WARNINGS: Swearing, references to sexual assault/non-con and violence.
…
Kellerman isn't a rapist. When he thinks about people like Theodore Bagwell, the scum of the earth, he gets downright sick. These people should be lined up on a wall and shot to death. Even death row would be a waste of state money. What he's doing right now is not nice, granted. But he's been nice to Sara before, and where did that get him?
An iron-shaped tattoo on his chest and nearly being strangled with a shoe lace.
If he were a rapist, he would have had his way with her when she was tied to a chair, her hair dripping water all over the bathroom floor of that sleazy motel. That would have been rape, yes, because she was completely in his power.
But she came here today and put herself in his power.
That's not the same thing, is it?
And anyway, after all the humiliation she threw in his face, only some eye-for-an-eye bullshit can get her out of his system.
Sara takes her cell out of her purse, after gently tucking her husband's photograph inside a separate pocket. You have to give it to that woman, she can stay calm in the face of trouble. Her hand doesn't quaver as she dials Lincoln's number. Probably old reflexes from her surgeon days. Kellerman admires strength in women. That's the first thing they teach you in the army. If your hand shakes and you miss your mark, you're a dead man.
Whether you're holding a gun or a scalpel, someone's life is hanging at the end of your steady hand.
Lincoln picks up, and Sara puts him on speaker mode.
"Jesus, Sara. What's taking you so long? I don't mean to sound like an asshole, I just—you've been up here forever. Feels like forever, anyway."
The same old gravelly voice. Kellerman can't help but smile, even as a torrent of ice pours out of Sara's eyes.
"I'm fine," she says. "I got the plane."
"You—" A burst of warm laughter. "God, Sara that's wonderful."
"I'm going to text you all the information in a few minutes."
She licks her lips. In a corner of his mind, Kellerman senses what an obnoxious audience he makes. Not only because she hates him, but because he's so obviously watching her like a kid at the theater.
Oh well.
She said anything.
"I need you to trust me, Lincoln," she says.
In the blink of an eye, the rugged voice gets wary. "What is it?"
"If you walk out this building, quietly, in a few hours you'll be on a plane to Yemen. You can find Michael and take him back."
"What do you mean, you? What's going on here? You're coming with us."
Satisfaction slithers through Kellerman at Lincoln's rising temper. Today is already serving him his revenge on a silver platter, but for his security men to kick Lincoln Burrows' ass would be the cherry on top.
It's also a treat to watch Sara handle this. The woman would make a fine negotiator.
He could use her in Washington.
Not that she'll ever want anything to do with him after tonight.
"No," she says.
A beat of silence, before Lincoln bursts out. "Put that motherfucker on the phone."
"Lincoln—"
"You tell that dickless scumbag I will rip his eyes out if he lays a finger on you—"
"Lincoln, please stop scaring the receptionist."
She covers the phone with her hand. Kellerman thinks, too late, of killing his smirk. "Well," he says, "this is going splendidly."
Sara closes her eyes. Surely, the vein at her temple is going to explode. But when she resumes speaking into the phone, her voice is perfectly calm. "Did you break anything?"
"Nope," Lincoln says, "but I'm glad you mentioned that. I am going to go all hurricane on this place if that piece of detritus doesn't pick up the phone this instant."
"I am not speaking at gunpoint," Sara says. "I swear. I'm staying here of my own volition."
"And I'm Abraham Lincoln."
"Just—ask me something personal. If I'm lying, Kellerman will have no way of knowing, and you'll know I'm being coerced. Lincoln? Not too personal."
They could hear the clock on the wall tick-tock if the office had one. Kellerman can't bear working in anything but absolute silence.
Finally, Lincoln says, "Earlier, at the convenience store, what did I buy you?"
"You bought me a Mars bar."
More silence as Lincoln munches on this. "Well, I don't care how he's getting you to say this. I am not leaving this building without you."
Sara sighs as she covers the phone again. Maybe the look on Kellerman face betrays how much he'd like to have Lincoln manhandled out of here. Maybe she was holding that card up her sleeve all this time, and hoped she wouldn't have to use it.
"Lincoln," she says, "if you don't leave this building without causing a fuss, he's going to hurt me." Her eyes lock with Kellerman's and his heartbeat picks up. "You have five minutes to clear the lobby before he starts breaking my fingers. That would be unfortunate, but I'd still be staying here until Michael comes back of my own free will. I promise you if you leave, right now, I'll come out of here as soon as the plane lands back in New York, alive, and with no broken bones."
She covers the phone for a second. "No broken bones, right?"
Kellerman snaps himself back to attention, manages humor. "Do you think I'm a brute?"
She gives him a look that tells him plainly what she thinks about that.
In the meantime, Lincoln must be ruminating over this dilemma, ping-ponging between two equally damning options: having his brother's wife fingers broken or leaving her behind, not knowing what will happen to her.
"Fuck," Lincoln says, his mouth full of hot coals. "Don't do this. We'll find another way to get Michael back."
Sara says nothing for a second, her hands clutching the arms of her chair. Maybe she'll leave scars there, something for Kellerman to think about when he sits at his desk. Scars like the one on his chest, the one that makes his heart swell with frustration every day in the shower. That's okay. Before she gets out of here, he'll leave scars on her, too.
"Sara," Lincoln says, "I'm begging you."
She answers, "Four minutes."