear dominant, but she was deaf to him. Her eyes went to the two girls, huddled together, dirty and bruised but not critically injured. And then her eyes fell on him.

He was slumped in a chair, bound by a cord that she could tell cut painfully into his chest. His shirt was torn, and there was a significant stain down the front of it. She felt lightheaded as she comprehended it as blood. Be okay...be okay...

The kid pushed himself away from the chair and slumped over to where Jack was. With the hand not occupied by a rusted knife, he grabbed onto her boss's drenched hair and pulled his head back. Samantha felt herself nearly swoon, but squeezed every single muscle in her body to steady herself. His face was ... broken.

"Look-ee, Jack," the kid panted, placing the blade against Jack's cheek. "We've got company..."