A/N: I know that I said this took place in season 4, but now I'm more inclined to say season 5, just with "Trust Metric" still fresh in everyone's minds. Hey, it's fan fiction for a reason, right? And I have almost all of this fic written already-maybe a chapter and a half or so left to write, so I know where this is going (kinda). Hopefully I'll be posting pretty regularly, every day or two-the fic may have been pre-written, but it's not pre-edited! Oh, and thanks to everyone who reviewed! I'm so glad to hear that people are enjoying it!

Disclaimer: I don't own Numb3rs or its characters.

Tell me straight out, if you will

Why must you torture me within

Why must you come from your high hill

And throw my fate to the clouds and wind

-"Tell Ol' Bill," Bob Dylan

Chapter 2—No Delusions

Don remembered things in flashes. Sky blue, Colby, a gun, and then a period of more clarity: handcuffs, sitting against the wall, and a hand. Then he went fuzzy again: he remembered a gunshot—Colby?—and a door, bright sunlight, a car, and then black. In fact, it was still black. And bumpy. The car, Don reasoned. He must be in the trunk.

Don maneuvered about in the small space, positioning his feet on one of the tail lights. He kicked, hard, the shock jarring its way through his body. The taillight wouldn't budge. He swore, leaning his head back on the floor to rest it in a vain attempt to stop its pounding. The bumps shook his head, and Don took a moment for inventory. He seemed to be unharmed, except for what he was pretty sure was a mild concussion. His wrists were cuffed behind him and he was weaponless. He could feel the empty holsters for his normal gun and his cell phone. Lifting up his leg, he found it slightly lighter than usual—his backup weapon was missing as well. Don was pretty sure he could remember things clearly enough, though. He tried remembering the date, the president, what he did yesterday, etc. Of course, there was no one to tell him if he was getting any of the answers right, but he took the fact that the information came to mind readily enough as a good sign.

He was pretty certain he could piece together what had happened before hand—he and Colby had been executing a search warrant, no one had answered, they'd been clearing the house, and then pain. Where the pain had come from was not that difficult: Don could only suppose that he had missed something—ah! the closet—and then Colby had come in and there had been a gun to Don's head. And Colby had been shot, Don was sure of it. That was first and foremost in Don's mind—he'd been too out of it to even notice where Hett had shot Colby. The younger agent was probably dead or dying. Don's thoughts swirled into panic at the thought and he clenched his jaw to get himself back under control. He was supposed to be protecting Colby, and the best way to do that was to get out of this situation as soon as possible and alert the rest of his team to their predicament.

Suddenly, the car jolted to a halt. Don slid a few inches farther back into the trunk. He groaned as his head bumped the back of the seat in front of him. He heard the engine shut off and the car door slam. The trunk was thrown open and Hett stood over him. Don blinked up at him, his eyes taking little time to adjust to the dim light of the garage in which they were parked. As Hett hauled him from the trunk, Don realized that it wasn't a garage—it was a wide open space, like a warehouse. There was no cover he could use if he managed to escape. Don turned to Hett.

"The agent who was with me? Did you kill him?" Don asked immediately. His voice came out as more of a threat than a question, but Don hardly noticed. Hett just grinned at him.

"Not sure," he replied. "I shot him in his artery. So everything rather depends on how fast he called for back-up—well, actually it more depends on if he called for back-up before he lost consciousness." Don glared at the man in front of him, but he felt something almost like relief. Colby was resourceful and stubborn—he would be fine. He would have been able to keep his head long enough to dial Megan or David, which meant that people were probably already out looking for him. "I wasn't aiming to kill him, necessarily," Hett reassured him, pulling Don back to the warehouse. Hett didn't sound like he cared either way.

They had begun walking towards one wall of the warehouse. Don occasionally stumbled, his head throbbing horribly. He was tempted to try something, anything, to escape, but he knew that there was no way he could make it anywhere with his head spinning the way it was. Better to wait for things to calm down a bit.

Upon reaching the wall, Hett pushed Don face-first against it. Don tensed, worried that he could see Hett or what he was doing. But surely Hett wouldn't kill him now? Don asked himself. Why bring him here if he could have just shot him in the house with Colby?

Suddenly, Don's body jerked. He only heard the echoes of the shot—he couldn't remember hearing the shot itself. But the pain—he felt the pain. It was in his shoulder, radiating through every part of him. He cried out in surprise, sinking to the ground, twisting as he did so, using the wall to prop himself up as he tried to look at Hett. Don's only thought was that there was no way Hett had accidentally missed from so close. No way. So he wasn't meant to be dead. Don figured that he should find that comforting.

Hett's boot slammed into Don's shoulder, causing him to cry out again, something between and outright yell and a groan. Hett increased the pressure on Don's injured shoulder, jamming it into the wall. Don was sweating, gritting his teeth. The pain was like fire, his shoulder was on fire and it was being crushed by rock. Slowly the world was going dark again.

Then the pressure was released and Don was brought back into the grey light of the warehouse, grey like the eyes he was staring up into. The eyes were smiling at him.

"I'm not going to pretend," said Hett. "There's no excuse for this. I have no questions to ask you, no escape I need you for. I'm just in it for the fun. I didn't torture the last one." Don realized that he was referring to their murder victim. "I've never tortured anyone, although I've researched it enough. But you…" Hett paused. Don looked up at him, working to get his breathing back under control. "I mean, might as well take out the agent in charge of the investigation, right?" Hett asked. "And I might as well get a little creative as I do it, right? Before it was always women… they weren't much fun, to be honest. I was never lucky with my victims. They always gave in so quickly." Hett's voice had taken on different tone, as though he was sharing some sort of secret with Don. Don's blood was running cold. There had been more women, more victims that they hadn't known about. How many had this man murdered? "They screamed too much, and I didn't even hurt them. Well, until I killed them. But that was quick. They felt nothing," said Hett dismissively. He brought his focus back to Don. "You will," he promised.

"I won't tell you anything," Don spat at him. Hett shrugged.

"You don't need to," he said.

Don was rather at a loss for words. What did you say when a man politely informed you that there was no reason to torture you but he was going to do it anyways? He was saved from having to resolve the dilemma when Hett hauled him up again. Don let out a sharp breath as his shoulder was pulled. He stumbled in the direction Hett pushed him until he saw a door in the wall. When Hett began to redirect them towards it, Don reacted. The odds were that the door led to a smaller room, one that would function as a cell. It was one thing to escape from a warehouse too large to be rendered completely escape-proof, but it was an entirely different thing to try and escape from a small room specifically made to hold someone in.

Don estimated that Hett was about a foot behind him and placed his kick accordingly. He felt his foot collide with Hett's knee and heard the other's sharp intake of breath. Don took off running, knowing that it was hopeless. Hett had the guns and Don had nowhere to hide. This time he did hear the shot. The only thought in his mind was that it would be quicker this way. It would be better than torture.

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