A/N: Just a reminder that bold italicsindicates the lines are in a non-English language (generally Spanish).

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Chapter 61

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End of March 2015

Brittany's POV

March was slipping into April and Brittany was trying to get her dance ready for the Spring Showcase. She was a little nervous about it; it was her class final and would count as seventy-five percent of her final grade. Her professor had been appalled at Martin's behavior, expelled him from the class, and sent a report over to the Dean of Students for further review and possible disciplinary action. The professor had allowed Mike Chang to take Martin's place. Brittany was thrilled; she and Mike worked so well together, it was so easy and fluid.

They were practicing in an empty studio but Brittany was distracted; they only had about a month to get this perfected but she just couldn't focus.

Mike stopped the music. "Britt, what's going on? You're missing even the simplest steps." His eyes were concerned.

Brittany shook her head. "I don't know, Mike. I've just had this really bad feeling all morning; I can't shake it."

"My mom used to say that gut feelings are your subconscious trying to tell your conscious that you saw something without really registering it. You missed something and your brain is trying to get you to pay attention. When did it start?"

Brittany frowned in concentration. "Um, as I was walking down here."

"Where'd you come from?"

"Santana's apartment."

Mike quirked a brow. "Something unusual at the apartment? Outside of it?"

Brittany closed her eyes and tried to think. She shook her head. "I don't know, Mike."

"Well, we're not going to get anything done today; we've still got plenty of time before the showcase. Let's call it a day so you can go check on your lady."

Brittany nodded. "Thanks, Mike. I'm sorry, I just can't shake this feeling that something's wrong with Santana."

They gathered their things and walked out the back doors, up the cobble-stoned Laundry Row alley (Brittany didn't think it really qualified as an alley but it wasn't really a street either; too narrow for a street but too wide and open for an alley), and up to Main Street. The misting rain from earlier had become steadier; not the cold rain of winter but not quite a warm spring rain either.

They had just reached the mouth of the alleyway, where it emptied onto Main, when a scream pierced the air.

Santana's scream.

"Let me go! I'm going to kill you! Put me down you son-of-a-bitch!"

Brittany dropped her bag and broke into a run, yelling to Mike, "That's Santana!"

She ran across Main Street, causing more than a few blaring horns, and saw a faded blue van, its engine running, outside Santana's apartment. With Ohio plates. Dammit, that's what she had seen and not really registered. She rounded the back of the van and her blood froze in her veins; Santana was fighting like a wildcat against a large, bald-headed man who had his arms wrapped around her waist and was trying to force her into the van.

Brittany didn't hesitate; she ran full bore into the man, knocking him off balance just enough for him to lose his hold on Santana, who fell to the ground. Brittany stepped between Santana and the man as Santana crab-scuttled toward the apartment's lower doorway. "Britt! There's two of them!"

Brittany nodded her acknowledgment and risked a quick glance at the van; the driver was just getting out, apparently intent on helping his partner. Brittany backed up, putting her back fully to Santana and the doorway.

"Santana, get behind the door and lock the deadbolt." Brittany's voice was brittle with fear.

"Britt, they'll hurt you."

"They want you. They're not going to get you. Please, San." Brittany begged.

"This has nothing to do with you, girlie. Her daddy paid us good money to rescue her from this den of debauchery and save her soul."

"It has everything to do with me; you're trying to kidnap my girlfriend." Her voice was dead calm. The adrenaline was coursing through her body; she was scared but also really angry. Her daddy. First Susan, now Julio. Why the hell couldn't people just leave them alone?

Brittany kept an eye on the goon that had been holding Santana; his face was scratched and there was a welt forming under one eye; Santana had gotten some licks in. The other man still hadn't made an appearance but she registered that the van was no longer running.

She felt something cold and metal being slipped into her hand; Santana's knife. Brittany shook her head; her own knife was in her bag. Santana's was slightly larger and, frankly, more dangerous.

She held it by her side and tried to recall everything she'd learned in her choreographing stage fights classes. She had taken two semesters of them; one had focused on musical stage fights – the kind in West Side Story. The other had focused on 'realistic' fights – like Shakespeare.

Her instructor had told them that the difference between a stage fight and a real fight was that, in a stage fight, there are rules and you know what hit is coming and where it's coming from. Your opponent pulls their punches and you make a move making it look like you got hit. In a real fight, you don't pull your punches, there are no rules, and you don't know what's coming. But, like in dance, she knew to watch her opponent's hips, feet, and shoulders; they would inform on his movements.

All of that flew through her brain in a microsecond as she considered what to do. He lunged and she instinctively slashed out with her knife hand, opening a gash in his forearm.

"You little bitch! Maybe we'll take you, too; you're both sinners with stains on your souls!"

Brittany didn't hesitate as he came closer, she dropped her non-knife hand to the ground and held herself up, kicking out full force with both feet. They connected with the man's solar plexus and abdomen, causing him to stumble backwards.

Not what I wanted but I'll take it, she thought as she bounced back up on her feet, knife at the ready.

He was a little more cautious after the kick. He moved to his right, away from the knife, but she circled with him, biding her time.

The other man still hadn't made an appearance. Suddenly, Mike jumped onto the goon's back and wrapped his arm around the guy's throat, putting him in a choke hold, and Brittany stepped forward, putting every ounce of force she could behind the kick that she aimed between his legs.

Mike let go of the man as he fell to the ground with a scream of pain and began to vomit; Brittany wasted no time and kicked him in the face. She was against violence but this asshole had tried to kidnap Santana; there was no way she was going to allow him to get another chance to grab her.

Mike wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her away. "He's down Britt. I'll take care of him, you take care of Santana." The fight went out of her at his mention of Santana and she turned toward the door.

"San? Honey? It's me, it's over, let me in." She closed the knife and tucked it into her hoodie pocket, waiting for Santana to come out.

The door opened and Santana fell into Brittany's arms; she was wet and cold, shivering and shaking. As Brittany caught her, she started to sob uncontrollably. Brittany scooped her up, bridal style and sat down against the building; she bent her legs at the knees and cradled Santana between her thighs and her chest, trying to create as much warmth as possible as the rain continued to fall. She stroked Santana's hair gently; Santana was in a t-shirt and a pair of sweats, no shoes. She had a long gash on her right forearm and a bump on the back of her head. Those were the only injuries Brittany could identify.

"I've got you. You're safe. I'm here." Brittany softly whispered in Santana's ear, continually repeating the three phrases.

Mike walked over, dropped their bags on the ground next to her, and crouched down.

"They're taken care of; they had shackles in the van, I used them to chain those guys up. I called 911, just in case no one else did. What do you need?"

Brittany didn't even think about the answer. "Her boots. They should be on the second or third stair from the top. They're dark gray Uggs."

He nodded and sprinted up the stairs, coming back down a moment later with the boots.

"Can you take her socks off and put those on her?"

"Yeah, sure. Um, Britt? The upstairs is trashed. The door was busted in; there's glass everywhere. I made sure there was none in her boots; looks like it's mostly inside the apartment." He told her as he did what she'd asked of him.

"That fucking door," she muttered. She'd always hated that the door was about seventy-five percent glass. Santana was now shaking uncontrollably. Shock? Fear? Adrenaline crash? Shit. "Can you grab my phone from my bag? Dial Quinn?"

He handed her the phone after he'd dialed.

"Quinn? Where are you?"

"Daniel's, why?"

"There's been an … incident. Santana is okay but can you grab one of Daniel's hoodies – one he doesn't mind losing – and some sort of raincoat or something and get here as quickly as you can?"

"On our way," Quinn hung up without another word.

Mike sat next to her, arm around her shoulders for warmth, while they waited for Quinn or the police to show up. She thought about moving them inside but Santana was clinging to her tightly and the shaking hadn't slowed at all; she didn't want to try and move her so they sat there in the rain, waiting for the police and, hopefully, an ambulance.

The whole incident had taken less than four minutes. Why does it always feel so much longer?

Quinn and Daniel were there in two minutes and Quinn was by her side in a heartbeat.

"What happened?" She handed Brittany the hoodie and a poncho.

"I don't know," she answered as she wrapped the hoodie and poncho around Santana as best she could. "I'd had a bad feeling all morning and when I came up Laundry Row, I heard her screaming in Spanish. That guy," she nodded toward the goon she could see, "had her and was trying to force her into that van. I don't know where the other guy is."

"I took care of him. He's on the other side, unconscious." Mike answered.

Santana lifted her head and looked at Quinn. "Camp," her voice was barely a hoarse whisper.

Quinn paled and Brittany's stomach turned. She pulled Santana back into her and held her tightly. "I've got you. You're safe. I'm here. I've got you." She repeated over and over again; as much for herself as for Santana.

She'd almost lost her; thirty seconds and … she shook her head; she'd made it in time. She and Mike had gotten here in time.

The police were there seven minutes after Mike called them.