Brothers in Arms
Disclaimer: I do not own NCIS:LA, if I did, Monty would show up more often.
A/N: So I was a bit sad, only one person (jmlane1966) left me a note on the last chapter. I don't really crave reviews, but it's nice to know someone's still reading this. The last chapter wasn't the best thus far, but I think this one'll make up for it. Warning, the sentence-fragment-munchkin came out to play.
Day 7
Deeks shuffled the papers around on his desk until they had formed piles in a certain order. He blew out a breath and grabbed for his empty pad of paper. It was time to get some real work done.
The weekend had been a hazy mess of people, places, and meaningless conversations. Keeping his cover interacting with snobbish people while heavily medicated had left him drained come Monday morning. He had spun his facial wounds into a story about a boxing match that had ended with him earning a big chunk of change which he had supposedly spent during the two days of hard partying. He had gone back to the condo and collapsed into a deep sleep. He had kept up appearances and driven to the office, where he had done the prescribed heating and cooling and polished off the last of the medications that he was going to take. This morning, however, he had awoken with a clear mind and willingness to get moving.
With that direction in mind, he picked up his pen and clicked it.
Suddenly, like a hole being poked through a black-out curtain, he saw clearly in his mind the shoot out. He watched as his arm wrapped around a guys neck and the other held up the pistol to shoot. He saw two men fall, the one was third from the right and the other was directly in front of him. He clenched his hand around the pen and bit down on his tongue to pull himself out of the flashback. He twisted around to see the shades pulled down on the window, blocking anyone from seeing in and swung back to check that the door was locked.
That was as much as he could do before he was sucked back into the memories. He gasped and grabbed for the desk as his mind pulled him under against his heart's will.
He didn't lie to Hetty and Callen, his recall of the night had been patchy and had come in bits and spurts. But now the night lay before him like a film spool unreeling down a long hallway.
The first image was the fist coming at his face.
The man laughed and jeered at him as Deeks slowly shook his head to clear out the last bits of cobwebs in his brain. The man, he would call him Thing 1, backed up and knocked on the door behind him. In came two more men, Things 2 and 3. What they lacked in height, they made up in stockiness. They were, as the saying goes, built like a brick shithouse. Where that term came from or what it actually meant, was unclear to Deeks, but these men were solid.
They slowly began to circle around Deeks, speaking in their native dialect and occasionally bursting out in hideous laughter. The first hit came from behind and landed in his left kidney. The next, from the front into his right shoulder. More and more hits came from every which angle and landed in random places. He figured out very quickly their ploy; they would keep circling and the hits would come from various spots from different Things in an attempt to keep him off-balance.
It was working. He began to flinch with every noise.
In between two hits to his back, he did some deep breathing, and quickly regretted it. He closed his eyes and tuned out the Things and thought hard.
Many years ago, he had made a decision. While he wasn't a deeply religious person, or very good at church attendance (he blamed that on his job), he had rejected atheism as remotely possible. He had decided that the crappy events and trials he had gone through couldn't possibly happen due to chance. He wasn't willing to accept that there weren't reasons why things happened. Or why Things happened. If he was going to get through this, he had to dig deep and find the reasons and hold tightly to them.
One more hit.
Two more hits.
More circling.
His brain unlocked. The circling and the hitting. Third grade. There were these bullies that had a similar technique; they had picked him because he was scrawny and probably looked as hungry as he usually felt. They would circle around and take turns pounding on him. How had he survived them? By hanging in and tucking his chin and absorbing the blows. After some time they had decided that he was tougher than he looked and left him alone.
That would be his strategy here as well. He tucked his chin and let his brain find a rabbit hole and give chase. The punches to the body, the kicks with booted foot to the legs and knees, and the slashes with a stick to the arms rained down, but Deeks was far away, driving the backwoods in a convertible, blasting music, and feeling the wind and sound rip away his concerns.
After an unknown length of time, a sound fought its way through the haze in his brain and brought him back to reality. His eyes slowly focussed on the three Things standing in front of him. They were gesturing and pointing and shrugging while having what looked and sounded like a heated discussion. A hard glare came from Thing 2 and then they turned and walked out, slamming the door behind them.
Assuming he'd been left alone for a reason, he took advantage of his solitude and took stock of his body. He started by wiggling his toes, gently jostling his knees, and working his hips up and down.
Legs: bruised, but able to function, no breaks.
He waggled his fingers, twisted his wrists, squirmed his elbows back and forth, and rolled his shoulders.
Arms: battered, but still useable, no breaks.
He carefully tipped his head side to side, moved his tongue through his mouth, and worked his jaw. He couldn't feel it since his hands were tied behind his back so he did the best he could.
Head: swollen, cut up, but his mind was still clear.
He turned his shoulders in the opposite direction as his hips and then back the other way. That was when the pain hit.
Torso: not in good condition, weakest part of body.
He shallowed his breathing and looked down. Apparently they had removed his shirt, and his chest looked like a topographical map of the Rocky Mountains. The hills and valleys lay out in different colours stretching from his shoulders down to his waist. However, he was comforted by the fact that only part of his back would look as bad, as the open back chair still had cross pieces that protected a strip low on his shoulders. Small mercies.
Evaluation of the physical complete, he moved onto the mental. He was feeling mostly clear, but there was a hint of ringing that persisted in his left ear and it would distract him at times. He dropped his head to his chest and breathed in Jake and breathed out Deeks. With each breath he dropped himself further into the mindset of his alias and relegated his own personality into a back corner of his brain and built a wall around it. He raised his head when he felt like he was ready and not a moment too soon, because it appeared he was no longer going to be alone.
The Things came in first in single file. They spread out to form a line and from behind the middle one, Thing 3, a man stepped out. He was about the same height but not as wide as the Things, but the way he carried himself, he was much more imposing. There seemed to be an air of feralness swirling around him. He stationed himself directly in front of Deeks and planted his feet. They stared at each other; Deeks blinked lethargically and tried to control his breathing to limit the flashes of pain that made their way up to his face.
Finally, the man's lips split and exposed his teeth. Deeks would swear that his canine teeth were unnaturally long and pointed.
Deeks mentally shivered.
The man rolled his head side to side and then clasped his hands behind his back. "Hello Jake." The Spanish pronunciation of the 'j' made it sound more like 'yake', but Deeks caught his drift.
"Whatever."
He looked amused. "I agree, I have been rude. Normally I would introduce myself before ordering a beating, but you created some chaos I had to clean up." He held an arm to his stomach and preformed a mock bow, "I am Diego."
Deeks did a slow blink.
"You have some information I desire."
Deeks raised his eyebrows as if to say 'so?'.
"I follow you around all night, you don't stop talking. I get you alone and you do not want to talk. Is it me?"
Deeks rolled his eyes.
"It's my men. I agree. A mature conversation should be hombre a hombre." He flapped his hands and the Things left the room and closed the door behind them.
Deeks stared straight ahead; a man-to-man conversation would require two men in the room.
"Tell me how to contact Mikhail Savic."
"No."
Diego cocked an eyebrow. "It occurs to me that you will not be intimidated by fists of fury. Bueno...fine. We try this another way."
Deeks picked a point on the wall above Diego's shoulder and stared at it.
Diego left the room, shutting off the lights as he did.
Deeks, secure that any cameras planted in the room would be unable to pick up facial expressions even if they were infrared, stopped controlling his facial expressions. He grimaced and let a silent groan rip through his teeth. Now that he'd been forced back to reality, the pain was setting in deep. The muscles that stretched across his abdomen were protesting every breath and there were some ribs that were cracking in unnatural ways. The way his arms were bound behind his back didn't allow him to lean forward, which would take some of the pressure off and maybe give some relief.
He had a choice to make, stretch his wrists and roll his shoulders to lean forward as much as he could. This would rest his chest, but hurt his hands. If he escaped and needed to defend himself, he'd need his hands at some point. However, elbows and knees and head butts could do major damage as well. He chose to give his torso a break and stretched forward as much as he could.
When the pain became too unbearable, he leaned back again, resting his arms. He leaned forward, he leaned back. He lost track of how many times he repeated, but he was now able to take shallow breaths without stars sparking in his vision.
A sound came from the direction of the door and he sat back quietly and waited for what the snake had planned next. He didn't wait long as the lights flared on and he automatically slammed his eyes shut. After waiting in the dark, his eyes had adjusted and the bright light seared right through to his brain.
They, who he assumed was Diego with his three goons, bagged his head with what smelled like a burlap sack and kicked his chair back. His head slammed against the concrete floor and the combined weight of the chair and himself landed painfully on his arms. His wrists were saved from breaking because of their position; they were tied low and when he tipped his butt lifted off the chair and they slid between it and the chair seat. He was sure there were bruises on his forearms from the back of the chair. Someone stepped on his shoulder, and since his arms were acting as a fulcrum, the bottom of the chair and his legs tipped off of the ground and into the air.
His eyes still shut, he focussed on breathing in through his mouth and breathing out through his mouth.
When he stopped breathing all together.
It wasn't as if he wanted to stop breathing as that was an instinct that one was born with. He would have preferred to breathe more shallow than the average breath, but he didn't want to stop all together. It was that he couldn't breathe. He opened his mouth, or tried to open his mouth but there was something stopping it. He tried his nose, but it wouldn't take in any air either. His brain synapses fired sending urgent messages to get oxygen into his body, but everything he tried had failed. His abdomen muscles stopped protesting, but his lungs were burning.
Suddenly, the hold broke and he hauled in one big breath. Going for another proved disastrous.
Water sluiced down his face and into his open mouth and up his nose. The angle he was on ensured that little of it went down his throat into his lungs but it was effectively cutting off his air supply. Lungs burned again.
Just as suddenly the water stopped and he coughed and spat and then hauled in one breath only to have the next one taken away by another flood of water.
No air, lungs burning.
Water stopped, coughing, hacking, air!
No air, brain buzzing.
Air!
No air, vision foggy.
Air...
No air, blackness creeping in to take hold and pull him down.
Somewhere in his brain, a part that was still functioning, a slap across the face registered.
One breath. Two breaths and then three. Four! The blackness faded away and his senses took over. In a matter of nanoseconds the information was sent to his brain, which was creeping out of survival shut-down mode.
Vision: none.
Hearing: random taps, incoherent mumbling.
Smell: clogged due to excessive water uptake.
Feel: pain.
Taste: salt.
Salt...salt...salt and water. Salt water! His brain unlocked: salt water up his nose and in his mouth in an uncontrollable manner. Where has this happened before? Sunny skies and bright colours, sand tickling his toes and the feel of wet against his skin. A hard surface under his feet but it rocked in an unpredictable way.
Surfing.
How many times had the unforgiving ocean dumped him into a wave and pulled him under.
He heard liquid sloshing in a pail, but this time he readied himself the same way he would if he was on a one-way ticket to a face-plant in the sea.
No air. Water gushing down his face.
Air. Gasp for breath, but wait, the ocean isn't done yet.
Under.
Above.
Under.
Above.
Vicious cycle. He was holding on, but the grasp was becoming tenuous. He needed a break to strengthen his grip. He needed it NOW.
Air...more air. The break he was craving. The chair shot up in the air to the upright position. It rocked a bit on the legs and then found even ground. The hood was ripped off and through bleary eyes he could make out Diego's teeth.
"Tell me how to contact Mikhail Savic."
He coughed and spat, trying to both buy time to recover and desperately remember the contingency plan he'd come up with in this situation.
"Tell me!"
"Tom." He eeked out.
"What is this Tom?"
"His number's...listed...under Tom."
"You lie."
The wet hood was smacked back onto his head and the chair flew back. The cycle started again. As much as he tried to stay in control, it was lost early on. He was just trying to get in as much oxygen as he could when he could. Time stopped being linear as what should have felt like seconds lasted for hours. But wait, were those seconds actually hours? How long had this been going on? He tried to figure it out, but surviving was more important. Breathe when there is air, don't breathe when there isn't. He fought and fought until he could not fight any longer. When he finally felt himself go limp, there was only one coherent thought left in his mind.
"What's the real name it's listed under?"
He didn't know if he was up, down, sideways, or dead. One word escaped his lips before he fell into the deep, dark, hole.
"Dick."
Deeks groaned and when he started to move, he stopped. He opened his eyes, blinked rapidly to clear his vision and found himself staring at the ceiling of the office. He raised his head slightly and looked around. The chair he was sitting on had rolled to the wall and he was lying on the ground. His arms and legs were tangled up with each other and with the desk. When he went to move them, they tingled in protest. He moved them to wake them up and after some time he sat up and pulled himself to his feet and stumbled over to the chair. He dropped down into it and just breathed. He hauled in sweet oxygen and pushed out carbon dioxide. When he stopped feeling light-headed, he rolled the chair over to the desk, picked up his pen, and went back to work.
A/N: Up next? Callen has been busy.