Mike's age: 14.5

When Mike awoke, it was to a pounding head and a dry mouth. At first he assumed that he was coming down with the flu or something, which was disappointing since it was a Saturday morning and if he was going to get sick, he'd rather do it during the week so that he had an excuse to miss school.

But then he realized that he was sitting up and that he couldn't move his limbs and it all came back to him with a jolt. He blinked heavy eyelids, wincing at the florescent lights that were beating down upon him. He appeared to be tied up to a chair in some sort of abandoned warehouse. He could hear loud, steady thumping sounds from somewhere above him and wondered if this was a factory with machinery operating upstairs. If so, that would make it awfully hard for the police to find him. If they even knew where to begin looking, that is.

And how long would it take for Harvey to realize he was missing? Unless he'd been unconscious for longer than he thought, it was a Friday evening, and it wasn't unusual for him to hang out with his debate friends after debate on Friday nights. Sure, usually he texted Harvey to let him know where he was going and who he was with, but Harvey might not think anything of it if Mike didn't show up until late that evening.

He could feel his heartbeat accelerate rapidly as reality sunk in—the threatening black car that had been following him, the unfamiliar driver in George's car, the white cloth over his nose— it had all led up to this. He'd been kidnapped by Lukas Hawthorne's men.

The idea that he, regular old Mike, had been kidnapped was so ridiculous that he almost laughed, but then he remembered that he was tied up in a chair in against his will and he sobered up fairly quickly.

He wondered what they were going to do with him—try and use him for ransom? Hold him hostage until Harvey redacted his statement to the police? Hurt him or kill him to get back at Harvey? He felt a prickle run down his spine at this last thought—this seemed like such a stupid and pointless way to die.

But you aren't going to die, Mike, he reminded himself firmly, the little voice in his head sounding suspiciously like Harvey. You're going to use your brain and get out of this.

He shifted slightly in his seat, testing the ropes that held his wrists and ankles. They didn't give at all, and the skin where he was tied up was already chafing and uncomfortable.

Don't panic, don't panic, don't panic, he recited to himself. He hadn't been a boy scout. The only knots he knew how to tie and untie were shoelaces.

He wondered how long he had until one of Hawthorne's men came along—did they have surveillance on him? Did they know that he'd woken up? He hated feeling so clueless and helpless.

He began trying to rock the chair slightly—maybe if he could tip it over he could…well, probably nothing, but he had to at least try.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," a voice said from somewhere behind him. "You're not going to escape, and I don't want to have to clean up the blood when you tip over and crack your head open."

Mike felt fear flood through his veins at the unfamiliar voice and his inability to turn his head and see who was talking to him.

A man appeared in front of him, and Mike recognized him as the giant who had been sitting in the backseat of the car when he'd been kidnapped. He seemed even taller now that he was standing and Mike was sitting, and he had several tattoos and a smashed, beat-up looking face. Overall, he wasn't someone that Mike would normally feel inclined to want to spend time with, and particularly not under these circumstances.

He casually half-circled Mike and then flicked a few more fluorescent lights on, illuminating the rest of the giant room with harsh light. Mike craned his neck around to the best of his restricted abilities, anxiously searching for escape routes. He had been correct in his assumption that this appeared to be some sort of warehouse. It was a gray, colorless, windowless room with high ceilings and an industrial feel to it. It was pretty empty—there were some boxes stacked here and there and the little corner where he was being kept had a desk, a mini-fridge, and a dart board that was placed at just the right eye level for someone sitting at the desk to throw darts at. There were three doors, but none of them gave any sign of where they led to.

"Still trying to find a way to escape?" The man continued, cracking his knuckles. Usually in comedies when people got kidnapped, this character—the guard dog/sidekick—was somewhat of an idiot—easily swayed and easily outsmarted; of use to the kidnapper because of his muscles and not his brain. This guy didn't seem like any of those things. He seemed very capable of guarding Mike and making sure that he didn't escape. "You boy scout types don't know when to quit, do you?"

"I'm not a boy scout," Mike said honestly.

The man just laughed and plopped himself in the desk chair about ten feet away from Mike, casually propping his feet up on the desk. He threw four very sharp-looking, metal-tipped darts at the dart board, and every single one he threw landed in the center part of the target with unerring accuracy. A door opened just as he threw a fifth one, and his aim faltered. The dart landed at the very bottom of the board, wobbling precariously, the metal part sticking out of the target a little bit.

The man swore, thundering to his feet and slamming his fist down on the desk, and Mike flinched back. If that was how angry this guy got over missing the center of the dart target, Mike didn't want to see how mad he'd be if he caught Mike trying to escape.

"It's a good thing I hired you for your brawn and not for your aim, Salvador," a familiar voice said coldly. Mike felt goosebumps rise on his arms as Lukas Hawthorne himself entered the strange little mini-office. He was flanked by two bodyguards, each of whom looked like they could knock Mike out just by tapping him on the temple.

"Sorry, boss," said tattoo-sidekick-dart guy, who was apparently named Salvador.

"Are you having fun with Salvador, Michael?" Hawthorne said, smiling a smile that reminded Mike of Voldemort.

"Not really, no," Mike said frankly. "I'd much rather go home, thanks."

Hawthorne laughed as though Mike were a quaint small child who had just said something charmingly precocious. "I'm afraid that's not going to possible for the time being, my dear boy. But if it would make you feel better, perhaps we should call your father and let him know where you are."

Well, Mike had probably walked right into that one. He couldn't deny that it would be nice for Harvey to know that Mike had been kidnapped—he could do something about notifying the police to rescue Mike, first of all, and it would be nice just to hear his guardian's voice at a time like this. But he had a bad feeling about this—why would Hawthorne want to get Harvey involved if not to get Harvey to pay some sort of ransom?

"Maybe we should just call the police instead," Mike said with bravery that he didn't really feel, arching an eyebrow. Salvador stirred forward as though he wanted to punch Mike for his cheek, but Hawthorne just laughed and lightly restrained him.

"Not yet, Salvador," he said, and Mike wondered what that meant. It sounded ominous.

"Harvey's not even my real father," Mike pointed out. He wasn't sure what prompted him to decide to say this exactly, but he couldn't deny that he found it a little odd that they'd chosen to kidnap him. Did that mean that everyone in the outside world genuinely thought Harvey was his biological father? And what did that say about the dynamic of their relationship, if so? He hoped that people saw them as a natural father-son duo, but he was starting to think that he should probably just outright ask Harvey where he stood on the whole guardian-vs.-father issue. It would probably be safer and less stressful than having to resort to being kidnapped and then overanalyzing the decisions of his kidnapper to figure out his relationship with the man. "He's just my guardian. I've only known him for a year."

Hawthorne looked slightly surprised at this development but didn't seem to think it merited nearly as much introspection and analysis as Mike did. "Well, it might not be a biological connection, but based upon what I've observed by keeping surveillance on you two for the past two weeks" – and if that wasn't incredibly creepy, Mike didn't know what was–"I'm sure you'll do just fine for getting the reaction I need from Harvey."

Then Hawthorne was dialing a familiar number in his cell phone and putting it on speaker and Mike was puzzling over Hawthorne's words. What was any of that supposed to mean, anyway?

It took Harvey three rings to pick up, and he sounded slightly harassed as he grunted "Harvey Specter," upon answering. Mike could make out the strains of soft jazz in the background, which meant that Harvey was probably still in his office working. He had no concept of time anymore, but he knew that it was probably at least nine at night by this point, so it was no wonder Harvey sounded frustrated if he was still working.

"Hello, Mr. Specter," Hawthorne said, a falsely jovial tone to his greeting.

"Hawthorne?" Harvey's voice deepened with suspicion, instantly becoming far more intense and alert. Mike could picture him leaning forward in his desk, his eyes narrowed and focused like they always were when he was working out a particularly tricky clause, his fingers drumming nervously against the desk. This little image made him oddly homesick.

"Yes, Mr. Specter," Hawthorne continued. "I'm calling because I heard a rumor that you went to the police and told them that they needed to investigate my nightclub. I'm afraid that I can't have that happening, so I took something of yours."

There was a brief pause on the other line, and the sound of jazz abruptly cut off.

"What are you saying, Hawthorne?" Harvey asked, his voice deadly calm and low, sort of like how it got when Mike still hadn't washed the dishes after Harvey had asked him to three times already. It wasn't a friendly tone.

"I'm saying that Michael is currently paying me a visit, and if you want him to come home any time soon, you'll have to do me a favor and rescind the suspicions that you reported to the police."

"Mike!" Harvey's voice was sharp now. It was a tone that Mike had never heard before, and it made Harvey sound younger than the aloof, polished attorney that he always presented himself to be. "Mike, are you there? I swear to god, Hawthorne if you touched a goddamn hair on his head I will not rest until—"

Mike was sure that Harvey finished this statement with a lovely threat—Harvey was very good at being threatening; it was a real gift—but Mike's world went dark momentarily when Salvador randomly punched him in the face. Hard.

In fact, Salvador punched him so hard that the rather rickety chair he was tied to tipped over, which meant that his left side had a rather unpleasant meeting with the cold, hard ground of the warehouse. He inadvertently let out a low moan, his left side aching and his rich cheek throbbing. Salvador had been wearing a ring, and he could feel a drop of blood run down his cheek.

Well, that hurt.

He'd live, of course—honestly, if a couple of bruises to his side and a black eye were the worst that he came out of this kidnapping with, he'd consider it a success—but his pained reaction to this sudden blow was exactly what Hawthorne had wanted from Harvey.

It took Mike a moment to reorient his thoughts, everything a slightly starry blur before his eyes. But when he managed to get the warehouse to stop spinning, he became aware of Harvey shouting frantically over the line, probably thinking that Mike was being Chinese water-tortured or something.

"Harvey," he called, his voice a breathless wheeze. Harvey immediately went silent on the other end. "I'm fine," he said. "Really, don't worry about me—"

"You have an hour to go to the police and tell them that you just made up everything you reported to them because you thought it would help you win the case to tarnish my reputation. That's it—they are absolutely not to be involved in this. I will have people watching to make sure you do as I say, and if you don't comply, the damage to young Michael will be a lot more permanent next time. You have an hour."

Then Hawthorne hung up before either Mike or Harvey could say anything else; before Mike could try and give Harvey some sort of clue as to where he was.

"And now we wait," Hawthorne said smugly, seeming perfectly content to see Mike sprawled uncomfortably on his side on the ground, still firmly attached to the chair.

All of a sudden, the door burst open and another man came through, dressed in a suit and looking incredibly harried.

"Boss, we're having some troubles with Raymond in the control room." His eyes flickered over to Mike and he seemed to censor himself. "Like, serious troubles. The same level of seriousness as the Murphy troubles last month."

Mike's ears perked up at that, although he tried not to let it show. Murphy…Dan Murphy had been the name of the body identified outside of Hawthorne's nightclub last month. Mike had snuck into Harvey's office and speed-read through the Hawthorne files a few weeks ago—Harvey would probably ground him if he knew, but Mike didn't regret it now. Maybe whatever was going on with Raymond was the same thing that had happened to Dan Murphy, and if so, Raymond was about to end up in a dumpster.

For the first time since this ordeal had begun, he felt his eyelids burn with tears—he didn't want to be here. He just wanted to be at home in the apartment where he didn't have to think about people being murdered or himself being kidnapped.

Apparently Raymond troubles were a cause for great alarm, because everyone left—first Hawthorne strode away with his two bodyguards after the newcomer. Then Salvador cast a long look at Mike on the ground tied to a chair and seemed to decide that his odds of escape were pretty nonexistent. He roughly grabbed the chair and righted Mike, muttering something about Mike getting blood on the floor from his cheek. Then he then followed after Hawthorne, giving Mike a warning glare as he shut the door and left him alone in the warehouse.

Mike struggled against his bonds but there was no point—unless he could find something sharp to sever the rope, he had no chance of escaping. He let out a groan of frustration and allowed his head to tip back. No use being any more uncomfortable than necessary if he was going to be stuck in this position for the foreseeable future. At least he was no longer on the ground. Small gifts, he supposed.

His eyes fell on the dartboard with the five darts on it, and he wondered if Salvador's aim with a gun was as good as his aim with darts, suppressing a shudder of fear. And then a sudden thought occurred to him—something that Harvey had told him on their summer camping trip. Harvey had been ridiculously over the top with his safety lectures, and had prepared Mike for the absolute worst—a freak hurricane in the middle of the woods of upstate New York (inland hurricanes weren't even a thing), Mike somehow sleepwalking down into a ravine (he didn't sleepwalk), or getting caught in a hunter's trap (the woods they'd camped in was a strictly-enforced no-hunting zone). Obviously none of these things had actually happened to Mike because he, Harvey, and Paul had spent one weekend in a clearing with several other families in the area. It had been about as tame as camping could be, and most of the kids at the camp had been about…five years old. Perfectly safe.

And yet, he could remember Harvey's lecture as they'd set up their tents, just as clear as if it had been yesterday instead of back in August.

"Mike," he'd said. "I'm going to give you some advice that goes for dangerous wildlife situations and for being a lawyer. When in doubt, look around and use whatever resources you can find to get what you need."

And Mike's eyes settled on the dart board.

It was mounted fairly low on the wall, meant to be used by someone sitting at the desk. If he shimmied his way over there, he might be able to sever his bonds on the sharp metal edge of the fifth dart; the one that Salvador had thrown askew.

Summoning his frankly pathetic reservoir of upper body strength, he began wiggling his chair and scooting it as fast as he could. If Salvador or anyone else came back and saw that he'd moved…well, he didn't really want to know what would happen.

Slowly but surely he eventually made progress. He felt a bit stupid wriggling so much, but desperate times called for desperate measures. He backed himself up against the dartboard and began rubbing the rope of his wrist bonds against the small bit of exposed metal.

It took some sawing, and he was petrified that he'd accidentally wiggle the dart out of the board and knock it to the ground before he could sever the tie, but eventually he felt it weaken and gradually give to the sharp metal.

When the rope was finally weakened, he was able to rip his hands free, letting out a relieved sigh and fiercely massaging his bloodless fingers. He'd cut his hands in several places by accident—who knew metal darts could be so sharp?—but they were all fairly shallow and it was worth it to have his hands back.

Working quickly, he untied his ankles and stood on wobbly, numb feet, stumbling towards the door as quickly as possible.

He debated briefly about which of the three doors to choose, but in the end he wound up picking the one that Hawthorne had come in and left through. It was probably a foolish choice, but if they were really going to kill the Raymond person, Mike couldn't just run in the opposite direction. And he might as well try and figure out what illegal shenanigans Hawthorne was involved in while he was here, anyway.

With numb fingers, he pushed open the third door and stepped forward into a long, white hallway. It instantly gave him the creeps and looked like something out of a horror movie. His breathing was a lot quicker and shallower all of a sudden and—why was he doing this again?—he bravely stepped forward and walked down the hallway, very aware of the echo of his footsteps and the dim, flickering lights overhead.

When he got to the end of the hallway, there was another door waiting for him. He pushed it open ever so slowly, uncertain as to what awaited him on the other side. He peeked through the gap and he could hear loud mechanical noises but couldn't see Hawthorne or Salvador, so he pushed the door open further after a moment and slipped inside, still riding on his plan for the evening, which was basically just taking random risks and hoping they worked out in his favor.

He felt his jaw drop open as he stepped inside this second room, sidling off to the side and praying that nobody had noticed him come in.

It was a bustling place, and in spite of the time of day, there were a lot of people hard at work. He couldn't tell what they were doing exactly, but it appeared to be some sort of assembly line, with some sort of machinery printing something and the workers boxing it up and stacking the boxes.

He risked inching closer to a partially-open box, staying in the shadows and trying to blend in as best as he could in the enormous warehouse. His jaw dropped again as soon as he got a good look at what was in the box—counterfeit money.

Well, that certainly explained why Hawthorne was so reluctant for the police to come poking around—he was running a massive money laundering operation. Dan Murphy had probably wanted to blow the whistle, and they'd killed him. And now Raymond was in danger, and Mike was in danger, and basically they were all in danger.

He was barely getting over this terrifying realization when a strong arm grabbed him by the bicep and clamped a hand over his mouth, dragging him further back into the corner.

Mike struggled fiercely to shout and escape—maybe one of the workers would take pity on him and help him if they saw him—but it did no good.

"Shut up, kid," a voice hissed in his ear. "I'm not going to hurt you, I swear! I'm trying to help."

Mike wrenched around, desperate to see who his attacker was. To his surprise, it wasn't Salvador or one of Hawthorne's silent bodyguards. Instead, it was a middle-age man with an intelligent look to his dark eyes.

"I'm Raymond," he said quietly and Mike relaxed. "You're that lawyer's kid, aren't you? I heard them talking about you."

Mike gave a little nod and a half-shrug simultaneously, deciding that it was probably best to just agree Harvey was his father. Everyone was thinking it, so maybe he should just go along with it. Not that he ever had to tell Harvey that he was letting people think that Harvey was his biological father, but still. It was just…easier this way. It had nothing to do with Mike's deep-seated desire for a real father, obviously.

Raymond released him, looking relieved that Mike seemed to understand who he was. "We need to get out of here," Mike said seriously.

"You're telling me," Raymond muttered. "Come on, this way. We'll slip out the back and go upstairs. If there's one thing I've learned from working here, it's how to get around this hellhole."

As Mike crept after Raymond, he felt a small semblance of control for the first time since he'd seen the black car following him last week. He was still scared, but it helped not to be alone.

Harvey wasn't panicking. He really wasn't.

Or maybe he was. The parenting books didn't have a chapter for what to do when your child is kidnapped by a vengeful client, surprisingly. Maybe once this ordeal was over, he'd retire from being a lawyer and write such a book. It would certainly be less stressful than this. Probably the most he'd have to worry about would be getting a papercut while editing.

Papercuts made him think of Mike's pained whimper over the phone; the sound of flesh hitting flesh and Mike's wheezed reassurances that he was fine.

He drew in a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. This was all his fault. None of this would ever have happened had he just turned this case over to someone else immediately after that threatening first meeting with Hawthorne. Now Mike, who was completely innocent, was paying the consequences for Harvey's actions, and it was something that Mike didn't deserve at all.

How was he going to explain any of this to Edith? And how was he going to live with himself after this was all over, knowing that Mike had been kidnapped and put in a life-threatening situation because of Harvey's work? And what if Mike didn't make it out of—

He stopped himself from thinking here, feeling a bit lightheaded. He was currently sitting in the back of a taxi, heading to Hawthorne's nightclub. He'd gone to the police as Hawthorne had asked and had said what Hawthorne had wanted him to say. He hadn't mentioned anything about hostages or kidnappings, even though it had been like a knife through his chest to sit there and speak calmly when he knew that Mike was hurt and scared and alone somewhere.

But that didn't mean that the police weren't also on their way to Hawthorne's nightclub—when Hawthorne had called, Donna had just been finishing up for the night and she'd heard everything over the line from her desk. Normally he hated that she listened in on him, but tonight it had been his saving grace. She had been the one to take a separate car to the precinct and inform the police of what was really going on while Harvey spewed the bullshit that Hawthorne had ordered him to. He had technically followed Hawthorne's instructions, and Donna had been able to tell the police everything.

Moral of the story, people needed to stop underestimating his secretary.

Donna had taken a separate car back to Harvey's apartment from the precinct, offering to call Paul and Edith and explain the situation to them and wait for news.

Now his taxi was just pulling up in front of Hawthorne's massive night club, called the Money Maker, and he was terrified of what he'd find in there. Was Mike okay? Was he angry at Harvey for getting him involved in all of this? How was he ever going to make this up to his ward?

He paid the driver and stepped out onto the pavement, staring at the long line of patrons waiting to get in, many of the women wearing skimpy clothes and shivering in the early November air. His gaze sought out the two cops he'd met who were leading the undercover recon mission into the club to rescue Mike and investigate Hawthorne's illegal activities.

Their names were Davis and Wilkes, and they both looked slightly uncomfortable out of their uniforms and dressed down in nightclub-wear. Harvey casually stepped into the line next to them, careful to make sure that he didn't seem suspicious or agitated, even though he felt like he was going to explode if he stood out here for a second longer without doing something.

"Specter," Davis greeted him. He was probably in his early thirties or so, but he looked too studious and quiet to realistically fit into the night scene of the Money Maker. Wilkes was younger and seemed more at ease in the crowd, but his eyes were alert and Harvey knew that they both had guns and badges hidden somewhere. There were other undercover agents surrounding and inside the club already, and that made Harvey feel a bit better.

But it sure as hell didn't stop him from feeling nervous. "I hope your contact can get us in the club within the next two minutes." It wasn't really a hope, but more of a demand. "I'm not standing out here and waiting when we could be inside doing something."

Davis and Wilkes exchanged cautious glances. "You aren't coming inside, Specter," Davis said. "Chief's orders. He thinks you're too emotionally involved in this to be of any help and frankly, you have no training to deal with these sorts of situations."

But Harvey was having none of that. All of his fear and anger with the situation bubbled up at once and he grabbed Davis by the collar and slammed him up against the brick wall of the club. He knew that it was stupid to assault a cop and that he was just drawing attention to them, but he didn't care. He also knew that Davis was trained to easily fight his way out of these situations, but Harvey was a boxer and emotion gave him an advantage. He held firm, leaning close into Davis' face to make sure that his message was delivered loud and clear.

"Like hell I'm staying out here," he bit out. "That's my son in there and if you think I'm just going to sit out here and wait while he's in danger because of a mistake that I made, then you're stupider than I initially thought."

Davis was quiet for a moment. Wilkes was hovering nervously, clearing wondering if he should intervene or get them out of there so that drunk people in line stopped looking at them.

"I suppose we can't technically prevent you from entering the nightclub," Davis said slowly and deliberately, his message clear. "You have a right to be in a public establishment. But if you even think about doing one reckless thing, you're out."

"Thank you," Harvey sighed with relief, letting go of Davis' collar and stepping back in line next to Wilkes. "Thank you."

Davis nodded at him and they inched forward in line. "I have a son too," Davis remarked. "Sammy. He's almost seven, and I'd do the exact same thing if I were in your position."

Harvey only nodded, suddenly unable to speak over the strange lump in his throat.

This really wasn't how Mike had expected his night to end when he'd gotten kidnapped. Apparently the not-so-little money laundering operation was set up under Hawthorne's nightclub, which explained the rhythmic thumping he'd heard downstairs in the warehouse. It also explained how Hawthorne had been able to hide all of this—the disguise of a nightclub was quite clever.

He and Raymond and snuck upstairs and Mike's eyebrows had almost disappeared into his hair when Raymond pushed a secret door open and they stepped into the thick crowd of a Friday night at one of New York City's most popular nightclubs. Bass was thumping so loudly that it reverberated in Mike's chest, and there were drunk people shouting and dancing all around him. It was rather overwhelming, but the throng of people did provide them with a bit of camouflage.

"We need to get out of here!" Raymond shouted in Mike's ear during a brief lull in the music. He grabbed Mike by the shoulder to anchor him and then began pushing Mike through the crowd and towards the exit, which was very far away. Mike smiled, thinking about getting out of the nightclub and calling Harvey to tell him that he was done with being kidnapped and needed to be picked up. It would be just like a regular old school day.

A giggling drunk woman draped an arm around Mike's shoulder when he walked by and Mike quickly shrugged it off, blushing and ignoring Raymond's laughter behind him. Why was the exit so far away?

It almost seemed like they were going to make it, until someone grabbed him again—all this grabbing was getting a little old.

He felt his heart drop into his stomach and his blood run cold when he realized that it was Salvador who had grabbed him, a triumphant expression on his scarred face.

"You two are coming with me," he shouted. Mike feigned not being able to hear—sure, it was a bit ridiculous, but they were in a nightclub on a Friday—it wouldn't be his fault if he slipped away accidentally because he hadn't heard Salvador, right?

But then he felt something cold press against his lower back and he froze.

"That's a gun!" Salvador shouted unnecessarily. "And unless you want me to accidentally shoot an innocent bystander, I suggest that you come with me." Mike heard the gun click and felt his heart stop with fear.

Every fiber of his being told him that he was making a mistake going back with Salvador after one failed escape attempt, but he didn't want to be responsible for the deaths of innocent people, and Salvador didn't seem like he was kidding around. So he and Raymond dutifully turned around and marched back to the stairwell where they'd come from, the cold metal of the gun still pressed subtly into Mike's back.

This really wasn't how he'd pictured his first underage clubbing experience to turn out.