Sleep came but when he awoke, Jeff Tracy felt far from rested. He sat up in the plush hotel bed and sat for a moment, trying to get his plan of action straight in his head. Later, he would have to do something he never thought he would have to. Later, he was going to have to make a public appeal for the return of his son.

Jeff planted his feet on the floor and curled his toes into the carpet. This was going to be news. Big news. The disappearance of the son of an ex-astronaut-turned-billionaire industrialist was going to draw news teams from all over the world.

He pushed himself to his feet and started to get ready, pulling on his clothing and grabbing his wallet. It was more photo album than wallet, really. In truth, that still wasn't accurate. It was more of a communication device, since it held the portraits of his sons that doubled as portable comm. links. Jeff opened it and flicked to the third photograph. His eyes lingered for some time on the face of his son.

John took his looks from his grandfather, with his thick blond coif and angular face. Many of his mannerisms reminded Jeff of his father as well. John, like Grant had been before him, was a man of firmly held beliefs – equality for all, universal education, the right to dignity – but he had never been one to force those beliefs on anyone. In a conversation, John would frequently say very little, instead preferring to linger in the background and listen. Sometimes that trait had frustrated Jeff. He was a man that would not swing and miss, a man who liked his opinion to be heard. His son's quiet nature was something he had found difficult to reconcile with – especially since the other four were so outspoken.

Snapping the wallet shut, Jeff closed his eyes. The pain of losing any of his sons would be too much to bear. It had been bad enough to lose his wife and father in one fell swoop. Please don't take another one away from me, he thought. Please.

~oOo~

John sat facing the wall, his toes curled against the wooden floor. His nausea had lessened since the previous day and the pain in his head had reduced to a dull ache. The morning had greeted him with sunshine but no warmth. Goosebumps crawled up his bare arms and back and he stared at the peeling wallpaper, thinking. He absently tugged on the handcuff. Nope. Still solid…

His grandmother had always taught him to find the positive in any situation but he was struggling to find even one glimmer of hope at that moment. He was chained up, stuck in a room that absolutely stank of vomit and urine – his captor hadn't thought to give him access to any sanitary wear, so what was he to do? – and there was a feeling of total filth ensnaring him.

He brought his hands up to rub his arms. Filth didn't even half cover it. Obscene is more like it, he thought. I feel totally obscene.

John Tracy had known from a young age that he wasn't interested in women. There was not even a flicker of desire there. He had told Scott first, over a long-distance phone call when Scott had gone off to college. John's main concern had been his father's reaction but Scott had set him straight – even in the darkness of his current mind set, he couldn't help but give a small smile at his pun.

"Johnny, Dad is not going to care whether you like guys or girls or radishes, so long as you keep your grade point average up!"

John drummed his toes on the floor. There had been no eyelashes batted or eyebrows raised when the news became common knowledge. And so life had gone on.

But now it felt like it had stopped. Did it make it worse that his assailant was a woman? His stomach lurched and he leaned over, trying to keep the nausea at bay. Probably not worse but certainly different. I'd never even… And now… Another wave of sickness crashed over him and this time he did vomit. The handcuff savaged his wrist as he leaned over but there was nothing he could do.

"Oh, dear. You're not very well, are you?"

John wiped his mouth with his free hand and felt rage, in its most pure form, rise within him.

"Fuck you," he said.

Grace tutted and shook her head, pointing at the weapons on her hips. On one side was the gun and the other was the baton.

"My, my, what a mouth," she said. "I don't like that very much."

"Can't say I'm so enamoured with you," John said.

He stood and tried his best to square up to her, though he knew there was a pathetic futility in the action. What could he do? Grace unclipped the baton from her belt; it gave a savage click as she extended it.

"You've made quite the mess in here," she said, gesturing at the detritus on the floor. "Though, that's not the first time I've seen it happen."

"What did you give me yesterday?" John asked.

"Flunitrazepam," Grace said. The smile on her lips was callous. "Otherwise known as –"

"Roofies," John finished for her. "Or the 'date-rape' drug." He snorted. "You're one seriously twisted individual."

His lips curled in a primal snarl and every muscle in his body tensed. It's fight or flight, he thought, and I can't exactly fly.

"Once you don't need them anymore, you'll feel much better," Grace said.

John laughed; it was a vicious bark, a sound that had never before come from his throat.

"You've got to be kidding," he said. "I'll never, ever consent to this."

Grace took a few steps forward and tapped her palm with the end of the baton.

"That's what Ian said. That's what Marcus said. But they both gave in."

"I never will," John said.

Grace twirled the baton around and brought it towards him. John flinched away but instead of striking him with it, she stopped it just shy of his face and stroked it down his cheek.

"Tut, tut," she said. "You've very obstinate. Still not going to tell me your name?"

"I'm not telling you anything," John said, his chin tilted up.

Grace chuckled and tapped his arm with the baton.

"So you think. Anyway, I didn't come up here to have a chat. You need to wash and eat. I'll make you a nice lunch after you take a shower."

John barked out a laugh again and crossed his arms. His face was painted with defiance. Grace's expression darkened and he felt a twinge of fear.

"You're doing it whether you want to or not," she said. "I'm going to unlock your cuffs but, before you think of doing anything stupid, remember that I have my baton and my gun. You'd be dead before you got three steps out the door."

Maybe that would be easier, John thought. Then the twinge of pain became a stab in his chest. Don't think like that, Tracy. Don't give up.

Grace stepped over the small pool of vomit and extracted a silver key from her pocket. She unlocked the cuff but kept her eyes on John, her free hand gripping the baton. His instinct was to push her down and flee but sense invaded. She will kill you. You know it.

So instead he brought his wrist up and rubbed at the raw flesh. Grace waved the baton.

"Go," she said. "Remember, don't run."

Eyes ablaze with fury, john did as he was told. Self-preservation, he thought. Keep yourself alive until they find you. Because they will. They have to.

~oOo~

Jeff settled himself at the table. It was covered in a dark blue cloth and dotted with microphones. The room fell silent and what felt like hundreds of cameras turned to him. He was flanked by police officers and the detective that Penelope knew. He of them cleared his throat, raising a piece of paper.

"Good morning, everybody. I am Detective Inspector Campton and I'm here to inform you of a missing persons case. On the night of Sunday the 13th of January, a young man named John Eugene Tracy, whose photograph is displayed on the screen behind us, disappeared from the side of the M11 motorway between Saffron Walden and Duxford."

Jeff did not glance over his shoulder at the image of his missing son. It was the same image that he kept in his wallet, the image he had looked at just that morning.

Campton continued.

"John travelled into the country from Australia and his route took him from Heathrow along the M25, in a clockwise direction, and then country bound along the M11. He was driving a new, blue coloured Toyota Avenger. This car was found abandoned at the roadside at around four a.m. on Monday morning. Though there was no sign of a struggle, we are concerned that he may have come to some harm. Police will be conducting detailed and thorough overland and house to house searches in the local area, as well as looking at CCTV footage covering his journey. I would appeal for anyone who has information on this case to come forward. John Tracy is twenty-eight years old and is described as being six feet two in height, of slight build, with blond hair and blue eyes. He also speaks with an American accent." He paused and looked at Jeff. "I would like to now hand you over to John's father, Jeff Tracy, who will make an appeal on behalf of the family."

Jeff closed his eyes, asked the sun, the moon and the stars for help, cleared his throat, and began to read the speech he had been dreading to give.

~oOo~

As much as he wanted to resist, the offer of a shower and food had been too much for John to fight. He scrubbed his skin raw with the soap he was offered and lingered far longer than he should have, wishing and hoping that the scalding water would wash away some of the pain.

But it didn't. Eventually, he shut the water off, dried himself and put on the clothes he had been given. The jeans were too big around the waist but otherwise the garments were comfortable enough. They'll do for now, he thought. It's not like I have a choice. The bathroom door opened and Grace entered. She looked him up and down in a way that made his skin crawl.

"Oh, yes," she said. "That's lovely. You look very handsome."

John kept his face as still as he could, staring her straight in the eye. She did not flinch away. Instead, she glanced at his feet.

"I'll try and find you some shoes," she said. "Hmm. Trainers, I think. Or as you might say, 'sneakers.'" She giggled. "Americanisms do make me laugh."

John wasn't laughing.

"Well, come downstairs now," Grace said. "You must be hungry."

She waved the baton again and gestured for him to walk in front of her. Looking at his surroundings, John shook his head. Everything was normal. Perfectly normal. There were no pictures of torture or human skin lampshades. There were canvas prints of flowers and little glass figurines dotted on the window sills and neatly pressed curtains hanging in perfect folds. It wasn't until she prodded him in the back that he realised he had stopped.

"Downstairs," she said. "Then through to the kitchen. Oh, and don't make a run for the door. It's locked – and I still have my gun."

Anger flared but he clenched his fists and tried to keep a lid on his temper. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, right in front of him was the door to freedom.

"I said don't," Grace whispered.

He delayed at the foot of the stairs until she shoved him in the back. He stumbled forward and shot her a filthy look but she merely smiled.

"Kitchen."

John was propelled into the room and she pointed at the knotted wood table and chairs.

"Sit," she said.

He took a little longer than was necessary to obey. One of her eyes twitched as she placed the baton back on her belt.

"I'll make you a sandwich," she said.

John did not respond.

Before she started to work, Grace flicked on the televid and changed the channel to the lunchtime news. And John became very, very still. His father was on the screen and behind him, a picture of his face. A tickertape scrolled below his father's drawn face. BREAKING NEWS – ESSEX: BILLIONAIRE'S SON DISAPPEARS FROM M11 HARD SHOULDER.

"Oh, my," Grace said.

John leaned forward as she turned up the volume.

"…and the family has made the following statement," the newsreader said.

"John." Jeff's voice rang out through the rustic kitchen. "We're all very worried about you, son. If you can hear this, know that we'll do everything we can to bring you home. Your brothers and I will do absolutely everything in our power to find you. If anyone has any information, please, please come forward. I am offering a reward of one hundred thousand pounds for the information that brings my son home." He paused for a moment, gulping, before looking up into the camera. "And, to the person or persons who may have him, please let him go. He means the world to our family and we would not be able to bear the loss." He paused again; his voice had wavered on the last word. Then he looked up again. "John, remember: never give up at any cost."

The screen clicked back to the newsreader. John had not realised he was crying until he felt hot streaks down his face. Grace turned to him, her movements slow. There was a look of victory on her face that made him want to reach out and strike her.

"So. Your name is John and your father is a billionaire," she said. "That makes things ever so exciting."

"My father will give you whatever you want," John said.

Grace crossed the room and knelt down in front of him. She pushed the damp hair from her forehead.

"Oh, John," she said, reaching up to cup his face. He flinched so instead she grabbed his cheek. "I already have everything that I want. I have you."

That did it. In one swift movement, John leapt from his chair and pushed both hands into her chest. She yelped as she hit the floor and John reached for the weapons at her waist. He went for the gun but she was faster, pulling it out of its holster and pointing it at his head.

"Don't you dare," she said. "Don't even think about it. Don't you get it? You don't have a choice here. I have the choice. I am the one in charge. I am the one who decides when you leave!"

"Then just shoot me!" John screamed. "You might as well because I will never, ever consent to this. I'll kick and scream and try to escape at every chance. And eventually I'll succeed and you will end up rotting in prison."

The muzzle of the gun was shoved into his forehead and he stepped back as Grace rose.

"John, John, John," she said. "You. Don't. Get. It." She motioned for him to sit again, shoving him down by the shoulder when he refused to comply. "I don't want you to consent. I don't need you to consent." Her eyes were fiery, ablaze with wrath. "You know what happens when you aren't in total control? You know what happens when you give the other person a choice? Inevitably, they will make the wrong choice. They will end up hurting you, leaving you, abandoning you, just like my husband did. And where is he now, hmm? Shacked up in some swanky flat in London. He never calls. He never sees his daughter. And he doesn't give a shit about me. I did everything for him. Everything. I gave him my heart, my soul, my body. And for what? To be cheated on, deserted, left to raise a child single handed. So." She jammed the gun into his forehead again. "I don't care if you consent. I don't even want you to consent. I don't care about you. All you are is something for me to own, to use as I please. When I'm done with you, and only then, I will put you out of your misery. But know this: to use your phrase, you are never, ever getting out of this house. Two men have tried before you. Two men have failed and now they're in the ground. And that is where you will end up, whenever I decide."

Without thinking, John recoiled and then spat in her face.

"Don't count on it," he said. "I have no intention of being buried here. I will get out."

Grace's face was pulled with disgust and she wiped his saliva from her eye. John felt a surge of victory and he grinned.

"That was not a good idea, John," Grace said, her voice low and deadly. "I don't appreciate being disrespected like that. You need to pay for your impertinence."

"I think I've already paid for it," he said. "I know what you did to me."

"And I don't care that you know. You don't matter. I am the only one who matters."

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a blister pack of pills. Gun on one hand, she grabbed his face with the other and forced his mouth open. Fighting tooth and nail in spite of the threat of a gun, John resisted as long as he could. But there was, in truth, little he could do.

It didn't take long for the pills to take hold again. This time it was his father's words that came back to him.

"John, remember: never give up at any cost."