AN: Seeing as I'm getting back into this story, I've decided to update the early chapters as well. Let me know what you think! (You'll know the updated ones because I'll give them a title this time around). Enjoy!
CHAPTER 1: There's a First for Everything
1
It was not the first time Sara woke up with her hands tied.
Not a very dignified confession to make, but there it was.
For a second, through those few seconds of fog, as her awareness sharpened into focus, Sara thought this was just one of these situations.
There'd be vomit in the sheets—hers? His?—she'd try to press a palm to her forehead, where a second heartbeat had made its nest. But there would be that familiar rattle of metal against metal, the steel bracelet of a sex-shop-purchased handcuff scraping the bedpost. Only toys. The cuffs would fall open if she yanked the tiny lever at the base.
Sara blinked, clarity came in waves. The binds weren't handcuffs. Too small, plastic biting into her wrists. Zip ties? That was unusual as far as kinks went. And anyway, she hadn't been sleeping with anyone, kinky or vanilla, in a long time. For as long as she'd been sober, in fact.
So, there was just no way that—
"Please, don't feel alarmed, Sara."
A calm, reptilian voice filled the room.
She forced her eyes open, tried to see make out the room through the slit of her eyelids.
Why did she feel like her lashes were weighed down by lead, why was her throat sore with dehydration—
Drugs.
Of course.
She wanted to panic, but she was so numb her heartrate struggled to rise an iota. Like shooting darts at a target through a huge block of jelly.
This was just like emerging from one of her highs.
No, impossible, she pleaded against logic.
She'd been sober for years. Didn't even feel tempted by drugs anymore. Just a ghost-like tickling in her arm at the sight of needles, the way the body reacts to the sight of snakes when it's been bitten before.
The blurred veil before her eyes thawed and she distinguished her surroundings. A bedroom, out of an apparently chic apartment, furbished flooring, paintings on the walls, and yes, silk bedcovers against her cheek.
Sara straightened up, had not been aware she was lying down. To reach a half-sitting position sent her head into a spin. Her balance was bad, even on a good day. But with her hands bound behind her back? She might have looked like a drunken ship.
Then, she saw him, and it was impossible to will her eyes away.
A man, sitting in an armchair, a few steps from the door. Incredible she hadn't seen him before. He seemed to fill every inch of the room, not so much because he was large—though he was, rather. But because of that sick-sweet, honey-slick air that wafted off him. He bleeds power. And he knows it.
Sara opened her mouth. Her voice, gone. She could taste the haze of the drugs, in every breath.
It flashed through her mind she might have been roofied and raped, but she dismissed the possibility calmly enough. A rapist wouldn't have needed to drug her and tie her up. And he wouldn't have stuck around for her to see his face, which was unmasked.
A round, pleasant face, with blue eyes and a dark stubble that covered the flab on his chin. The sort of face you wanted to find harmless.
The man got up. He wore a suit, adding comfortable grips Sara could get a hold of as she fumbled to grasp the situation.
Fear trickled down her toes as the man stepped closer to the bed. But with every second, the chances of his being a sex-crazed maniac decreased.
Sara was not stupid, and she could make an educated guess.
Her father was the governor of Illinois. She had obviously been kidnapped, and her kidnapper was wearing four thousand dollars' worth of Armani.
This looked everything like those situations Frank warned her against when she was little. I'm an important man, Sara. People might be ready to do a lot of things to get to me. Very bad things.
While the girls in her class only got the talk about candy-luring strangers, Sara had gotten the one about professional abductions as well.
Ridiculous it should happen now, when she was a grown woman, nearing thirty. When she hadn't spoken to her father in over six months, and he was so detached from her everyday life, the relevance of those warnings had seemed a handful of sand in the wind.
"Now," the man said, "I don't want you to panic. Panicking will do you no good. Trust me."
He halted a couple of steps away from the bed. She held eye-contact even though her eyes burned, even though she had to crane her neck to look at him.
Please, God, let me sound calm.
If she broke down, then she really would feel like a teenage girl. Like the kidnapped daughter she was.
"I take it this is about my father."
A hint of approval flashed through his face. Relieved that she wasn't sobbing into her pillow right now. That made two of them.
"Yes. I'm going to untie you now. I just wanted to make sure you were in your right mind and didn't do something stupid. You won't, Sara?"
It was wrong he should say her name, when she didn't have any label to put on him. A name would make him less impressive.
Those childhood lectures flew back to her. If you ever find yourself with bad people, you should do what they tell you, just what they tell you.
"I won't."
He walked around the bed and moved behind her. He rested his weight on one knee, which sank into the mattress without making it squeal. This was a quality prison. Sara bit the inside of her lip to hold back from voicing her disgust and fear. The meat of his face behind her, his breath, warm, minty. Then a blade cut into the plastic binds around her wrists, and he was walking back to face her.
Sara brought her hands into her lap, resisted rubbing the pink skin of her wrists. With your employers, her father always said, you showed weaknesses at your own peril. Kidnappers had to fit somewhere into the same package deal.
"Are you going to tell me what I'm doing here?"
"There's not much I can say that you haven't guessed. I work for people who hope to secure your father's cooperation on a certain business."
He looked glad to have gotten untying her out of the way. Like they could both act like civilized people, now, have a pleasant chat.
"Really, you don't have anything to be afraid of. I know it's going to sound, eh—" he winced. "A little cruel. But this is almost a formality. Your father will fall in line. Everyone does. My employer can be persuasive."
"I don't suppose you'll tell me who your employer is."
He gave an insufferable tilt of the head, to indicate she'd guessed right.
"Can I know who you are?"
"Oh, I'm afraid my identity is just as classified. But don't worry," like she had been worrying about that, "I'm not going to go about without giving you something to call me. You can call me—Lance."
She couldn't say whether he'd come up with the name beforehand. He seemed to find the idea terrific.
"You probably need rest. I'll get you something to eat. First, I just want to make it clear what the rules are, so we can get through this without hitting any bumps along the road. I just hate surprises, Sara."
A tickle spread down her stomach. She wished he would stop saying her name like that.
Lance's smile was just like those of TV presenters. Every time he opened his mouth, she half-expected he was going to say, "Good morning, America."
He embraced the room with his hand. "Consider this your hotel room for the next few days." Then, reassuringly, "It shouldn't be longer than a few days. The door behind you leads to a private bathroom. You should be comfortable. Do whatever you'd do if you were stuck in bed with the flu or something. Watch TV. You'll find the remote in the bedside table drawer, along with some reading."
He smirked. It was probably a Bible.
"For as long as this lasts, we'll be just like roomies. I'll lock you in, but I'll be right on the other side of that door," he thumped his fist against the exit, "so you can holler if you need me. Just wait this out, and nothing bad will happen to you. You can trust me."
"You said that already."
He sighed, lenient, and started toward the door. "Yes. Never easy to start trusting people, I know."
People who've kidnapped you, she thought, wanted to scream the words.
She bit her lip again.
Much as she hated it, cooperation was probably the smart move here.
"But you'll see," he said, his hand on the knob. "You have nothing to fear from me. I'm a nice guy. No temper at all. It's all up to your father, and he'll do the right thing. Don't do anything to screw this up, and the next few days will be like a breeze. Okay?"
He wanted her to say it.
Her eyes were poison, and she could tell he saw it—saw as she mastered her anger and answered, "Okay."
"Good. Try to rest. I'll get breakfast ready."
He flashed her a grin and was gone.
2
Right around the same time that Sara Tancredi was waking up, tied up, in some strange room, Michael Scofield was getting a phone call from Frank Tancredi's people. He picked up on the first ring, without sounding sleepy. He hadn't been sleeping.
His interlocutor was vague but direct. Would he agree to meet Governor Tancredi, immediately, without asking questions? A car would wait for him before his building in ten minutes if he said yes.
Michael was intrigued, but not exactly surprised.
Not because things like that happened every day when you were a CIA consultant. But because not a great deal of things surprised him, in general.
He had worked for Tancredi a few times before, and met him only twice, but he had made a good impression. The governor had recognized him as exceptionally smart, and thought to call him when he needed someone in his line of work.
Today was the first time he asked for such a short notice appointment.
Michael had a lot of work planned today, but it was regular paperwork. Nothing urgent. And he could tell whatever Frank Tancredi's business was with him, it was an emergency.
A black sedan waited for him on the other side of the street. Michael got in, and sure enough, there was Governor Frank Tancredi sitting in the backseat.
It was a little surreal, but surreal things happened to Michael, all the time.
"Governor."
"Mr. Scofield."
The two men had always shaken hands before, when they met each other. But this morning, Frank made no move for it. His fear was palpable, rolling down his figure in invisible waves. Michael kept silent, left him the floor entirely.
"I'm sorry I called you on such short notice," Frank said. "And in such an odd meeting place."
"It's all right, governor. Please, tell me what you need me for."
Frank looked relieved for the opportunity to cut straight to business. "The fact of the matter is, men in my position sometimes have to deal with nasty people. We don't like it. But that's how it is. Can't win if you don't play the game, and they're just—they're just a part of it. It's a package deal." He waved his hand. "A couple of weeks ago, some of these people—you'll forgive me for not being more specific—they approached me about a bill that's to be signed into state law at the end of the month. The one about gun-control. You've heard, I assume."
Michael nodded, so the governor could resume as quickly as possible.
"Being a Republican, I'm not fond of the reform. But it's made it through both houses and they should be able to come to an agreement. The people who came to me—well. Let's say they made it clear they were not favorable to it."
Though he looked calm as ever, Michael's brain was a whirlwind of arrow-sharp reflections. Was the NRA trying to sway state executives? Nothing surprising there. But Michael didn't think Frank would have been so secretive about those people's identity if they were just NRA officials. Then who? Private investors?
"In fact, they said plainly they wanted me to veto the legislation. Now, you might not be aware that this goes against my personal principles. I've never vetoed a law that had made it both through the house and the senate, not once. The chief executive should make sure the law is followed, not bend it to his liking." He waved his hand again, another, Anyway.
Michael had never seen the governor of Illinois in this state. The man was clearly unhinged.
"I told them that. They were unhappy about it."
Again, Michael kept silent. This story was clearly only the preamble. The real problem should be coming anytime now.
Frank sighed. For the first time since he had met the man, he looked old. Up close, his face had a wide, haggard look, his hair whiter than usual. He looked like he was walking and talking only in a dream, and everything that happened there was only as real as that dream.
"An hour ago, I received a call issued from my daughter's cell phone. We don't talk very often, and she would never call me unless something were important."
Michael took in a sharp intake of air. Now, he was beginning to understand. Until this morning, he had never imagined Frank Tancredi had a daughter. The families of politicians are generally made a big deal out of, a human background to the patriarch's campaign. Frank's image could use the softening touch of a daughter.
But Michael had never seen her face anywhere, hanging from a wall in the governor's office. He would have remembered.
"Did you speak to your daughter?" he asked his first question.
Frank looked up. He had fallen silent and lost himself into his own thoughts. Did his brain fully connect with the situation at hand? While he sat here, in front of Michael, perhaps he was exploring other realities, having breakfast with his daughter, or teaching her to tie her shoelaces.
"Did you speak to her, or only to her kidnappers?"
Frank closed his mouth. A look of relief flashed over his face. Michael had spared him from speaking the details of a situation he couldn't entirely acknowledge to himself.
"Only to them," he said.
That was a bad start, but Frank didn't need to hear that. Instead, Michael asked, "Exactly what is it you want from me, governor? This must be a great ordeal to you. Trust me, I'll assist you however I can. But I need to know what you're hiring me to do."
Frank's lips became a thin line on his face. "I cannot let these men blackmail me. I have made my name based on holding true to my principles. I can't violate them without justification. I would be ruined."
Michael stayed silent.
Frank could do without his judgment at such a time.
"And I can't let them hurt Sara—let them do what they say they will, unless I do what they want."
The features on Frank's face screwed together until he looked wrinkled as an old lemon. He still hadn't answered Michael's question, and the young man waited for him to spell it out.
"Find her. Please. Find her and bring her home safely. If you do this for me, Mr. Scofield—I'll give you anything."
…
End Notes: I know this is different from what I usually do. I was in the mood for something different. Please share your thoughts in the comment section.