CHAPTER SIX
Little by little, McGee became aware of his surroundings. His growing awareness was accompanied by a nauseating pounding in his head. He stifled a groan, although the duct tape covering his mouth effectively muffled any noise he might make. The acrid odor of gasoline and exhaust filled his nostrils intensifying his nausea. He fought down a rising panic. What if he threw up with his mouth effectively sealed? He tried to take several deep breaths to try and calm himself. He needed to get a grip.
Okay, where am I?
Trying to distract himself, McGee took stock of his surroundings, what little he could see. His hands were pulled behind his back and tightly bound, as were his feet. By the smell and movement, it was obvious he was in a vehicle of some sort. The treads of the rubber floor mat dug uncomfortably into his cheek. He was covered with something. A blanket perhaps? Was he in a trunk? A back seat? He couldn't tell. His throbbing head made it difficult to think.
As he tried to figure out what to do next, a voice broke the silence. He froze. It seemed to be coming from above him.
"He still out?" said the voice. It was a high pitched, raspy voice. Sounded like an old man.
McGee braced himself, knowing what might come next. He bit back a cry as someone punched his shoulder, their knuckles digging deep. He kept very still.
"Yeah. Looks like it. You hit him pretty hard." That voice sounded vaguely familiar. Then McGee remembered the man under the car. He remembered everything. He closed his eyes. God.
"I hope I didn't hurt him too badly." McGee was surprised to hear the concern in the old man's voice.
"Who cares? Aren't we just going to kill him anyway?"
"No, we aren't." The old man was adamant. "I have no complaint with this man. We'll just dump him somewhere. I am not a wanton killer." He paused. "Is that his wallet? Does he have a name?"
McGee waited, feeling at least a faint sense of relief the one guy didn't want him dead.
"Interesting," said the younger man after a moment. "His name is Timothy McGee. NCIS Special Agent."
"McGee?" the older man's voice was sharp. "You're sure it's Timothy McGee?"
"Yeah, that's what is says. You think he's related to the admiral?"
"I think he's his son. John once mentioned to me he had son named Timothy working for NCIS. Didn't seem particularly pleased with him though. In fact, I got the distinct impression he wanted nothing to do with him. That's the one and only time I ever heard him mention his kid. He used to talk about his daughter a lot. And of course, his aide, Lt. Owens. You'd think that guy was his son."
"Do you think Timothy here would be worth keeping as a hostage?"
The older man hesitated. "I doubt it. Perhaps if we had his daughter or Lt. Owens, but his son? No. Anyway, I just want McGee dead. I have no desire to play games. However, Agent McGee might be able to tell us where they're keeping the admiral if our bomb fails to kill him."
"I'm sure I could get that out of him." The younger man sounded way too eager for Tim's liking. His mouth was dry. Had the bomb been successful? Were his father and friends dead? The vehicle hit a pothole, slamming Tim's head into the back of what he now knew was the front seat. The sudden pain sent his senses spiraling back into a black hole of unconsciousness.
He had no idea how long he was out, but when he awakened for the second time, he found himself bound to a chair, a heavy sack smelling of mildew engulfed his head. His head throbbed worse than ever. He swallowed, fighting back the nausea. He was having difficulty focusing his thoughts.
"I think he's awake." It was the older man's voice.
Tim heard footsteps approach. He gasped as fist buried itself in his stomach. He choked back the impulse to vomit as he tried to catch his breath.
"Yeah, I think you're right." Tim could hear the smile in the other man's voice.
"All right," sighed the older man. "Go ahead and see if you can find out where they've stashed the admiral. There hasn't been anything on the news about the bomb, so I'm assuming something went wrong and it didn't go off." Tim heard a door open. Then the man spoke again. "But, don't seriously harm him. He's done nothing to us. Granted, he's that bastard's son, but I expect he's suffered more from that man's hands that either one of us. Just try and get the information as quickly as you can."
"Don't worry, I can handle it." The younger man sounded annoyed. A moment later, a door closed.
There was a long moment of heavy silence. Tim strained to hear any sound that might warn him of what was to come.
"Hello, Agent McGee." The man's voice sounded almost friendly if not for the mocking undertone. "I do apologize for the pain and inconvenience we have put you through thus far. Unfortunately, you happened to arrive at the wrong place at the wrong time."
Tim remained silent. The dark cloth of his hood blocked the light. It was like being trapped underground. He couldn't move, he couldn't seem to catch his breath. His claustrophobia began to claw its way into his head. He could hear the man circling him. There was a soft metallic scraping sound.
"I'm afraid your interruption might have actually messed up our plans. We'd hoped to hear about the admiral's car being blown up by now. I'm guessing something went wrong."
McGee's breath came rapidly now; cold sweat trickled down his back and face. He blinked away the salty sting. Not being able to see what was coming was so much worse. He couldn't hear anything now, just his own rasping breath.
Out of nowhere a blinding explosion of white hot pain pierced his left side. He cried out as his body arched against its restraints. Panting, he struggled to control himself.
"Where are they keeping your father?" The voice, soft and malevolent, came only inches from his ear.
"I…don't …know," gasped Tim. Every breath brought fresh stabs of agony pulsed through his ribcage. Tears ran down his cheeks. Thank god his father couldn't see him like this.
"That's not a good answer." The matter-of-fact voice now came from farther away .
This time, Tim heard a faint whoosh of air just before the pipe or whatever weapon the man was using smashed into his right side. He screamed again, his body flashing hot and cold, the nausea roiling in his gut. He gasped, trying to pull in enough air. His consciousness focused totally on the pain radiating through his body. He couldn't seem to think of anything else.
"Where are they keeping your father?"
Tim tried to swallow, but it was like sucking in sand. The voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. Tim felt as if he were floating. Another voice, was it his, he wondered, came as if from a great distance. "I…don't…know."
The man laughed, an oddly merry sound under such dark circumstances. "Well, then Agent McGee, you and I are going to be spending a lot of time together. That is, until you remember where your bastard father is hiding. I hope you don't remember too quickly though. This is going to be such fun."
Tim moaned softly. I hope that other guy comes back before it's too late. Those were his last coherent thoughts.
A/N: Sorry this is so short. Didn't have a lot of time to work on it, but I feel guilty if I don't post regularly! Thanks for reading and reviewing. I appreciate it!