Fic: Numb3rs - Blindsided Two/4
Title: BlindsidedAuthor: ALEO aleo_70
Genre: Gen
Characters: Don Eppes, Colby Granger
Rating: 13+
Warning: violence
Spoilers: Nothing specific, but I am up to date with the current season so I may mention something in passing.
Summary: "FBI!" Don managed to rasp, his throat raw. The pressure of the gun increased. - Don finds that chasing an armed offender into an old building doesn't always go as planned.
Status: Chapter 2 of 4
Wordcount (this chapter): 3253
Wordcount (total): ~11,500
Disclaimer: I don't own them, I just borrowed them. Numb3rs and its characters are the property of those that created them. No copyright infringement intended. No financial reward gained. All real places and organisations are used in a fictional sense. Original characters and the storyline are mine however.
CHAPTER TWO
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Don found himself lying in a heap on the floor, shivering in reaction, his breath coming in great gasps as his body tried to make up for lost oxygen. His left hand went automatically to his throat as if he could ease the pain in his neck. His right went to brace himself against the floor, wrist throbbing painfully as he forced himself up to his knees. He coughed and couldn’t believe that he was still alive. Full realisation returned and although still somewhat groggy he started looking around to assess the situation.
He first saw Colby still lying motionless facedown on the floor a short distance away. To Don’s great relief he saw the younger man’s back rise and fall steadily, he was breathing. It also meant that not much time had passed and they were still in grave danger. He started to crawl towards his partner, knowing that he was as yet not recovered enough to make it to his feet when there was a sound and then movement behind him. The danger was far more imminent that he had feared, he’d allowed himself to become focused on his partner and was now going to pay for that lapse.
Cursing his slowed reactions he started to turn when something grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled. As he was lifted to his feet he reacted instinctively, striking backwards with his injured right hand. His flailing hand struck the man behind him a solid blow, eliciting a grunt. In reaction he was shoved hard into the wall on the opposite side of the hall. There was a sudden crack as his automatically outflung left hand hit the wall and something broke. He managed to choke off his cry of pain at the familiar metallic sound behind him. Already deadly serious the confrontation had just ramped up another level. An instant later a hard object was pushed against the base of his skull.
“FBI!” Don managed to rasp, his throat raw. The pressure of the gun increased, as did the weight of the man against his back crushing him against the wall. His broken left hand, trapped between his body and the wall sent spikes of fiery pain lancing up his arm. Despite his dire predicament he was finding it hard to concentrate. There was a moment of stillness before hot breath tickled his left ear.
“Say that again.” A harsh voice demanded.
“Federal agent. FBI.” Don forced out, invoking his last potential means of protection.
“American?” The man seemed disbelieving.
Not understanding the man’s question Don could only repeat himself. “FBI.”
Abruptly the weight on his back was gone. Before he could move however he was pulled away from the wall, spun and pushed back. The gun, held safely back out of the agent’s reach, was raised to aim at a spot between his eyes. The man’s left hand rested firmly around his throat as much to hold him against the wall as additional threat. He could at least still breathe as the man hadn’t tightened his grip. Don’s right hand came up in reflex and grasped the man’s wrist but he had no strength to do more than that, his left hung useless at his side.
Holding still under the twin threats he saw that his attacker was scrutinising him closely in the face as if searching for something. As the seconds passed he became aware of approaching sirens. Also aware that this was his first opportunity to do so the agent made his own observation of his attacker. The man was possibly aged in his late twenties and clearly Caucasian even if his facial features were obscured under a layer of dirt and tangled, matted hair. His clothing, as best Don could see, consisted of a shapeless outfit made from pieces of trash held together with lengths of string and rags. That explained the movement he’d noticed earlier in the pile of trash in the corner of the previous apartment, it had been the man shifting in concealment.
“Not Guard.” The man finally said.
Not knowing who this ‘guard’ was Don opened his mouth to identify himself when the sirens, very close now, suddenly stopped. The man’s head quickly twisted towards the stairs and Don realised that this was the first time the man had noticed their approach. The hand on his throat tightened slightly in response to the faint sounds of car doors slamming and then voices coming from below. Calls of ‘FBI’ floated upwards. His throat was abruptly released as the man grabbed his shirt, pulling him away from the wall before shoving him down the hall.
“Move.”
He’d barely regained his balance and in all had taken only a few stumbling paces before he was unexpectedly dragged to a stop. Don turned to see his captor aiming his weapon at Colby’s unconscious form.
“No!” Don shouted, lunging at the man’s gun hand.
The man avoided the move and shoved Don away. Off balance the agent stumbled and fell. He rolled in agony as his left hand struck the floor and twisted but his fear for Colby had him forcing himself to his knees. He stared back at the man in helplessness, knowing that he was too far away and would be unable to further defend his partner in time. There was only one thing left, “Don’t!”
The man appeared torn for a moment, weapon again aimed at Colby’s defenceless back. But the raised voices from below calling in response to Don’s yells started him moving. He stepped away from Colby and aimed the gun at Don, repeating his earlier order. “Move.”
Cradling his broken left hand against his chest with his injured right Don made it back to his feet and did as directed, allowing himself to be pushed quickly down the hall towards the fire escape. The relief he felt may have been at odds with his situation, being forced away from backup, but every step away reduced the risk to Colby even further. He may have been unable to stop himself being taken hostage but at least he’d managed to prevent the man from killing his helpless partner.
“Open it.” The man ordered as they reached the windowed door.
Forcing his stiffening right wrist to work, Don got enough purchase to turn the handle and push the door open. He was shoved out onto the steel grating of the landing and held against the railing with one hand as the man quietly pushed the door closed with his other. The view of the alley below was dizzying and for a moment he wondered if the hand on his back was going to push him over the rail.
“Up.”
The external stairs shifted slightly as they moved upwards, no longer maintained the fire escape was deteriorating even more rapidly than the building. As dangers went though, it was less significant than the man behind him. Continuing the climb the agent tried flexing his right wrist in an effort to assess the damage caused by the man’s grip. He could move the hand but only painfully, his grip greatly weakened as a result. It was of limited use. His other was definitely broken, he wasn’t sure where, his whole hand felt like it was on fire, already swelling and would not obey his command to move. With two virtually useless hands he could not turn and try to use his superior position on the fire escape to any advantage without the means of balancing or bracing himself.
They had reached the second landing when he was ordered to stop and open the fire escape door. Again he managed to work the handle designed to be simple in an emergency. They entered the sixth floor and moved along the hallway. He was pulled to a halt as they approached the stairwell and admonished to keep silent. With the man holding onto the back of his shirt and ramming the muzzle of the gun into his lower back Don obeyed the order as he was pushed over to a spot near the railing. The man held him still while he listened for evidence of pursuit.
There were the sounds of people in the stairwell, along with voices. The back-up team were making their way up. He hoped that with his earlier shouts they would find Colby fairly quickly. After that though it would take a few minutes to figure out what had happened and act accordingly. It would be a little while before the search for him began. Appearing to be satisfied the man pulled him away and they headed further down the hall before entering an apartment.
Don was given a shove and released. He stumbled to a stop in the middle of the family room before turning to keep an eye on his captor. He watched as the door was closed and the man lifted a bar to place in slots mounted in the frame. He glanced quickly around the room and saw that it had some basics of furniture, an old couch, a chair and a small table. Several piles of trash appeared to have been deliberately placed near the kitchen counter. An old mattress and some tattered blankets could be seen through a doorway leading to a bedroom. A second room was closed off. This was clearly the man’s home, the first signs of habitation the agent had noted in the entire building.
Using the man’s brief distraction Don moved closer to the window in the hope that it might provide him with an escape route. He saw that it was pinned closed with removable bolts as if the man were concerned that someone may attempt entry that way. It was still a possible exit, he could see the fire escape of the opposite building just barely within jumping distance. It was risky, especially with his hands the way they were but if he had no other option he would have to make a try for it.
He looked back at the man to see he’d finished barricading the door and was now reaching into one of the piles of obviously sorted trash set near the end of the kitchen counter. This one contained lengths of string, rope and wire all tangled together. The man came up with a length of heavy cord and advanced towards the agent. Sensing what the man intended Don backed away, right hand held up as if to fend him off.
“No. You don’t need to do that.” His throat protested and he had to cough before he could continue. “I’m not going to try anything.”
“Quiet! Don’t move.”
At the threat of the raised gun Don had to stop and let the man approach. He tried again, unable to keep his voice down as his message became more urgent. “My hand is broken, I can’t-“
In a blur of motion the gun swung and struck him on the side of his head. Spinning, he went down hard and for a moment he was aware only of his heart beating rapidly and the pain in his head. He was then rolled onto his chest and felt his arms being grabbed and pulled behind him. The pain as his wrists were bound was intense but he was too stunned to do more than catch his breath at the jerks as each loop was pulled into place. As his strength and greater awareness returned he was being dragged over towards the side of the room where the man pulled him up and propped him sitting against the wall. After a moment Don was able to move his hips forwards slightly to give his trapped hands some space.
“You make too much noise and I’ll kill you.” The man hissed, gun waving in front of his captive’s face.
The agent could only manage a single careful nod, in no shape to do anything else at the moment. It would have been so easy right about then to close his eyes, slide down the wall onto his side and rest but he fought the urge, forcing himself to stay alert. Taking deep breaths the throbbing in his hands and head slowly eased.
The man had appeared satisfied with the agent’s acquiescence and had moved away, placing the gun in easy reach on the end of the kitchen counter. He quickly pulled at the collection of trash he was wearing and it came off like some shapeless coat. Don was reminded of the camouflage outfits snipers used to conceal themselves. Underneath the man was wearing dirty and faded desert pattern fatigues. It seemed that Colby was right, it was looking even more likely that the man had been a soldier. Despite his unkempt appearance his moves to take down the two FBI agents indicated he was a highly skilled one.
The two Glocks now visible tucked into his waistband were pulled out and placed on the bench next to the other gun. He opened a drawer and pulled out a second KA-BAR knife that he slid into the sheath at his belt with a satisfied pat on the hilt. He stopped and stared at the agent for a few seconds until he seemed reassured that his captive was remaining where he’d left him. Reaching for the first gun he spent the next few minutes stripping each weapon, checking each over thoroughly before reassembling and reloading then placing them into the opened drawer.
As the man worked Don risked the pain and shifted his arms slowly. He found that he actually had a degree of movement, the cord seemed to have some small amount of slack. He had to stop though, the pain from his broken hand was sufficient to prevent any attempt at freeing himself, something he figured the man must have counted on when leaving the bonds relatively loose.
Tasks completed the man stepped up to the door, placing his ear against it to listen to what was happening outside. He then moved to the window and peered out, taking care not to show himself to any possible watchers. Apparently not seeing anyone he reached up and pulled a tattered, gauzy curtain across. It would block vision into the apartment but still allow him to see out. Noting again the barricaded door and bolts securing the window Don came to the unwelcome conclusion that the man was prepared for a siege. Finally he turned and approached the seated agent.
“You are American.” The man declared in a low voice, crouching a foot or so away.
Again not understanding the man’s point Don cleared his throat and introduced himself, obeying the man’s earlier order to keep his voice down. That was a lesson he didn’t want repeated. “Special Agent Eppes. FBI.”
The man’s head cocked to one side as he digested Don’s response. “Fed?”
“Yes. Federal agent.”
“Prove it.”
“ID in my pocket.” It seemed the badge on his belt was insufficient.
The man dug into the agent’s pocket and pulled out the slim leather wallet. He inspected the photographic ID carefully, looking for holograms before comparing the image to his captive. “What’s a fed doing here?”
“The man you killed,” Don paused wondering if his words had been unwise but the man simply nodded. “He was wanted. We were trying to arrest him.”
“He was Guard?”
“What guard?”
“Republican Guard.”
“No, he was Russian.” Don responded before the man’s words fully penetrated. Republican Guard? He put together the term with the man’s form of dress, surely he couldn’t mean the Iraqi Republican Guard?
“Russian.” The man repeated in surprise. “What are Russians doing here?”
“Where’s here?” Don started. It hadn’t sounded as though he’d meant the building. “What-?”
The man suddenly looked at him with concern. “I hit you too hard?”
Don flinched back at the raised hand that moved towards the side of his head. But there was only so far he could move and the man was able to grasp hold of his head and turn it to one side to inspect the area he’d struck with the gun.
“You don’t know where you are?” The man asked, still holding him.
“No, I,” Don stopped himself from saying that he did know exactly where he was. It might be useful if he knew where the man thought he was. “No.”
It earned him a penetrating stare before the man declared, “I hit you too hard.”
Moving abruptly he went to the kitchen opening a cupboard before digging into another pile of trash in the corner. He came back with a bottle of water and a couple of rags. Crouching he wet one of the rags. He grabbed Don’s chin with one hand, again turning his head, before applying the wet rag to the wound caused by his gun. His ministrations were surprisingly gentle but Don couldn’t help the hiss of pain when the man rubbed a little too hard over a particularly tender spot. The rag, now red in patches, was rewet, folded and pressed gently over the area like a cold compress for a few moments. Don relaxed slightly as the cool dampness eased the constant throbbing.
The rag was withdrawn and the bottle of water lifted towards him. “Want some?”
“Please.” It had taken a fair bit of his will power not to ask for the water sooner. Swallowing hurt but after a few mouthfuls the pain in his throat eased.
“Better?”
“Yes.” He hesitated then thought it was worth the shot since the man had seemingly gone from captor to carer. “My hands?”
“No. Not yet. You might be working for them.” The man’s tone had changed again, returning to suspicion.
“Them? Them, who?” He felt like he was floundering in the dark, very little of what the man said made any sense. It seemed that the man felt that Don should know far more than he did. The dangerous mood swings didn’t help any.
“The Guard.”
Don was confused. One moment the man thought he was a part of the Republican Guard, the next he was satisfied he was trying to arrest a Guard member and now was suspicious that he was working for them. Knowing it was most probably useless he felt he had to make the denial as emphatically as he could. “I’m not working for any Guard. I work for the US Government. I’m an FBI agent.”
“Maybe, maybe not. We’ll see.”
The man wet the second rag and worked at cleaning off his own face, removing the dirt that Don could now see had been deliberately applied like a kind of camouflage paint. The face that was revealed was youthful even if hardened, confirming his earlier guess at age. The dark eyes, stark now in the pale face appeared even more unforgiving than before. He took a pull on the bottle before offering the remainder.
Don shook his head, an automatic response at the possible sharing of bodily fluids. His captor simply shrugged his shoulders before draining the last of the water.
“My name is Don.” The agent offered in an attempt to build some badly needed rapport.
The man didn’t respond with his own name as Don had hoped. Instead, “You shouldn’t be here. CIA maybe, not FBI.”
He tried again. “Where’s here?” That earned him an odd look as if he were trying to pull some sort of trick.
“Baghdad.” The man finally answered.
That left him with a more than obvious conclusion, he was in serious trouble.
Chapter Three - here