Officer O'Neil was not having a good day. The batteries in his alarm clock had gone flat, making him late for work and causing him to receive a stern telling off from the sergeant. And of course he'd been put on road-block duty again. O'Neil hated road-block duty. Standing all day in the cold breathing traffic fumes was not his idea of a good time. Repressing the urge to sigh he motioned the next car forwards.

The driver was a young man, a bit on the skinny side but otherwise unremarkable in appearance. He wore sun glasses even though the day was cloudy and drizzling. "Name?"
"Dennis O'Connor." He handed over a passport. It seemed in order. O'Neil noticed a second man, apparently asleep on the back seat. "Who's he?"
"That's just Brian - my cousin." A friendly smile. "He was out pretty late last night."
Two men. He glanced again at the photographs of the fugitives. A chill went down his spine. "Please remove your sun-shades sir."
He gave a puzzled half frown but complied.

There was no mistaking those eyes. "I need you to step out of the vehicle sir."

"Is there a problem officer?"

"Step out of the car!" he repeated, gun in hand.

Jackson Rippner opened the driver's door and got out. His brother sat up but the two shared a meaningful glance and he did not open his door. "Put your hands on the hood of the vehicle."

"No." The gun was knocked from his grasp before he had time to register what had happened. A previously hidden knife was pressed against this throat. The other officer on duty had pulled his weapon and was shouting into his radio for back-up. "Jon, get out of the car."

Jonathan Crane stepped out onto the road. He was skeleton thin with wide fever-bright eyes that held nothing of sanity. O'Neil remembered that night in The Narrows. He wanted to run. But the knife was still digging into his neck and he was being pushed towards the shed they used for breaks. In the distance he could hear sirens. Through a haze of panic he realised that his day had just gotten a whole lot worse.

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Inside the small structure, a converted shipping container by the looks of it, Jack chained the officer to a wall with his own handcuffs and quickly locked the door. Taking a deep breath he investigated their surroundings. There were two plastic chairs, a cheap table, a water cooler, a kettle, a jar of coffee, a few mismatched mugs, a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling and a portable toilet. It could have been worse but not by very much. Abruptly Jon sat down on the floor.

The sound of the police cars grew louder.

Two or three minutes passed. The policeman's radio crackled loudly. "Officer O'Neil! Are you there?" Jackson snatched the device from his belt. "This is Mr. Rippner." His voice was calm, almost mocking but his free hand was clenched tightly.

"What is the condition of my officer?"

"He's fine."

"I need you to come outside with your hands held above your head."

"I'm sure you can appreciate how that move would not exactly be to my benefit."

"You can't stay in there forever."

His voice became hard, losing all trace of playfulness. "Jon is not going back to that hell hole. Ever."

"You're brother is ill Rippner. He needs psychiatric attention."

Angry. "He does not need the kind of attention they were giving him in that place."

"If you are not willing to give yourselves up voluntarily we will gas the building."

"The first hint of gas and Mr. O'Neill here is dead."

"What are your demands Jackson?"

"We want a helicopter."

"You know I can't get you a helicopter."

"How about some take out then?"