Justice by InSilva
Disclaimer: Rusty isn't mine. And Vincente is. Sometimes life's just not fair.
A/N: am going to credit otherhawk with the whole treacle image. Just too good not to spread further.
So. More naked!Rusty, anyone?
Chapter Twenty-Five: Apprehension
It was the sixth night since he'd seen Vincente at the bar and Rusty was feeling increasingly desperate. He'd spent the daytimes working the streets that led from the square, hoping that he'd catch a glimpse of him. Nothing. He'd been back to the bar each night. Not a sign. And Rusty couldn't help but worry that Vincente had spooked and fled.
It was around midnight. Rusty ordered a drink at the bar and the barman acknowledged him. Rusty guessed he'd become a regular. The barman handed the beer over, took the money and punched a number into his cell phone pretty much at the same time. It was a feat that drew admiration from Rusty for its dexterity even though it said little for the man's customer service.
He found his place along the wall where he could see the entrance but not be seen and he swigged the beer, watching the crowd below. It was busy as ever and as he drank, Rusty's eyes were everywhere.
Ten minutes later, just as Rusty was considering going back for another drink, Vincente arrived, bought a beer from the barman and then lucked in to a recently vacated booth at the back of the room.
As he saw Vincente take his seat, the anger and the adrenaline started to work its way through Rusty. This was Vincente; Vincente, who had turned his world upside down in a week, a week that seemed so long ago; Vincente, who had aimed to take away what Rusty held dear; Vincente, who had discovered just exactly what that was and how to use that knowledge to his best advantage. Just because Danny had survived didn't take away what Vincente had tried to do.
Part of him wanted to argue the sanity of taking Vincente on outside but Rusty's mind was made up. This time, he didn't intend to let Vincente leave the bar alone. Maybe, not leave the bar at all.
He walked carefully and casually towards the booth, stepping effortlessly through the crowd, dancing round the drinkers and the tourists and the dealers and their customers. One man fell drunkenly against him, clutching at him, grabbing at his jacket and Rusty steadied him with an atypical rush of temper. With a sudden thought, he patted his pockets quickly but his phone was still there and so was his wallet. This wasn't a dip, this was simple inebriation.
Rusty checked the gun tucked into the back of his waistband and he pulled it free and held it down by his thigh.
Vincente was all that mattered. Vincente was in his sights.
"Mind if I join you?"
To give him credit, Vincente didn't react beyond a small smile.
"Mr Ryan. As I live and breathe."
Eyes like ice, Rusty slid into the seat opposite him.
"Hands where I can see them," he warned and Vincente pressed his palms down flat on the top of the table. Neither of them needed to look underneath to know that the gun in Rusty's hand was pointing straight at Vincente.
"Just remember Han shot first."
"Does this make me Greedo?" Vincente asked, amusement in his eyes.
"It makes you careful and precise," Rusty advised. "No sudden movements, no grand gestures, just exactly what I say."
"Fair enough," Vincente nodded.
"You must have known I'd find you," Rusty went on.
Vincente shrugged. "Thought you might come after me. Didn't know you'd catch up."
"Nearly had you in Cartagena."
"Ah…" Vincente nodded as if something suddenly made sense. "It was you at the airport."
"Guilty."
Vincente looked at him intently. "Where are we headed, Mr Ryan?"
"You know why I'm here."
"I want to hear you say it."
Rusty smiled. "You think I have any problem in telling you exactly what I'm going to do?"
Vincente pursed his lips contemplatively. "I think you haven't killed anyone before, Mr Ryan. I think that however calm and deliberate you are – and you are, believe me – you haven't pulled a trigger and watched a man's life disappear before you. You've never used a knife to feel the life you're taking away."
"You've got plenty of experience in both, of course."
"Of course," Vincente agreed readily. "I am only ever about the results."
"Well, that's what's brought us to this situation."
Vincente studied him for a moment, looking for something that Rusty couldn't fathom.
"It took me forever to work out, you know."
"So you said," Rusty said evenly.
"Even now…it's nothing I've come across before, Mr Ryan. And I salute the pair of you for the depth of this…friendship." He looked at Rusty's face. "I was right, wasn't I?"
"When?" Though he knew the answer.
"When I said it would hurt you more."
Underneath the table, Rusty's fingers tightened on the gun. He kept his face and eyes completely steady.
"It was purely business," Vincente went on. "It really was. Just a logical consequence."
"So's this."
"If it helps, he was very brave."
Rusty's mouth felt dry. Hearing about Danny's suffering was very far from the top of his list of favourite things.
"He didn't beg or plead or cry or scream."
Rusty heard the echo of his own words and bit his lip.
"He didn't say much either. Though I think he would have liked to have a last few words with you."
Sweat trickled down the side of Rusty's face and he wiped it away with the hand that wasn't holding the gun.
"I did think about passing the phone over to him but to be honest, time was pressing. And I am never about the sentiment."
"No, I can see that," Rusty agreed, blinking a little. It seemed warm all of a sudden. He shook his head to try and clear it.
"What's the plan, Mr Ryan? Pull the trigger in here? A little public, isn't it?"
"Dare say they've seen worse," he said.
"You got your way out planned? Is it sound? Are we talking Al Pacino here?"
Rusty grinned dangerously.
"Let's just say my exit strategy's got a better life expectancy than yours."
"I wouldn't count on it," Vincente said mildly.
The sweat was running freely now and Rusty wiped his forehead and ran the back of his hand over his mouth and beard. He blinked again and felt his breathing pattern changing, slowing down. Damn. What the hell was up? He suddenly lurched forward and put out a hand to the table to steady himself.
"Keep your hands on the table," he ordered, his voice unnaturally loud in his ears.
"My hands haven't moved," Vincente pointed out. "What's the matter, Mr Ryan?"
The matter was hard to define. But his vision was swimming and he seemed to be gradually losing all command of his muscles. With difficulty he held himself upright and sat back against the seat, licking his lips.
"Are you feeling unwell?" Vincente asked solicitously.
Rusty stared at him: the man opposite him was all too unsurprised.
"Wh-what did you do?" he managed.
Vincente smiled.
"When I realised I'd picked up a tail a few nights back, I guessed it was from here. I also thought whoever it was might try to find me here again. So I came back to check things out."
Rusty started to shake his head.
"Oh, you won't have seen me however hard you looked. It took me quite some time to find you though, Mr Ryan. Congratulations. Your professionalism is in no doubt."
"What did you do?" Rusty forced the words out again though his head was pounding and his body felt like it was out of control.
"Had a little word with the barman," Vincente said quietly, watching him and Rusty blinked at him.
"The beer." Rusty sighed, realising. "The beer and the phone call."
"Flunitrazepam," Vincente supplied helpfully.
Rusty searched his memory though it was like herding treacle.
"Rohypnol?" he whispered.
Vincente looked impressed.
"Takes about fifteen to twenty minutes to work. Effects vary but they include aggression, impaired vision and of course, muscle relaxant and sedation. The effects last for quite a few hours."
He looked keenly at Rusty.
"I'm guessing right now it's an effort to make coherent speech. It's difficult for you to focus on me or anyone. And when you stand up…" He shrugged.
"Ohhh…" It was long and drawn out and pained.
"What do you know? Greedo wins this time." Vincente's hands reached under the table and took the gun from Rusty's unresisting fingers and smuggled it away into his jacket. "Let's go for a walk, Mr Ryan."
He stood up from the table and reached down to pull Rusty to his feet. Vincente's right arm snaked under Rusty's jacket and held him firmly round his waist, his left hand pulling Rusty's arm around his own shoulder and holding on to it as if they were good friends, one helping the other up and out. Rusty tried to break free but his limbs refused to obey him.
"Steady now."
"Get-off-me…" Every word was a struggle.
"Oh, I think you need me just to stay upright."
Vincente guided him through the crowd and Rusty staggered with him, held up and held close by the man he'd come to kill. Faces loomed into his. Eyes and mouths and hair swam in front of him and he screwed his eyes up, trying to shut out the nightmarish swarm.
Rusty tried to think about everything he knew about Rohypnol. The effects were immediate and powerful and debilitating. And it wasn't known as a date rape drug for nothing. Eventually, there would be blackouts. Eventually, there would be amnesia. He would pass out and when he woke up he would have no clear memories of what had happened. Except that he wasn't sure Vincente planned to have him wake up.
They hit cooler air and that was how Rusty worked out they were outside the bar. He opened his eyes and found the street lights were random and blazing. Rusty's eyes blurred them into an unbearable streak that made him turn away from them, turn away and, God help him, cling to Vincente as if his life depended on it.
"That's right, Mr Ryan, hold on tight." Vincente's arms were strong and steadfast and never letting him go and Rusty's brain struggled with the hateful comparison.
Rusty found it easier to concentrate on the street beneath his stumbling feet, the stones that flew away from him like a river, like water running away from him.
"Hey! Is there a party?" he heard.
Rusty forced his head up. A handful of the colourfully dressed and flamboyantly styled were in their path.
"That's right, gentlemen," Vincente replied in perfect Portuguese, shifting his grip on Rusty and pulling him closer. "But I'm afraid it's a private party."
"Shame," said one, reaching out and running elegant fingers down the front of Rusty's shirt.
"He's so pretty," another pouted.
"Is he OK?" came the question, not seriously concerned, just making conversation.
Vincente smiled and looked down at Rusty, his head lolling on his shoulders. Rusty stared up at him, blinking furiously.
"He's absolutely fine. Aren't you?"
"You-you-" The words wouldn't come out and Rusty moaned with exasperation. There was a little ripple of thrill from those present.
"We'll be going now," Vincente said firmly and pulled Rusty away, away from the people, away from the lights and down a dark street.
"Now, Mr Ryan, we are just going to take this little short cut."
The walls of the alleyway closed in on him, pushing him further into Vincente's side. They hadn't got more than halfway down it when two men melted out of the shadows in front of them.
Rusty squinted at them. Young and fearless and macho. No doubt thinking this drunk and his friend were easy targets. He caught the glint of the knives and he knew that this was going to go badly one way or the other. And he had a strong suspicion it was going to be the other.
"Stop there, amigos," one of them said, "and hand over your wallets."
"Believe me, you really don't want to be doing this," sighed Vincente.
"But we are and we're in a hurry," the other said fiercely.
Vincente sighed again. "I do not have time for this."
He manoeuvred Rusty round and gripped the lapels of his suit and lowered him to the alley floor, propping him up against the wall.
"Stay," Vincente instructed as Rusty glowered at him then turned back to the men. "Come on, let's get this over with."
Rusty rested his head against the wall, willing himself to move. Gritting his teeth, he turned himself on to all fours and started to crawl away, every movement an immense effort of concentration. Behind him, he heard flesh being pummelled and cries of pain and then a sickening snap followed almost immediately by a second. And then there was silence.
He hadn't managed to get more than a little way away before Vincente was there, hauling him to his feet and tutting.
"What part of "don't go anywhere" did you fail to understand, Mr Ryan?" he asked with mock-severity. "This way."
They moved past the bodies, Vincente kicking them aside without a second thought.
"This is Rio," he shrugged. "People expect this kind of thing."
Rusty lost track of where Vincente was leading him. They seemed to be heading away from the residential and the lights and then he found sand under his feet and he understood that the roaring in his ears was down to the ocean. He fought to hold on to consciousness.
They passed a man and woman, entwined and giddy who yelled over something unintelligible.
"My friend's had a bit too much to drink," Vincente shouted back. "Off to sober him up."
They swayed their way down the moonlit beach, until Vincente pulled him in to a small alcove of rocks, just below a run of villas.
"Mr Ryan? Rusty? You still with me?"
Rusty blinked at him. He couldn't make his mouth deliver the words he wanted to; he couldn't make his hands clench into fists nor could he make his arms swing punches. All he could do was rest up against the roughness of the rocks and watch and wait for Vincente's next move.
Vincente's next move was surprising.
"This is a very exclusive area of beach, Mr Ryan," Vincente explained as he removed Rusty's jacket. "These villas up here are owned by the rich. I should know. I'm borrowing one at the moment."
He carefully unbuttoned Rusty's shirt and pulled it from his body. Rusty felt the cool ocean breeze hit his skin and he gave a reflexive shiver. The part of his brain that was still functioning was busy reminding him that non-consensual removal of his clothes never ended happily.
Vincente stepped back and looked at Rusty, considering, and then pulled him away from the rocks. Rusty hit the sand in a heap and Vincente stripped the rest of his clothes from him, talking as he did so.
"Even though this is an exclusive area, still you find the odd tourist who comes here to swim."
Straightening up, he fished through Rusty's jacket picking out his phone and his wallet and passports. Then he folded Rusty's clothes into a tidy pile, his shoes on top and left them on the top of the rocks.
"You know, if I were into trophies, this would be particularly apt, don't you think?" He held up Rusty's phone and pulled Danny's cell phone from his pocket. "Mr Ocean has had some really interesting messages, you know? Guess not everyone knows he's deceased."
"Anyway. I think…" he checked the passports, "...Mr Thomas O'Leary from Illinois sadly had too much confidence in his ability to hold his drink and swim."
He tucked the relevant identification back in Rusty's clothing and pocketed both phones. Then he looked down at Rusty, unclothed and unable to express or protect himself.
"Long, slow and final, Mr Ryan. Remember?"
Rusty felt his grip on consciousness fading still further. Vincente bent down and grunting slightly, pushed Rusty's body so that it rolled down into the waves. The water was warm and refreshing and its invigorating effect, combined with Rusty's certain knowledge now of what Vincente had planned, lent him strength. Exerting himself to his limits, he raised himself up on his elbow.
Immediately, Vincente kicked his elbow away and stamped his foot down on Rusty's shoulder, holding him down, holding him in place as the waves lapped along his body, washing gently up to his body, washing over his body and made him cough as his mouth caught the seawater.
"Tide comes in quickly here," Vincente said conversationally. "But don't worry, I'll keep you company however long it takes."
Rusty spits out the water from another wave. He stares up at Vincente, in control, in power; he feels the weight of Vincente's foot pressing down and keeping him immobile; he knows he is facing a man who leaves emotion behind and who is as fixed as the North point on a compass. The wave washes up to his head again and he holds his breath as it passes.
Danny… he thinks for the first time since Vincente turned the tables and cannot stop the tear leaking out of his eye. He is grateful that Vincente will not be able to see it.
Danny… he thinks again and remembers the beach where it started and finds it fitting that it should all end on one.
Danny… he wishes he could take away the pain and the anguish and the loneliness and he is pleased that he will have Tess to help him through it.
Danny… he tries to imagine things being different and other and can't. He was meant to find Danny. They were meant to be together. And it has been the best.
The waves are closing over his head now and his opportunity for taking a breath is brief and limited and any time now the opportunity is going to disappear entirely and all he can feel is Vincente's foot pinning him in place and all he can see, looking up through the water, is Vincente, staring down at him impassively, watching him die.
A/N: Yeah. Um...sorry?
And at the risk of sounding like a Government Information Film, please watch your drinks when you're out, chaps. I did not make Rohypnol up.