WYWH, Chapter 5: The Kidnapping

Backstory -- A Little Over 12 Hours Ago…

Charlie shifted in his bed and looked at the digital display of the clock on the nightstand. He groaned. "3:00 a.m.?" He had barely gotten any sleep. Or at least that's what it felt like. He was hoping he could just turn over and catch a few more hours. But if he and Oswald were going to have a nice breakfast, one long enough for Charlie to give him an overview of what to expect at the 8:00 a.m. session, they needed to be in the restaurant no later than 6:00. Add to that deadline the hour of work waiting for Charlie on his laptop – damn mid-terms, always coming at the wrong time – and he had to be ready to face the day by 4:30.

Shit.

He should not have had that celebratory champagne last night.

At least, not the entire bottle.

He sighed, groaned again and covered his head with the pillow. He didn't want to get up, but he knew that if he didn't, he would sleep through his wake-up call and never make it up in 45 minutes. As long as he lived, he would never understand why mornings came so early. Charlie rolled over and put the pillow back in place. He slammed his fist into it, mentally cursing himself for waking up just a little too early.

He clambered out of bed and staggered a little on his way to the bathroom. He smiled wryly. Gonna have to pull it together. What kind of role model would a hungover professor be for Oswald? Once the water in the shower was hot, he stepped in, relishing the relaxing steam a little too much. He took his time. After all, he had it, waking up early. When he finally got out, he toweled dry and slipped on his jeans and button-down quickly, both because it was cold in the room, and he was afraid he might just fall back into bed after that relaxing shower. He reached for the glass while he rooted around his toiletry bag for a bottle of aspirin. Definitely too much champagne.

As if to prove the point, the glass slipped through his fingers, and shattered on the floor. "Dammit," he muttered, automatically leaning over to pick up the pieces. The first one sliced neatly into two fingers, and he hissed and jerked forward, stepping on another one. Charlie started hopping on one foot, watching blood drip onto the bathroom floor, clutching his wounded hand with his other hand, momentarily non-plussed.

He hated the sight of blood – especially his own – and Charlie started to get a little dizzy. Finally, he wrapped his foot in one towel, and his hand in another, and decided to call Oswald. The kid had to get up anyway, and Charlie could definitely use some help, here.

The bathroom door had been nearly shut, in an attempt to keep warm, and now Charlie pulled it all the way open and took one limping step outside, toward the bed. He nearly walked right into one of three men, standing silent in the dark room, and he let out a shocked yelp. The man closest to him spoke.

"You Eppes?"

Charlie limped backwards into the bathroom again, stepping on more glass, this time with his other foot. He barely felt it. He stared at the man, not liking what he saw. He spoke tremuously. "What do you want?"

Another man answered, and Charlie noticed for the first time that he was wearing a hotel uniform. "We need you to come with us," he said. "Your buddy Oswald got himself into some trouble."

"Are you Hotel Security?" Charlie asked. Then, because he thought of it, he added another guess. "FBI?"

"No, we're CIA," retorted the first man angrily. "Are you going to do this the easy way, or the hard way?"

"I'm not coming with you," Charlie said, terrified. The man had come a step closer to Charlie, and he could see a telltale bulge under his suit jacket. It looked suspiciously like Don's shoulder holster. He tried to back up more and swing the bathroom door shut in their faces.

The man quickly threw a hand up and blocked the door, while with the other hand he confirmed Charlie's fears and unholstered a gun. He swore when the door bounced off his hand. "Guess we'll have to do this the hard way." He pushed the door open, hard, slamming it into Charlie's face. Charlie reached his hands toward his eye, and when his visitor tried to backhand Charlie with the butt of the gun, he broke two of his fingers, instead.

Charlie grunted, his legs gave out, and he sat down hard on broken glass. Hissing, he tried to scramble to his feet again. His world was spinning, but he could feel someone grabbing at his arms and ordering him to come quietly. Charlie couldn't see the sense in that. "Let me go!" he shouted, his voice echoing in the bathroom. "Help! Somebody!" His brain raced at its usual pace. Within milliseconds he had asked himself what Don would do, and had answered himself: He wouldn't have sat his ass down in broken glass. He wouldn't have gotten himself into this mess to begin with. Why did this stuff always happen to Charlie?

The man with the gun was getting upset. "Don't make so much damn noise! We don't want anyone to hear us!" He lent his body weight to whoever was pulling at Charlie already, and they dragged him into the hotel room. Charlie dropped to the floor and started kicking blindly, still screaming.

He felt himself connect with something, heard an "oomph" about two octaves higher than it should have been, and felt a moment of triumph. He tried to roll away from the men, but soon felt a hand twisted in his long hair, dragging him back. His screams were simultaneously cut off by a beefy hand over his mouth. Charlie continued to struggle as someone else held onto his legs. He soon felt his arms trapped. His heart nearly stopped when he heard one of them yell, "Get the syringe! Where are the drugs? Hurry, we can't hold him much longer!"

Charlie twisted and heaved in vain, and watched with wide and terrified eyes as the man with the gun fished something out of his pocket. Charlie saw a needle aimed for his arm and fought harder. He jerked as it penetrated the skin, and whimpered into the hand still over his mouth.

The last thing he focused on, before he lost consciousness, was the man in the hotel uniform. He was dragging a laundry cart in from the hall.

Back to Present Time, Police Station

Don paced the Captain's office, never taking his eyes off Mutt and Jeff the Detectives. "How could you have possibly thought Oswald had anything to do with this? Charlie was – is – his only friend in the city. Your preposterous theory cost us valuable time; time we'll never get back. Anyone in the hotel who may have heard something is probably gone by now!" Don was working his way back to near oblivion. "You thought you had a suspect for murder! Is one of you humping for a Gold Shield, or something? You should have been looking for evidence to a kidnapping. He stuck to his story, and that's what you look for – right?" He looked from one to the other with disgust. "Or did they not have The Academy back when you became cops?"

Round One scowled into his sweat, and the skinny one went into his Good Cop routine. "We're academy-trained police officers, sir. You need to calm down."

Don put his hands on his hips. "Listen, don't think Quantico is as lax as your Academy. I know how you guys run things, here, and this is my brother we're talking about. Don't tell me to calm down. I'm not going to let you screw things up like some of your other cases."

The Captain interrupted nervously. "What do you mean?"

"I spent five minutes on my cell while I watched your guys browbeat Oswald, and I know you've lost your last three kidnapping victims. They were all murdered. You're so used to being behind the eight-ball you don't even try for recovery, anymore. Right away you're looking for a body and trying to arrest an innocent kid." Don took a threatening step closer to the police Captain. "My brother will not be your fourth victim," he promised loudly.

The Captain tried to placate him. "If you're finished shouting, I'll agree with you. And I'll agree with my officer. Agent Eppes, you do need to calm down." His eyes shot daggers at his detectives, who quickly looked at each other, then down at the floor. "I admit, my men were wrong to go after Mr. Kittner so single-mindedly. And…perhaps we could have been more aggressive about offering him representation." He lifted his chin and looked at Don defiantly. "Although he did not request a lawyer, even after being read his rights."

Don ran a hand through his hair in a gesture of frustration. "You told the kid it was routine questioning. He's a high school dropout, for Pete's sake, not a Phi Beta Cappa!"

Sweaty fat guy looked at his partner. "What's pie got to do with it?"

Don sighed. "I want your best men on this case. Definitely not these two jokers. And I'll need to check a service weapon out of your armory. Something tells me if I get into trouble in this town, I'm on my own."