In the dimly lit room El sat in silence, listening to the pained breathing of the unconscious girl tied to the chair next to her. After knocking over both of their chairs during the recording, the stocky man she called Buckingham had righted them, but the blonde had apparently all but passed out from the effort and pain. The burly guard had left them, and Elizabeth found herself listening to the labored breathing of the sleeping girl and the constant dripping on the floor as she tried to plan her next move.
When she heard the scuffling of hands against metal and the rapid breathing of the other, she reached out to take her bound hand in her own. "Shh, it's okay; it's okay."
A pause, followed by "Elizabeth?"
El tried to smile comfortingly. "Right."
The blonde sighed. "Right." She took a few steadying breaths. "Sorry about before—I needed to stir up some chaos."
"Don't worry about it," the brunette assured her. "You know, I never did get your name."
"Brooke. Werner; most people call me 'Bookworm' though, hence the varying names floating around."
"Nice to meet you Brooke, though I wish it were under better circumstances…" Both women chuckled. "I've been trying to think of our next move: what do you know about this place?"
"I know I've been here a week now," Brooke told her, blinking hard as she tried to focus. "The two guys that you've met are the only ones that come into this room, but there's one more that monitors the exits via security cams. If you listen, you can hear what I think is a subway passing through, but not as often as the ones in Midtown, so maybe on the outskirts?"
"The subway?" El wondered out loud. "Do you think anybody could hear us?"
"Not before the goon patrol would, and Tyrell's quick with violence," Brooke told her. "Anyways, this is New York: you could be bleeding and broken on a sidewalk in Times Square and people would just step around the mess."
"Right," El was getting worried. "You've been here a week? Why?"
Brooke looked at her, then nodded in concession. "You were honest with me; I guess our best shot is if I do the same. I grew up in San Diego with my mom. When she died six months ago, I came out here looking for my dad—who, it turns out, is Stefan Gavrikov." When El's expression didn't change, she elaborated, "He's an alleged higher-up for the Russian Mob."
The FBI agent Peter Burke's wife's eyes went wide. "Yeah," Brooke continued. "I'll admit, not what I was expecting, but I guess we don't pick our parents right? We started having lunch a couple times a week, reconnecting. Then last week, a crazy guy with a black van decided I should come here instead."
"So Keller wants something from the Russian Mob?"
"When I first met him, he was looking for papers to get out of town, but considering my new living conditions I'm guessing he's using me to buy time—he scammed the Russians out of a bucket load of cash twice now, and they're not feeling very forgiving. Unfortunately, I think kidnapping you means that our time's all but up." The two sets of eyes met. "You don't kidnap government-connected persons unless you're working a truncated time table—I'm guessing we've got less than twelve hours left."
Footsteps thudded to the door, and moments later Buckingham came in with two waters and a folding table.
"Hey Book," he said, placing the table and bottles in front of her. "You okay?"
"My head's splitting and my ankle's on fire, Buckie. So about the same I guess."
"Be grateful I got you both one of these then," he smiled, and El jerked as he began dragging her chair to sit next to Brooke instead of back-to-back. He unscrewed the lids and then pulled a photo out of his pocket, throwing it next to the bottles.
"You are a good man Buckingham," Brooke smiled, looking at the creased picture of a salt-and-pepper haired man picking up a folder from a street vendor.
"Yeah, well I don't work for free," he replied. "I delivered that on good faith after you blacked out, so I'm upping my fee to fifteen."
"No way—I've already proven I was good for the money, and I wouldn't have blacked out if these chairs weren't rusted and cheap."
"You wouldn't have blacked out if you hadn't pissed off Ram—Tyrell to begin with," the stocky man countered, and El followed his gesture down Brooke's legs to where one of her ankles was splayed at an angle and obviously broken. The brunette quickly looked away to control the wave of nausea that overtook her.
"Fine: twelve then." The man nodded, and Elizabeth watched as she smoothly rattled off a list of numbers that the guard stored into his Blackberry.
"Pleasure doing business with you, Book," he told her, slipping his phone back into his coat pocket. He gave her a look that was almost sympathetic as he turned to the door. "Enjoy that water."
Elizabeth listened to the door shut behind her, then watched as Brooke mouthed the bottle, tipping it upwards and chugging the contents. The brunette did her best to emulate, but dropped the bottle half-full onto the ground.
"Just water," Brooke murmured. "Does not bode well."
"Were you expecting wine and cheese?" El asked sarcastically.
"I've been here a week—they usually bring a sandwich or something. It's not much, but it keeps from starving," the other girl replied. "Nothing to eat implies they aren't worried about us going hungry."
The two looked at each other, and El realized that Peter may not have enough time to save her. "We need a plan," Elizabeth told her. "Fast."
A/N: I hope I did El justice. I always saw her as the nurturing type, but also damn smart on her own. I plan on making better use of her smarts later, so just give it time.