Sitting on the floor, Gordon lent back, his legs stretched in front of him. Close enough to hear if anyone was coming; far enough that he could move into position if the door opened. He wouldn't be taken a second time, not when their captors had already proven they had no qualms about using the brothers against each other.

"Any luck?"

"With you constantly interrupting me?"

Gordon gave a long whistle, holding his hands up in surrender when John glared at him. Gordon had three older brothers: he'd mastered how to hold his own against such a glare. He waited, one eyebrow cocked, until John sighed and glanced away.

"Sorry," he muttered. "Didn't mean that."

"I know," Gordon said cheerfully, dropping his hands. Then his grin faded. "So, no luck?"

John shook his head. Gordon could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen his brother look so frustrated – and wouldn't have needed all his fingers. Their current situation was getting to John.

One tiny screw had twisted just enough when John had thrown his watch at the wall. They'd managed to get the back off; Gordon's fingers had only just stopped bleeding. The complex wiring packed into such a small device had made Gordon back off swiftly, but John had just accepted the challenge, trying to see if he could override any of the circuits and either get a signal out or bring the shields down.

"I can't get even a spark," John said bitterly. John Tracy didn't fail, not when it came to technology and wiring.

Gordon never doubted his big brother. But he wasn't entirely sure they had the time to continue with this plan. He was hungry, bored of standing (or, rather, sitting) sentry and was fed up of waiting for something to happen. John might not be used to failing, but Gordon wasn't used to standing by.

"Reckon Scott's realised yet?" he asked, twisting out a kink in his back and ignoring his stomach grumbling.

John looked at him. "Yes," he said flatly. "But what's he going to do? Even if Al got your messages; even if they figured out what they meant, they can't track us, not without-,"

John stopped, blushing. Gordon smirked.

"Not without you? They probably have one, maybe two, brain cells between them. They'll figure something out."

"And walk straight into danger." John sighed. "The best we can hope for is that they warn Dad."

Gordon knew what John wasn't saying. If their dad had warning, then if – when, when damnit – he got a ransom call, he'd have had time to put his game face on. Gordon hoped this group were banking on the element of surprise to get them what they wanted; they'd lose their upper hand as soon as Jeff Tracy didn't cave at the sight of his sons held at gunpoint.

Assuming, of course, they didn't panic and just kill the pair of them instead.

Gordon shrugged off the thought. There was a reason he left the thinking to his older brothers.

But three vans, the drugs, shielded factory and a group that could hold their own in a fight meant this wasn't random. He doubted the group had decided to go to the city and just happened on two Tracy boys heading out on their own. Enough people had known they were coming to town and it wasn't like their location was a secret. The penthouse meant they never bothered staying anywhere else.

"Let's give the boys something to work with, then," Gordon said. He rolled his neck, looking around the space again, as if his entire night of searching high and low might have missed something. John simply looked at him, bemused.

"We can't get a signal out," John said slowly, looking at Gordon like he'd lost his mind. Gordon didn't blame him: they'd spent all night trying to find a way to contact the outside world and this is what Gordon had come up with?

"True," he said, smirking.

"Gordon?"

"We can't get a signal out – but we can get us out." He hadn't got as far as planning an escape, but all they needed was a few seconds. Long enough to send a burst to the rest of their family. Help would be on the way before their captors had finished subduing them.

John didn't answer. His gaze was focused entirely on putting his watch back together. Gordon swallowed. Despite his training, despite his past, Gordon was convinced John was about to pull the big brother card on him.

"Reckon you can hold them?" John finally said.

Gordon breathed a sigh. When John looked up, he nodded.

"Easy as pie," he bluffed.

John had the skills to get the best message out in the shortest space of time. Gordon had the talent to buy him that time. His brother may not like it, but it was all they had to work with.

But these men had driven them off the road, attacked, drugged and kidnapped them. Not to mention forced Gordon to confront a fear he liked to pretend didn't exist. He was looking forward to evening the score.

"Then let's get out of here."

Gordon's eyebrows rose as John crossed the room. His posture spoke to the same defiance as Gordon was feeling. He'd been planning to wait until someone came. They'd have to feed them at some point, right?

John, it seemed, had other ideas.

A fist crashed against the door. While Gordon stood there, nonplussed, John began yelling for help. He shouted that something was wrong, someone was hurt, and it wasn't until he gave his brother a pointed look that Gordon figured out the plan.

He rolled his eyes – he would've preferred a verbal discussion of said plan before it was enacted – but obediently dropped to the floor. Just in time: the same god-awful screech he'd heard when they arrived signalled the door being unlocked. There must've been a guard outside this entire time.

"He needs his meds, please, you have to help him," John said. His brother's babble was so unlike him that Gordon gave a theatrical moan of pain to cover up his snort of amusement.

"Quiet," the guard snapped, but he didn't sound sure.

"He's hurt; he could be dying!" John paused, realising the drama wasn't working.

"You won't get a cent out of our father if anything happens to him," he added in a dark tone.

The door slammed shut but Gordon glanced up as John nodded at him. Gordon shifted: he stayed low, but he tensed, making sure he could move quickly when the moment came. Maximum speed and efficiency were needed here. All that mattered was John got outside, no matter the cost to him. They needed help.

The door opened. Four men entered this time. One put a hand on John's chest, shoving him away from the door, his free hand resting on a holstered weapon. John stumbled but Gordon recognised the pretence. He forced himself to wait even as the other three closed in on him.

"Get up," one said roughly, toeing him with his boot.

Gordon looked up. But he wasn't watching the guards. John shifted his angle so he could see out of the door, and gave a sudden nod.

This was it: no others were coming to investigate. Now or… well, now. There wasn't any option.

Gordon reacted. Before the man knew what was coming, Gordon had swept his feet out from under him, bringing him crashing down to the floor. Winded, the man could do nothing other than gasp but Gordon was already moving. Seizing the wrist of the second, Gordon dragged him off balance even as he got to his feet. He had the limb bent behind the man's back and his elbow colliding with the third man's nose before he could check on John.

His brother wasn't there. The guard who'd been watching him was on the floor, groaning, hands clamped over a bloody nose. Gordon grinned, proud. Scott had spent hours trying to teach John to throw an effective punch, and none of them (John included) had ever been sure he'd picked it up.

Gordon focused on the fight at hand now his element of surprise was spent. The longer he could give John, the more information his brother could give the rest of the family. They might not get another chance.

He moved fast, making sure they never had time to go after John or call for help, drawing all four men into the fight. But the odds were against him. He'd thought back at the roadside they could handle themselves and it wasn't long before he was made painfully aware that it was four on one. A sharp blow sent his head snapping to one side and he stumbled back, staggering to stay on his feet. They hadn't slept all night and no doubt there was still some of the drug in his system from the double dose: he was finding it hard to stop his vision swimming.

Gordon didn't know how long they fought for. He played dirty, using every trick WASP and four brothers had taught him. He didn't care about winning; he only needed to buy John time. But eventually, even his luck ran out.

They got him down, although Gordon wasn't entirely sure how. He fought wildly, all finesse lost in the heat of the moment, but once they had him pinned on his stomach, he lost any leverage. He bucked, snarling, but three men were holding him down. Gordon eventually fell still, panting.

"Clear!"

The man's shout made Gordon shake himself, but a hand gripped his hair, pressing his face into the floor. He saw someone walk in out of his peripheral vision but couldn't work out who until they stopped next to him.

"You had to chose the hard way, didn't you?" It was the woman from before. "Cuff him. We don't have time to indulge every time spoilt rich boys want a fight."

They obliged, dragging his arms behind his back, cold metal bracelets locking into place. Gordon scarcely noticed. She'd walked straight in. Either John had ducked away from the door, or…

A boot to his midriff stole his thoughts for a moment even as the men backed up, heading towards the door. The woman remained, looking down at him.

"This could've been over in no time if you just behaved," she said. Gordon rolled until he made it to his knees. She drew her gun, one hand practically caressing it.

"Oh get a room," Gordon muttered. He hurt and he was worried about his brother. He wasn't in the mood for this.

"I will," she smirked, "with your brother."

With an exaggerated motion, she took the safety off the gun and moved to the door.

"No," Gordon gasped.

He lurched up, stumbling from both lack of hands and his bad leg. She walked out, the door creaking its way shut and the scrape of the lock sending a bolt of emotion through Gordon: anger, shame, worry… All he had to do was distract them until John got back in and he'd failed! There had been no shout of alarm when the woman had arrived: Gordon figured they'd failed the second John had started calling for help.

He scrambled up the steps, ramming his shoulder into the door, but it didn't budge.

This wasn't the plan! John was supposed to be back with him, planning both their escape and how they'd convince Scott to ever let them out of his sight again.

He tried the door again, and again, but it made no difference. Panting, Gordon slid down it, hands trapped uncomfortably behind him. Bruised, handcuffed and locked in wasn't the problem. John being out there on his own, however, was, big time.

He needed a plan, a strategy to get them out of this. That's what his brother would do. But right now, Gordon couldn't figure out how to get past the door, let alone anything else.

-x-

"Look!"

Alan's shout made Scott slam the brakes. The car lurched, jolting them all, the vehicle behind blaring its horn as it pulled out to get past them.

"Oh, no, it's not anything."

Scott glared in the rearview mirror at his kid brother. "Do you remember any of your training?" he said curtly.

Alan sunk down further in his seat. "I thought I saw something," he muttered.

Scott knew he was being unfair. Worry for John and Gordon was making him lash out. But they also spent their lives rescuing people: Scott had no intention of being taken out in a car crash because a world champion racing driving distracted him.

They'd hired a second car when there still hadn't been any contact. Their father had agreed they shouldn't contact the police just yet; they needed to know what they were up against first. If they were in trouble because they were Tracys, the cops could help. If it was something more, however, NYPD would be so out of their depth it would only put lives in danger. If International Rescue had put the brothers in danger, then International Rescue – with all their agents and technology – had to be the ones to get them out again.

Instead, they'd gone looking. A second car and a slow drive out of the city along the same route John would've taken was frustratingly ineffective, but they had to start somewhere.

"Scott."

Virgil's quiet voice and fleeting touch on his arm made Scott look over, his heart suddenly racing far more than it had done at Alan's shout.

"Hold on." He checked the traffic and pulled the car onto the verge. They bounced and jolted for a few moments before Scott cut the engine, knowing approaching on foot was going to be better.

Approached the burned wreck in the middle of the field running parallel to the road. It wasn't uncommon on the outskirts of the city: joyrides gone wrong, thieves covering their tracks. The cops had probably already been alerted to it.

But Scott's heart and gut told him this was something else. Someone else.

He was out the car before the engine had gone quiet. He set a fast pace towards the wreckage, aware his brothers were on his heels. None of them spoke and Scott knew he wasn't the only one whose thoughts were racing. Was this their car? What happened? And who the hell had done this?

Suddenly stopping, Scott threw out an arm. The soft 'oof' gave away Alan hadn't seen it until Scott was pulling him back.

"It's still hot," he muttered. His instincts were taking over, drowning out his troubled thoughts. He could feel the heat radiating out from the vehicle.

The positioning of the car – where it had come off the road, the direction it was facing – meant their brothers had been intercepted on their way to the observatory. They'd been missing for hours. But whoever had torched the car hadn't done it the afternoon before: there was too much residual heat. They'd come back, set the fire overnight… Part of his mind was starting to work out time frames.

"Scott?" Virgil sounded shaken. Dropping his arm from Alan, Scott moved to join Virgil. He was staring at something in the charred grass.

Scott bent down. The back license plate hadn't burnt: it had fallen off, soot-streaked but readable. Scott swallowed.

"It's them," he said, making sure Alan heard him so he didn't have to repeat himself. He wasn't sure he could. Fingers traced the air a few inches above the metal; it was too hot to touch.

"No!"

Alan's cry twisted something in Scott. Thankfully, Virgil moved first, intercepting their little brother but looking over his shoulder with an identical expression. They needed to know: they didn't want to know. And it was up to Scott to find out.

He stood. This was his responsibility. As a Field Commander, it was his job to asses the full situation. As a big brother, it was his job to shield them from whatever was waiting in that burnt out husk. He moved closer, bending to look into the car.

"They weren't in it," he said. The relief coursing through him was reflected on both brothers' expressions. Scott shut his eyes for a second, breathing through the feelings.

He was relieved, yes, but not surprised. Whoever this was had returned to the car to burn it, no doubt trying to hide their tracks. The heat revealed the fire hadn't been out for that long. The position of the car, the time of the fire… Scott was already trying to work out a perimeter of how far someone could have gone.

"Where the hell are they?" Virgil said, putting voice to Scott's thoughts.

He shook his head, staring at the car. Then snapped into action.

"Al, call the cops. They need to know about this. Virgil, see what you can do to make this -," he waved a hand at the entire area -, "less obvious."

Alan pulled out his cell, moving away. Virgil just stared at him; eyebrows raised. It was an impossible task. They didn't have their equipment or anything they could use to fence off the area until the cops arrived. Then again, they were the only ones to have stopped – maybe burnt-out wreckages weren't uncommon along this stretch of road. It was a depression thought.

"Who would take them?" Virgil asked. He wasn't even pretending to follow Scott's orders, but came to stand next to his big brother.

"I'm more concerned with why," Scott murmured. Tracys or International Rescue? Gordon's military knowledge or John's genius? He couldn't deny their brothers were quite the prize, but as of yet, Scott didn't even know what game was being played.

"And who," Virgil added. "Look what they've done to the car to cover their tracks. There's no telling what they'll do to John and Gords."

"Easy." Scott touched his brother's arm lightly. Virgil pinched his eyes shut, took a deep breath, and opened them again. His flash of panic was gone – or, at least, contained.

"Gordon can hold his own," Scott continued, "and there's never been a problem John can't talk his way out of. You'll see: they'll be fine."

It would've been more comforting if they weren't standing by the burnt-out wreckage of their brothers' car. If someone had done this to a vehicle, what would they've done to John and Gordon?

Alan's return stopped Scott's own panic from flaring.

"Cops are on their way," Alan said. "May have name-dropped to get them here fast."

Scott nodded, not paying attention. He turned his back on the car although the acrid smell still clawed at his throat.

"What happened to you, guys?" he murmured. Staring at the road, Scott looked for answers in the cars driving past, but nothing came to light. If anyone had noticed what was going on, no one had stopped to help.

The three milled around while they waited for the cops. They were all looking for clues in their own way, but Scott knew they were passing the time. Now they'd called the police, they couldn't very well leave the scene, despite Scott knowing he wasn't the only one wanting to do more.

It didn't take long before the authorities were on the scene, though. Alan's name-drop had worked. The brothers were taken aside and questioned separately, although it didn't take Scott long to put a stop to it. Not when he saw Virgil's pale complexion and heard Alan's voice raise in distress. They had enough to deal with right now.

But now they were standing around awkwardly, watching forensics crawling the scene. With his arms folded, it was taken every inch of Scott's self-control to not start tapping his foot, knowing he could run the scene more effectively. Thankfully, for all their sakes, Virgil nudged him before he said anything.

An older man was approaching. There was something vaguely familiar about him.

"Mr Tracy."

Scott glanced at Virgil, who shrugged. 'Mr Tracy' was their dad.

"All yours," Virgil muttered, taking half a step back.

"It's been a while."

"I'm sorry, do I know-,"

"Oh, probably not," the officer said. "But I was there when you put up bail for Gordon a few years ago. Arrested him myself."

That was where he knew the man from. "That was a misunderstanding," Scott said, "and all the charges were dropped."

"Funny though," the man said. "How every time you're in the city, Gordon Tracy's name comes across my scanner."

"Meaning?" Scott's voice went cold and flat. His arms dropped to his side, body stiffening. If this officer dared to try and dismiss this as a misunderstanding or a rich boy's prank just because of a drunken mistaken years ago, Scott had a feeling he'd be the one in need of a lawyer.

"Only I know the kid can be reckless-,"

"That kid -,"

"Okay!" Virgil stepped forward, cutting Scott off. "Look, I know Gordon's made some mistakes in the past; we all have. But look around you, officer. Really look."

Virgil's tone was as cool as Scott's. The man did as Virgil said, shifting.

"Well," he muttered. A burnt-out car. His colleagues all over the place. Experts called in. Alan's terrified expression every time one of the forensics looked up.

No one could shrug this off as a prank.

"Go and do your job." Scott turned, dismissing the man. Alan's name drop had got the police here, but they'd arrived with prejudices and misconceptions about who they were dealing with. Scott refused to play along to the playboy story that usually offered good cover. If anyone questioned where his authority came from, he had a military carer to back him up.

But as he turned, something caught his eye. The forensics had cleared that particularly spot. Part of the grass still had flecks of black in it from where they had taken a cast of some tyre tracks. Scott glanced around.

The police were good. But Brains was better.

Nudging Virgil, he tilted his head in that direction. Virgil's eyes widened in understanding but the look he shot his brother was quizzical. Noticing it was one thing; they still had to get close without drawing attention.

Then he had an idea. One that Alan would hate, but there was no way he was doing it.

Leaning over, he whispered in his brother's ear, "protocol Tracy."

Alan shot him a look. "Do I have to?" he whined. Scott smirked and nodded, nudging his brother towards the cop who'd been so doubtful.

Alan's expression told Scott he'd pay for this later. But Alan had started the whole name-drop thing, Scott figured he could continue it.

"How dare you?" Alan exclaimed loudly, stepping towards the man. "Don't you know who we are?"

His voice carried. The officer flushed, indignant at being addressed in such a way by someone who could be his son, if not grandson. Alan kept up a stream of complaints until half the force in the area were watching him – and not Virgil.

"Go."

Virgil was on his knees before Scott blinked. It was no surprise his brother had a notepad in his pocket. For all the sophisticated technology at their disposal, sometimes it was the simplest things that worked best. Virgil wasted no time taking a sketch of the tyre tracks himself.

Noticing someone heading towards them, Scott kicked his brother lightly. Virgil rose, smoothly slipping the sketch into his pocket and attempting to look innocent.

This man was suited, not in uniform, and Scott recognised him as Detective Philips, the one who'd taken charge of the scene. Despite Scott's earlier impatience, he couldn't deny the man did seem to be good at his job.

"There's nothing more you boys can do here," Philips said. He gestured to Alan. "And emotions are running high. Head back into town, grab some food. We'll keep you updated if anything new comes up."

"We're not leaving."

"Look, it wasn't a request." Philips glanced around. "The press will no doubt be here any moment."

There was a downside to throwing their name about. Scott sighed, making a show of being reluctant about it.

"Fine," he grumbled. "But I want constant updates."

"You'll have them, Mr Tracy. Take your brothers away from here: it won't help."

Scott's respect for the man increased. He knew far too well that loved ones at a scene of devastation never assisted those equipped to help. Besides, he had no intention of staying. They couldn't send the prints to Brains from out here, not without more questions being asked.

"Come on," he said to Virgil, before calling the same thing across to Alan.

Virgil understood what he was doing – and why he had to leave. Alan, however, wasn't so sure as he hurried to join them.

"What're you doing? We can't leave – you know these guys have no clue."

"Neither do we until we get these prints checked," Scott said in a low voice. Alan glanced at Virgil, who winked. Their little brother hadn't even noticed why he'd been made to be the distraction.

Still, that didn't stop Alan grumbling all the way back to the car. Scott felt his grip on his temper slowly unravelling. His brother followed his commands out on a rescue without complaints. Why couldn't he do the same here?

Scott knew it didn't really have anything to do with Alan. Finding a tyre print was not what any of them had hoped for when they'd driven out here.