Having caught his breath somewhat, Ressler dragged himself out of the captain's chair. His body was trembling with a constant shiver that seemed to run right through his nerves. Needing to find Red, he had no idea where the engine room was, but figured he'd find it if he went far enough aft (he was picking up the lingo now). Leaving the cockpit he made his way through the large lounge and out onto the back observation deck. The deck below him still had the small dinghy moored to it, and it bobbed happily on the dark water. But all Ressler could see when he looked down to that level was his bottle of pills rolling away from him and falling over the edge in slow motion.
All he could see was the moment everything went to hell and then some.
Damn. I so need to get out of here!
Finding the spiral staircase, he carefully made his way down trying very hard to relax his muscles so he would stop shaking long enough to get down the stairs in one piece. It was impossible though. He could feel his entire muscular system quivering under his skin, keeping good company with his nerves. Most of it was the withdrawal, but some of it, to his immense 'luck', was in fact seasickness. No matter how much he told himself the ocean swell was barely there, to him, the waves felt enormous. Score one for the seasick sailor.
Finally level with the dinghy now, he took a better look at it. It was inflatable, could seat 6 people easily and looked to be about 15 feet long. That might work... I'd probably fall overboard and drown, but that might work. His stomach suddenly clenched at the sight of it and how small and close to the water it was. Who the hell are you kidding?!
The sound of Red's voice came to him as he stood there and he looked behind to see a small doorway. That had to be the engine room and moving back to the open hatch, he peered in, and then dropped down another flight of stairs. This yacht was huge. The engine room alone was bigger than his apartment and so clean and full of chrome that it resembled no greasy, rusty engine room that he'd ever seen. He walked over to Red and Dembe, who were leaning over a panel.
"How's it going?" he asked the two men, coming up behind them, trying very hard to keep his voice steady. I'm just seasick.
Red turned to face him, his eyes squinting for a moment as he took in the sight of the rather shabby looking FBI agent before him. "Well I could bore you with how many hoses we need, diameters and what psi rating, but suffice to say, Donald, we're not going anywhere for a while." Ressler grit his teeth momentarily at that and glanced away, as Red continued, "However, I told you I have resources. We are checking every system for any more surprises, and ascertaining just what we need in spare parts to repair this lovely lady. Then we will work on procuring those parts."
What, the local yacht repairman makes house calls out here in the middle of nowhere?
Ressler indicated to the inflatable dinghy outside, nodding with his head rather than holding out his shaking arm. "What about that? How far can it go?" He was trying very hard to keep the rising panic out of his voice.
Red regarded him thoughtfully, and then shrugged. "20 to 30 miles." Ressler looked up at that news, suddenly hopeful, but Red continued with a pained expression. "But not today. It appears the party that swam over here to disable the yacht were very thorough and removed the outboard motor from the dinghy."
"Damn it," Ressler groaned and turned away a moment, gasping as he held his stomach as another cramp shot through it. This just keeps getting better and better. His body might be struggling now, but his mind still had a few ideas left in it.
"But we only need to go far enough to get cell phone signal. Right?" he asked Red, his voice more shaky than he liked.
"Exactly. Maybe 4 or 5 miles. We're going to have to row, but it's doable."
From behind Red, Dembe suddenly spoke up. "I will row out there Agent Ressler, and make the call."
Ressler actually smiled at that. Of course. This was almost fun to Dembe. The man who had chain sawed his way down a mountain road would have no problem rowing a boat a few miles.
His humor was short lived as a strong cramp gripped his stomach causing him to double over, clutching his stomach, panting. The cramp easing up now, he regained his composure. Red bent down to look at him. "Donald, you should try and rest while we take care of this."
Ressler ignored him, straightening again, "My seasickness can wait. How long... before you row out there?" he asked Dembe, unable to stop the hitch in his voice. Stop sounding like a 6 year old!
Red was looking at him in concern, tilting his head in that manner he had of studying people. "Soon, Donald. But for now, come with me. You need to lay down my friend, and the lower levels are a little smoother."
Ressler nodded in resignation. He'd needed to find somewhere to hole up. May as well have the grand tour from Captain Red.
###
As they walked up onto the back deck, Ressler's stomach lurched. Stepping quickly to the rail he leaned over just in time as he threw up again over the side, very much aware that Red was right behind him.
Cue the seasick sailor in front of the Captain. Check. He was doing a stellar job of looking seasick. It took no effort at all now.
He stopped retching and turned back to Red, panting. "Okay... I'm done feeding the fish now."
Red smiled sympathetically, and led him back up the spiral staircase (which Ressler gripped very hard), into the lounge area, then down to the lower level. Despite feeling like absolute crap, Ressler was actually impressed. Descending a carpeted stair case they came to the bedroom level and now it most definitely looked like a hotel. Complete with an ornate lobby, the bedrooms then lined either side of the lower level. Red walked past them, pointing out two rooms with twin beds, two more rooms each with a queen bed, and then made his way back to the master suite at the opposite end of the hallway. He entered the large room and turned back to Ressler.
"Here you go Donald, get some rest in here. The bathroom is through there so you won't have to lean overboard any time you feel the need to lose your lunch again."
"My stomach thanks you..." he panted, looking every inch the seasick sailor. If Ressler had been feeling better, he'd have found it rather weird standing in a master suite discussing bathrooms with Reddington. As it was, he was beyond caring and just welcomed the gesture the man had made by giving him the 'Captain's Quarters'.
Red turned to leave, and then looked back. Even he could now see how much Ressler was shaking. "I'll have Dembe come down in a bit with a jug of water. Need to keep those fluids up, Donald." He closed the door behind him as he left, leaving Ressler finally alone. He'd held it in the entire time Red stood there, but now he kicked off his shoes and sunk to the bed. Curling up on the bed on his side, he clutched his stomach as he shook.
I don't know how I'm going to do this, Liz.
He felt so sick and desperate, he barely even realized his inner conversation with Audrey had suddenly been redirected.
###
Five minutes later, Ressler couldn't bear lying down. He sprang from the bed with his muscles jangling, needing to move them. Pacing the room, he panted, walking on muscles that were threatening to cramp up at any second. Walking briskly, he was just coming out of the bathroom on another lap of the room when he was startled by a knock at the door.
"Co...come in," he panted, and stood perfectly still. Well, as still as he could with his body trembling from head to toe.
It was Dembe, with a pitcher of water, a glass and a sleeve of dry crackers on a small tray. Room service. Ressler nodded in thanks to Dembe as he put the tray down. He felt an insane urge to tip the man, as bizarre as the situation felt. But Dembe simply nodded to him and exited the room. Ressler looked at the water, briefly considered it, then turned away and resumed his laps as the jangle in his muscles picked up speed again, protesting at their brief pit stop.
He changed his routine now though. Instead of mindlessly circling the room, he opened drawers and cabinets as he went. Maybe there was something, anything, he could take that would calm his system a little. Going from drawer to drawer, he found nothing. Most drawers were empty, some had towels or sheets in them and one had hair accessories - women's hair accessories he noticed.
On his next lap he opened up the doors to the closet, and was surprised to see it filled with clothes. They didn't look like clothes Red would wear. Far too casual, with plaid shirts, shorts and sneakers and 'boat shoes'. The former captain, no doubt. He didn't even want to contemplate what had happened to him. Tossing the lids off a few shoe boxes in the bottom of the closet, he stopped at one and leaned down ignoring his muscles for the moment.
The box contained a fully automatic Glock 45mm pistol, complete with a box of shells. Screw Donald from the State Dept. Donald from the FBI is taking that. He checked the clip, finding it loaded. Which was indeed fortunate, because if he'd had to take shells one by one and drop them in the clip, he'd have dropped most of them on the floor as badly as he was shaking. He quickly closed the lids to all the shoe boxes then hid the loaded weapon under one of the pillows on the bed.
It was while he was continuing his circuit of the room, desperate to find anything that would ease his symptoms or get him off the yacht that he suddenly realized he'd missed something. Something so simple, he couldn't believe he hadn't thought of it.
Boats have radios.
He threw his shoes back on, tucked his wayward shirt back in and carefully opened the door. For one insane moment he almost expected to see an armed guard outside. The hallway was empty though, of course. He made his way to the staircase, then climbed them, coming out in the lounge area. Again, no one in sight. The light had changed, and as he turned to look out the back deck, he saw the sun low on the water. He also saw the silhouettes of Berlin and his two men, sitting with their backs to him, also apparently watching the sunset. He moved quietly away from them, unseen, and entered the cockpit.
Where the hell is it? He looked for the radio, expecting it to be easy to spot, but finally located it at one end on a side panel. He reached for the mic, held it in his shaking hand, and pressed the talk button.
"Hello...?"
Seriously? Hello?
He pressed it again. "This is...Special Agent Donald Ressler of the... FBI," he said, trying not to pant, but finally giving that up as a lost cause. "Can anyone... hear me?" He listened.
Nothing.
He moved the dial and tried again. And again got no response. Damn! There has to be someone out there! He was just getting ready to try it again, running his fingers through his sweaty hair when he heard Red's voice behind him.
"Donald, what are you doing up here?"
Ressler ignored the stupid question and spun around. "How the hell does this work?"
Red regarded him quietly, looking at the shaking, sweaty agent with concern. "It doesn't. The former owner of this yacht, for various reasons which... well, we shall not go into right now... chose not to have a radio on board. That worked well for him and no doubt will for me also in my line of work. I saw no need to have it replaced."
"Seriously?! You have a freaking floating palace out here, and no damn communication?!" Gritting his teeth in complete frustration, his body a mass of screaming, shaking nerves and muscles, Ressler threw the mic back at the radio.
He stormed over to where Red was standing beside the main console and captain's chair. "Dammit Reddington! I need to get out of here!" And to emphasize just HOW much he needed to, his stomach let loose with a massive cramp, dropping him to his knees as he cried out and grit his teeth against the pain.
Raymond Reddington had seen a great many things in his life. Some, he rather wished he hadn't seen and others, he longed to see again. As a man of the sea, he'd seen his fair share of weekend sailors as well as fully fledged 'give their all for it' Navy men. He recognized the many ways men took to the ocean. Some were simply born to it - such as himself. Others couldn't tolerate it one bit, losing their stomach contents at the first motion. And looking at Ressler now, clutching his stomach, shaking uncontrollably and dry retching on the floor in front of him, he saw neither.
What he saw gave him chills. He had seen this before, but not on any boat. The FBI agent might be telling him he was seasick, but Reddington was no fool.
Donald Ressler was lying to him.
And that fact alone made Red sit up and take notice.
###
Ressler was trying to regain his feet but his body wasn't obeying him, his muscles having gone from clanging cymbals to quivering jello in moments. Dammit, get up! But he couldn't and was about to drop completely to his side on the floor when he felt Red's hands under his arms, dragging him off his knees and to his feet.
"Don't touch me!" he panted, but not too convincingly.
Red hauled him up to the captains' chair and sat him down roughly on it. He then leaned forward on the arms of the chair, closely studying the complete mess in front of him that was nowhere near the poised Agent Ressler he knew. Ressler glared at him, but was unable to move off the chair right now.
"You are not seasick, Donald." Red's cold eyes bored into his, searching his face.
"I don't sail well. You said it yourself." Ressler told Red, glaring into his face, his jaw set.
"So that's the way you're going to play this? Seriously, Donald, you look like a street thug about to mug someone to get their next fix!"
That got Ressler's attention and some of the anger dropped out of him. That's exactly what I am...that's how low I've sunk.
Red reached his hand up to feel the pulse at the agent's neck, holding Ressler's head still when he tried to flinch away. He then felt the sweaty forehead of the shaking agent, feeling the heat radiating off him. But the telltale sign was Ressler's eyes. Even in the bright light of the cockpit, they looked like large, dark saucers. Hugely dilated and far different to their normal calm blue.
"Don't…don't touch me..." Ressler protested weakly but he was beaten, he knew that.
Red knows! He knows! He could no longer hide it from the man. Liz...he knows...
The fight went out of him and his head fell back against the chair as he closed his eyes in silent resignation. And as he did so, he felt Red's hand touch his shoulder and heard the change in Red's voice. "Donald... I'm so sorry you have ended up like this, my friend."
He opened his eyes, his whole body shaking and looked at Red. "I just need... to get out of here," he said quietly. It wasn't a demand. It was a plea.
"So you can find your spare drugs? No Donald. As bad and as desperate as you may feel this is actually rather fortuitous that this happened way out here. Oh, I know you won't see it that way. But trust me, this is your lucky day," Red replied, already knowing what he needed to do.
Ressler felt some of his anger return at that remark. "Lucky?! Yeah, I am SO freakin' lucky!" Just get me off this boat!
"Trust me, by time you get out of here you will have turned a huge corner in your life." Red stood to the side of the chair now, patting Ressler's shoulder again but Ressler flinched his shoulder out the way quickly.
"Just leave me alone, okay? I don't need your sympathy. I just need to get off this..." But he couldn't even finish the sentence as his stomach cramped again and he lurched forward on the chair, feeling Red reaching down and patting his back.
###
As Red was standing beside Ressler, he saw Dembe enter the cockpit. He took another glance at the trembling agent leaning forward in the chair, before stepping toward his employee.
If Dembe noticed the obviously sick Agent Ressler, he didn't mention it to his boss as he handed Red a sheet of paper. "Raymond, here are all the parts we need."
Red took the paper and the offered pen from Dembe and wrote something else on it. He turned back to his employee, aware of Ressler sitting up straight in the chair now and turning the chair away from them a little.
He handed the paper back to Dembe. "Here are our GPS coordinates. Have Vargas contact Frank and get the parts we need and get them out here at first light." He stole another look back at Ressler hearing his breath coming in short pants in the chair near him, then moved Dembe out of earshot.
"I need you to do something else, Dembe. I need you to call Lizzie. I can't emphasize this enough, Dembe - no Harold, no FBI. She must only tell Harold I need her to complete our mission. Do not tell her anything but that."
Dembe looked up quietly at his boss, then glanced at the back of the chair Ressler was sitting on, and understood.
Red spoke quietly again. "Do whatever you need to do and get her on whatever boat you can find," he said, turning quickly at the sound of Ressler dry retching again, then swung back to Dembe.
"Get her here as soon as you can."