Shawn's eyes shot open, sharp agony thrusting him gracelessly into a world of pain.
A groan caught somewhere in his throat as he blinked, but his vision was a blurred kaleidoscope of gray and black—concrete?—yet the daylight only made the his pounding head more excruciating. He screwed his eyes shut, barely holding in another groan. Even with his eyes shut, the world was spinning, and Shawn desperately tried not to be sick.
"Wake up."
The sudden voice from above him, male and unfamiliar, made Shawn's eyes snap back open. And suddenly he realized what caused the fresh pain and the abrupt wakefulness—he'd been dropped or thrown to the ground. Yes—this cold, hard, unforgiving thing was, in fact, the ground.
That didn't yet explain why the world was still spinning. (Other than the scientific fact that the world was spinning constantly that Gus would remind him of if he were here.) Was Gus here? Was this the Mexican border? Is this payback?
Better question: where was here?
Shawn shut his eyes again, cringing from the vicious headache. Upgrade that mild concussion from the Elin case to… whatever came after severe.
When did he re-injure his head?
Possibly an even better question than that—
What the hell was going on?
Confusion was suddenly more pressing than the pain.
"Get up."
Shawn felt a sharp kick to his back, sending bolts of pain through his midsection that made his hands jerk to grab at his side. He couldn't help the yelp, his eyes flying open, his hands scrabbling to grab at what could only be broken ribs. He hissed. When the hell did he break his ribs?
And…
Why the hell were his hands tied together?
Shawn felt himself freeze, eyes blinking open again as he looked at his hands, taped together tightly in front of him.
What…?
Sharp pain throbbing from at least a dozen places screwed his eyes shut again with a groan, and suddenly the random handcuffs were the least of his worries.
How hurt was he?
When he was thrown on the ground, was it from a seventh story window?
Shawn opened his eyes again, trying to quell the ever-present fear that accompanied an inability to recall memories.
His blurry vision pieced together just enough to tell him he was lying in the middle of an empty parking lot, currently undergoing an earthquake.
No, wait.
The earthquake part was most likely just taking place in his brain.
He screwed his eyes shut when the spinning grew only faster, sucking in a breath at the stab of pain behind his eyes as he forced himself to think, but clawing for thoughts felt like trying to run through mud.
Really, really painful mud.
"Were we followed?"
Shawn flinched at the sudden voice, realizing—remembering?—a bit too delayed that he wasn't alone.
"No way to be sure," another man answered. "Could have been."
"We better do this fast, then."
Once he managed to get the spinning to calm a bit, Shawn looked cautiously up at the owners of the voices. Three men stood around him, arms crossed, eyes angry and impatient.
None of them looked familiar.
Turning his head, Shawn examined the parking lot, trying to find a glimpse of anything that made sense. But there was almost nothing in sight. The building in the parking lot was long-since abandoned and much too far away to be a safe haven. Civilization didn't seem to exist over here.
Shawn's eyes crawling back to the men surrounding him, he felt himself involuntarily examine them. He suddenly noticed that all three men were wearing ripped jeans and cheap, faded sneakers.
These men were broke.
The man who kicked him—the obvious leader of the three just by the way he held himself, with several imposing tattoos standing out against pale, muscled skin—was rearing back to kick him again, and Shawn quickly held up his tied hands to stop him, surprised when he saw his fingers shaking with pain or weakness or both.
"I'm—I'm awake," he croaked, not exactly impressed with how weak his voice sounded, but really not wanting to deal with any more pain right now. "And jeez," he huffed, "I think a gentle n-nudge woulda sufficed." Shawn shut his eyes, trying to will away the strong pull to sleep, and trying to ignore the fact that almost every one of his words had slurred.
"Who are you?" demanded the man.
Shawn winced; the volume of the words ached. Why did his head hurt so badly? Where was he? He reflexively pressed a hand to his head, awkwardly with the makeshift cuffs, only sucking in a breath when it hurt more then helped. But his eyes opened again.
Why was his head wet?
He pulled his hands back, blinking painfully at his back of his left hand, which was now stained red. He was bleeding?
Why was he bleeding?
Something told him that he knew what happened, but the memories were somewhere buried beneath the agony of a thousand bruises, and quite the hit to his head.
"Who are you?" the third man repeated. He wasn't the one who kicked him; this man was shorter, less built, had dark, tattoo-covered skin. None of which Shawn's blurry vision could make out. This man was a heavier and less put-together Gus, Shawn decided.
"I—uh," began Shawn, looking uneasily at the men. With quite literally nothing to go on, he tried: "I don't have much, but I have fifty bucks in my wallet. It's—it's actually not my fifty bucks—it's my partner's—but I'm sure he wouldn't mind—"
The sudden reveal and cock of a gun, in the leader's hand, now aimed at Shawn dried up his words instantly.
The man's voice dropped an octave, danger lacing his words. "Who. Are. You."
"Okay—okay—" said Shawn quickly, chest hitching at the sight of the gun. "M-my name is… S—" began Shawn, but even through the concussion, something told him that giving these men his real name would only make matters worse. "—Sawyer," finished Shawn, using the first name he could think of.
"Your name is Sawyer?" asked the other man, the other man holding a gun. He seemed unconvinced. "Sawyer? Like the guy who painted the house?"
"That's Tom Sawyer," corrected Shawn weakly. "And I'm pretty sure he painted a fence—"
"Shut up!" snapped the leader. "What were you doing in the car?" the man demanded, snapping Shawn out of his thoughts. "How did you know Juan?"
Juan?
Suddenly it was all crashing back.
The memories caught up to him in an instant, one after another in perfect detail, with such force Shawn desperately clung onto consciousness. His head killed.
Juan.
Cab.
The van…
Shawn's eyes snapped open.
The van that was heading straight for—
Well, that explained why he felt like hell.
He was in a freaking car accident. Or, rather, a car on-purpose, since it was clearly not an accident.
That, however, didn't explain why he was waking up here, handcuffed, in the middle of nowhere with three new friends.
"Well?" demanded the man, bending to Shawn's level, gun still aimed at his head. "How did you know Juan?" he repeated. "Were you working for him?"
What the hell was Juan into?
"No! I don't even know the guy!" exclaimed Shawn. "I—I was just getting a ride to the airport!"
The airport.
A pain much stronger than the concussion suddenly pulsed through Shawn's veins. Lassiter's wedding. His jacket.
Juliet.
For a moment, the pain of her rejection whited out everything else.
The man with the gun raised an eyebrow. "Heading for the airport, huh? Sure you were. Trying to make off with our money."
"Money?" asked Shawn, his attention pulled away from Juliet and heartbreak, refocusing on the man and the gun.
"I lost their money! I swear it was at the cab station… maybe someone switched the cabs..."
Juan.
Shawn hesitated. Juan somehow lost the money these men wanted.
And somehow these people seemed to think he had something to do with it?
"Look," said Shawn, blinking his eyes open. "I don't know about this money, all right? I was just trying to get a ride, man! That's it!"
"He's lying," said the man with the tattoos. "He's got to be. Juan wasn't even a real driver."
Not a real driver? Shawn shut his eyes, kicking himself. This was the last time he was calling the first cab station he found on the Yellow Pages.
"Juan—he wasn't a real driver?" asked Shawn wearily.
The men looked down at him. "Of course not," said the man with the gun, eyes narrowing more. "But you know that. Don't try telling us that you 'didn't know' about the taxi scam." Taxi scam? "Juan was a middle man, supposed to deliver us our money yesterday morning, and he never showed up. The rat bastard tried pulling a fast one, and you expect us to believe he was playing 'cab driver' all of a sudden?"
What the hell did I get myself into? Shawn asked himself.
"Where is my money?" demanded the man, pressing the muzzle of the gun to Shawn's head, making his heart race.
"I—I don't know!" exclaimed Shawn, eyes scanning the empty parking lot for some sort of escape. But there was nothing in sight. And even if there was, the ground was still spinning and Shawn couldn't even fathom the thought of lifting his head without throwing up.
Vaguely, thoughts sifted through Shawn's mind:
Juliet wasn't speaking to him.
His father wasn't happy with him, still concerned Shawn's lie would interfere with Henry's position at the SBPD.
Shawn hadn't returned a single phone call to Gus.
No one knew Shawn was missing, and no one would until it was too late.
He was on his own.
"See, Javier? I told you we shouldn't have killed Juan," said the alternate-Gus, glaring at the man with the gun— Javier, apparently.
"Shut up, Trent," snapped Javier. "I was pissed. He deserved it."
Juan was dead?
Shawn shut his eyes, trying to make sense of the new information coming at far too rapid of a pace. But he stopped his mind from trying, only making his head pound harder. Right now, the only thing that matter was getting the hell out of here.
"I don't know anything, all right?" said Shawn genuinely, because hell, he didn't.
Javier suddenly cocked the weapon and aimed it at Shawn's head. "Then we're just about done with you."
Shawn's eyes widened, pure fear nearly clearing his blurred vision. "Wait— wait!" exclaimed Shawn, his mind desperately searching for words. Anything to say. Anything at all. "The money's at the cab station!" Shawn blurted out. "In one of the other cabs!" he gasped, echoing Juan's theory from earlier.
The men exchanged glances with each other.
Shawn held his breath.
Then, the leader grinned.
"That's more like it." the man said, reaching down and grabbing Shawn's shirt, yanking him roughly upright.
Pain lit up everywhere.
Shawn felt himself cry out, his voice a ragged, strangled sound that sounded far too much like a wounded animal. Sharp, hot agony cut like knives—leg, abdomen, back, headheadhead—
Shawn's teeth clamped shut, cutting off his own agonized yell, turning into a groan that only sheer will didn't turn into losing what little he had in his stomach. Dizziness was sickening, sounds were muffled, fading in and out—
His head pounded, eyes screwed shut as he was manhandled, unable to get his feet under him, agony seemingly alighting every nerve, but the worst in his head and somewhere in his midsection, stealing all coherency.
Shawn blinked after what felt like a year, squinting past the throbbing agony to find that two of the men had grabbed him by the arms, and he was being dragged toward the van.
Like an instinct, Shawn's mind supplied run, the word for whatever reason sounding like his father's voice. He jerked against them, adrenaline shooting through him like a bullet, trying desperately to free himself.
"Look—" gasped Shawn, trying to yank his arms out of their grip. His eyes screwed shut again, a groan slipping out through clenched teeth as the movement pulled on a several injuries at once. "That's all I know. Just let me go—"
"You're not going anywhere," said Javier. Despite his efforts, the men dragged Shawn toward the van, and threw him into the back.
Unceremoniously, Shawn hit the wall, his back and head taking the brunt of the hit, and his vision whited out for a few precious seconds. He blinked to find himself slumped to the floor of the van, only to shut them again, the world spinning too fast to keep them open. The agony from before was only worse now, too sharp and too raw to even figure out what specific injuries he even sustained during the crash.
Note to self: next time he's in a cab with a crazy person, wear a seatbelt.
He just tried to breathe, and fight the ever-growing blackness at the edges of his vision.
The van shifted with weight as Javier slid in with him, the unmistakable coldness of the muzzle of a gun pressing roughly to Shawn's temple, making his eyes snap open with a harsh cringe.
"You'd better not be lying," muttered Javier. "Because if you are…" He cocked the gun, making Shawn flinch. "You'll regret it."
"So you're telling me this is all a lie?" echoed suddenly through his mind, stealing his breath.
His eyes burned, suddenly remembering where this whole mess started.
"Shawn, I think… I know I need space."
If Juan was wrong about those cabs, then there was about to be plenty of space between himself and Juliet.
Permanently.
Flashes of Juliet, of smiles, of his jacket.
Of the lie that started it all.
"You better not be lying. Because if you are, you'll regret it."
He did.
Damn it, he did.
"Are you telling me this is all a lie?"
A single tear burned down Shawn's cheek, for the simple fact that he may never get a chance to tell her it wasn't.