Betrayal's End, C15 - "Trapped" (FRT)
Chapter summary: When all seems lost for Alex Eames, help arrives from an unexpected quarter… but it could well cause more trouble than it solves.
Chapter no: 15
Story: Betrayal’s End.
Warnings: Some language, mild violence.
Rating: FRT
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of “Law and Order: Criminal Intent” and acknowledge the rights of those who do. I will make no profit from this story.
She took a second to consider the situation. No van, no cellphone signal, no badge, no gun, no backup, no real idea where they were, only one way in or out. We should have turned back when we thought this was the wrong road, she realised unhappily. Damn, but she’d been so sure this was simple… She realised with sickening clarity that that had been a bad mistake. A twisting worm of anxiety began to writhe in her stomach, and she tried to avoid thinking that it could prove to be a very bad mistake indeed. This is the sort of situation where people get killed…
Don’t think that, Eames, she told herself sternly, and forced herself to review the options. “Can you fix the tyres at all? You have a spare, right?”
“I’ve got a spare, yeah, but not two.”
“Okay, so replace the worst tyre with the spare. Now!”
“I still won’t be able to drive it!”
“Yes, you will. I’ll keep watch.” Against God knows how many of the bastards.
“It’ll knacker the wheel…” Amp caught her expression, and stopped talking. “Alright, I’ll change the tyre.” He began to root around in the rear of the van, lifting the floor to get at the spare tyre and jack, casting nervous glances around them.
She watched for a while, considering their options rapidly, and realising that they really had none. Even if Ampirelli got the spare tyre on in the next few minutes, the two of them were exposed, out in the open. They could try making a run for it back down the road, but if this really was a trap, there would be more of their opponents on the way behind them. She felt a strong urge to run and hide but controlled it. Hiding wouldn’t help them for more than a few minutes if whoever might be coming knew the warehouse… unless they had some form of help on the way.
“Dunc… Amp, I’m going to see if I can get any reception.” She waved the phone.
He grunted in agreement, being fully occupied in hefting the useless wheel from the front of the van without dropping it onto his foot. She felt a moment’s pang of guilt and wondered if she should tell him to hide, to run if he heard sounds. No, if I panic him any more it won’t help... And just as she thought that, the men in balaclavas came running out of the warehouse. Their time for considering their options had just run out.
Oh shit. There were six men, all clad in black with the same balaclavas over their faces, all wearing the same anonymous clothing. They had no guns that she could see, but they didn’t need them, not for a six-on-two fight where one of the two was a small woman. She saw with a sick wave of horror that two were carrying large brown sacks and ropes…
Oh shit.
She swiftly drew her gun, yelling “Stop! Stop or I shoot!”, knowing as she did so that she couldn’t fire on all of them; there were too many. Whoever her attackers were, they had some training in facing an armed opponent. They spread out widely, too far apart for her to draw a bead on all of them. She fired once, a warning shot, then her peripheral vision flickered and she twisted aside. Not far enough, as something hard smashed down on her forearm, making her lose her grip on her weapon. Before she could try to retrieve it, her attacker kicked it away, beyond the other men running towards her, too far for her to be able to retrieve it without running smack into one of her assailants.
Twisting aside and dodging to avoid his grasp, she ran instinctively, back towards the van and Amp, who started up from his position by the side of the van at the sound of running feet. His face betrayed shock, fear even, for a second, then he grabbed the tyre iron and ran towards her, yelling loudly at their attackers.
Suddenly, one of the men grabbed her from behind, and she almost fell, but instead managed to twist, to use the momentum against her attack, jabbing her fist hard into his solar plexus. His thick jacket cushioned the blow, but she had managed to regain the initiative, and followed it up with a hard stamp to his instep, and a simultaneous head-butt to the bridge of his nose. She kneed him in the groin, and he toppled to the ground, but any triumph she might have felt was only momentary, as another attacker came at her.
There were just too many of them, she realised with a sinking feeling. Far too many for she and Amp to take on their own, but nevertheless she squared up to the man, dancing on her feet, picking points of attack, then he swung at her, and she ducked the punch, and for the next few seconds she was frantically busy avoiding his blows. He was very fast, and she was already breathing hard, trying everything she could think of, but he dodged and dodged again, and she realised with a sinking feeling that he was simply trying to tire her out, wear down her stamina…
…Suddenly, something, someone, clad all in black, grabbed her attacker, picked him up, and threw him over one shoulder with a roar of rage, following the move up with a vicious kick to the man’s ribs and a stamp on his ankle. Around her, she could hear her attackers’ confusion at this unexpected turn of events. The figure yelled “Here!” and threw something at her. She caught it reflexively, and realised with a surge of joy that it was a police baton.
Now you’re talking. She laid into one of their assailants with the skill of years of NYPD training, and he collapsed to the ground, clutching his leg and moaning. In front of her, the black-clad figure continued to fight with brutal efficiency. His - it was a he, she realised from the corner of her eye, as she paused momentarily to select her next target - style was almost graceful, but mainly it was horribly efficient, with barely a move wasted. Fast and accurate, it favoured either blows from a baton similar to the one she was holding, or kicks, designed to disable his opponent before they could get within striking range.
She took on another attacker. Unarmed and facing an experienced police officer with a baton, he was less sure of himself, less confident, and she felled him swiftly, and suddenly there were no more, apart from one last one, dodging frantically out of the way as her rescuer attacked again and again.
His back was to her, but she realised suddenly, with a sense of déjà vu, that she knew this style of fighting. Had seen it before… had seen it before, performed by the martial artist who had taught it to her rescuer, who was even now getting the upper hand, slipping inside his opponent’s guard to fell him with a uppercut straight to the point of the jaw.
She knew his identity now, even before he turned to face her.
Don’t show your surprise, she thought wearily. And don’t act grateful, because he’ll only make fun of it.
As she met her rescuer’s grey eyes, she remarked in her best snarky tones: “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
Drew Davenport grinned at her. “Why? It’s always so much fun.”
A faint mmph! noise from behind them interrupted any further reunion; they turned as one to see Duncan Ampirelli grappling frantically on the ground with an attacker nearly as big as he was. He had managed to get a solid grip on his opponent’s upper body, but the man was thrashing about too much for him to risk shifting his grip to get an arm- or neck- lock on to end the fight.
Davenport sprinted across and dropped down to balance on his heels behind Amp’s head, remarked: “Hold on to him”, and reached across to efficiently stick both thumbs into the sides of the man’s neck. He continued to struggle, but was no match for both men combined, and after a minute his struggles ceased. Davenport held his thumbs in place for a few seconds more, then released them, bouncing up onto his feet.
Eames noticed suddenly that his movements seemed a little more heavy than when she’d last seen him, and her sharp eyes spotted that he seemed bulkier. That could just be the coat, or whatever he has underneath it… Davenport was clad in a heavy black leather overcoat, with black flexible boots and what looked like black jeans underneath. A black woollen rollneck sweater was visible at his throat, and a black ski cap and thin leather gloves completed the outfit.
Channelling her inner Bobby Goren, she mused whether perhaps Davenport was trying to put an extra layer of protection between himself and the world outside after nearly losing the use of his hand. Or possibly just trying to keep warm. The afternoon light was beginning to darken, and the temperature was perceptibly dropping.
“Well, you two have managed to get yourselves into trouble, haven’t you?” Davenport remarked merrily. “What the hell are you doing out here?”
“I could ask the same of you.”
“Repaying my debts.” At her raised eyebrow, he shrugged. “I owe you my life; this squares that debt.”
“And you were following us in the first place because…?”
He shrugged again. “I was told to keep an eye on you and protect you if you needed it.” To her expression, he replied: “Oh come on, you didn’t think Five would let you go off wandering around London on your own interviewing potential witnesses in a terrorism trial without someone keeping an eye on you? I mean, really, Alex, you know better than that!” He smirked. How is it possible that someone who just probably saved your life can give you this overwhelming urge to punch them on the nose two minutes later?
“Isn’t this kind of demeaning for you?” she asked sweetly. “Or do they often ask you to babysit?”
Davenport just grinned more widely, not in the least bothered by the sarcasm. “They’re trying to give me ‘light duty’ whilst I’m still ‘re-acclimatising to work’ after being off sick for the past five months,” he explained, chuckling happily, then skipped lightly to one side as a would-be attacker revived sufficiently to try to grab his ankle, and cheerfully kicked the man in the ribs.
Reaching inside his coat, he retrieved a pack of plastic handcuffs and threw it to Eames. “You cuff them, I’ll keep an eye on them. Oh, and this is for you for now, we’ll get your own gun back once these silly bastards are safely tied up.” He reached inside again, and withdrew a holstered firearm, handing it across with practised caution.
It was a Glock 19; not necessarily her own choice of weapon, but standard-issue to NYPD officers, and familiar enough. She checked it over and found everything in order, secured the holster to her belt, and begun cuffing their assailants’ hands and feet, taking care not to get between them and Davenport, who had drawn his own weapon and was holding it comfortably by his side. She retrieved her own sidearm and offered the other back to Davenport, who shook his head, saying “Keep it for now”. Faced with two armed captors, their would-be attackers subsided into sullen resentment.
“Hold on, you’ve got a gun?” She’d almost forgotten Duncan Ampirelli’s presence. She didn’t look up as she finished cuffing the last two, then glanced across to see him rubbing gingerly at his rapidly-swelling left eye and staring incredulously at Davenport, who had been surveying the area thoughtfully.
He looked across, and replied, patiently, “Yes, Duncan, I have a gun.”
“Why didn’t you shoot the bastards?”
A corner of Davenport’s mouth quirked, just briefly, and Eames felt a sudden pang of queasiness as she instantly recalled just how unpredictable he could be.
“Oh, you think I should have shot them?” From behind him came a series of yells; he whirled swiftly and roared: “SHUT UP, or I’ll fucking gag you!” The yells died instantly.
“They were trying to kill us!”
“Really, they were trying to kill you, are you sure?”
“Well… yeah!”
“And you think they deserve to be shot?” He grinned, showing his teeth. “All right then!” Again he reached under his coat, and Eames’ stomach lurched as he retrieved another gun. Almost before she could blink, he’d pushed it into Duncan Ampirelli’s hand.
“All right then, Duncan. You do it!”
Chapter no: 15
Story: Betrayal’s End.
Warnings: Some language, mild violence.
Rating: FRT
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of “Law and Order: Criminal Intent” and acknowledge the rights of those who do. I will make no profit from this story.
She took a second to consider the situation. No van, no cellphone signal, no badge, no gun, no backup, no real idea where they were, only one way in or out. We should have turned back when we thought this was the wrong road, she realised unhappily. Damn, but she’d been so sure this was simple… She realised with sickening clarity that that had been a bad mistake. A twisting worm of anxiety began to writhe in her stomach, and she tried to avoid thinking that it could prove to be a very bad mistake indeed. This is the sort of situation where people get killed…
Don’t think that, Eames, she told herself sternly, and forced herself to review the options. “Can you fix the tyres at all? You have a spare, right?”
“I’ve got a spare, yeah, but not two.”
“Okay, so replace the worst tyre with the spare. Now!”
“I still won’t be able to drive it!”
“Yes, you will. I’ll keep watch.” Against God knows how many of the bastards.
“It’ll knacker the wheel…” Amp caught her expression, and stopped talking. “Alright, I’ll change the tyre.” He began to root around in the rear of the van, lifting the floor to get at the spare tyre and jack, casting nervous glances around them.
She watched for a while, considering their options rapidly, and realising that they really had none. Even if Ampirelli got the spare tyre on in the next few minutes, the two of them were exposed, out in the open. They could try making a run for it back down the road, but if this really was a trap, there would be more of their opponents on the way behind them. She felt a strong urge to run and hide but controlled it. Hiding wouldn’t help them for more than a few minutes if whoever might be coming knew the warehouse… unless they had some form of help on the way.
“Dunc… Amp, I’m going to see if I can get any reception.” She waved the phone.
He grunted in agreement, being fully occupied in hefting the useless wheel from the front of the van without dropping it onto his foot. She felt a moment’s pang of guilt and wondered if she should tell him to hide, to run if he heard sounds. No, if I panic him any more it won’t help... And just as she thought that, the men in balaclavas came running out of the warehouse. Their time for considering their options had just run out.
Oh shit. There were six men, all clad in black with the same balaclavas over their faces, all wearing the same anonymous clothing. They had no guns that she could see, but they didn’t need them, not for a six-on-two fight where one of the two was a small woman. She saw with a sick wave of horror that two were carrying large brown sacks and ropes…
Oh shit.
She swiftly drew her gun, yelling “Stop! Stop or I shoot!”, knowing as she did so that she couldn’t fire on all of them; there were too many. Whoever her attackers were, they had some training in facing an armed opponent. They spread out widely, too far apart for her to draw a bead on all of them. She fired once, a warning shot, then her peripheral vision flickered and she twisted aside. Not far enough, as something hard smashed down on her forearm, making her lose her grip on her weapon. Before she could try to retrieve it, her attacker kicked it away, beyond the other men running towards her, too far for her to be able to retrieve it without running smack into one of her assailants.
Twisting aside and dodging to avoid his grasp, she ran instinctively, back towards the van and Amp, who started up from his position by the side of the van at the sound of running feet. His face betrayed shock, fear even, for a second, then he grabbed the tyre iron and ran towards her, yelling loudly at their attackers.
Suddenly, one of the men grabbed her from behind, and she almost fell, but instead managed to twist, to use the momentum against her attack, jabbing her fist hard into his solar plexus. His thick jacket cushioned the blow, but she had managed to regain the initiative, and followed it up with a hard stamp to his instep, and a simultaneous head-butt to the bridge of his nose. She kneed him in the groin, and he toppled to the ground, but any triumph she might have felt was only momentary, as another attacker came at her.
There were just too many of them, she realised with a sinking feeling. Far too many for she and Amp to take on their own, but nevertheless she squared up to the man, dancing on her feet, picking points of attack, then he swung at her, and she ducked the punch, and for the next few seconds she was frantically busy avoiding his blows. He was very fast, and she was already breathing hard, trying everything she could think of, but he dodged and dodged again, and she realised with a sinking feeling that he was simply trying to tire her out, wear down her stamina…
…Suddenly, something, someone, clad all in black, grabbed her attacker, picked him up, and threw him over one shoulder with a roar of rage, following the move up with a vicious kick to the man’s ribs and a stamp on his ankle. Around her, she could hear her attackers’ confusion at this unexpected turn of events. The figure yelled “Here!” and threw something at her. She caught it reflexively, and realised with a surge of joy that it was a police baton.
Now you’re talking. She laid into one of their assailants with the skill of years of NYPD training, and he collapsed to the ground, clutching his leg and moaning. In front of her, the black-clad figure continued to fight with brutal efficiency. His - it was a he, she realised from the corner of her eye, as she paused momentarily to select her next target - style was almost graceful, but mainly it was horribly efficient, with barely a move wasted. Fast and accurate, it favoured either blows from a baton similar to the one she was holding, or kicks, designed to disable his opponent before they could get within striking range.
She took on another attacker. Unarmed and facing an experienced police officer with a baton, he was less sure of himself, less confident, and she felled him swiftly, and suddenly there were no more, apart from one last one, dodging frantically out of the way as her rescuer attacked again and again.
His back was to her, but she realised suddenly, with a sense of déjà vu, that she knew this style of fighting. Had seen it before… had seen it before, performed by the martial artist who had taught it to her rescuer, who was even now getting the upper hand, slipping inside his opponent’s guard to fell him with a uppercut straight to the point of the jaw.
She knew his identity now, even before he turned to face her.
Don’t show your surprise, she thought wearily. And don’t act grateful, because he’ll only make fun of it.
As she met her rescuer’s grey eyes, she remarked in her best snarky tones: “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
Drew Davenport grinned at her. “Why? It’s always so much fun.”
A faint mmph! noise from behind them interrupted any further reunion; they turned as one to see Duncan Ampirelli grappling frantically on the ground with an attacker nearly as big as he was. He had managed to get a solid grip on his opponent’s upper body, but the man was thrashing about too much for him to risk shifting his grip to get an arm- or neck- lock on to end the fight.
Davenport sprinted across and dropped down to balance on his heels behind Amp’s head, remarked: “Hold on to him”, and reached across to efficiently stick both thumbs into the sides of the man’s neck. He continued to struggle, but was no match for both men combined, and after a minute his struggles ceased. Davenport held his thumbs in place for a few seconds more, then released them, bouncing up onto his feet.
Eames noticed suddenly that his movements seemed a little more heavy than when she’d last seen him, and her sharp eyes spotted that he seemed bulkier. That could just be the coat, or whatever he has underneath it… Davenport was clad in a heavy black leather overcoat, with black flexible boots and what looked like black jeans underneath. A black woollen rollneck sweater was visible at his throat, and a black ski cap and thin leather gloves completed the outfit.
Channelling her inner Bobby Goren, she mused whether perhaps Davenport was trying to put an extra layer of protection between himself and the world outside after nearly losing the use of his hand. Or possibly just trying to keep warm. The afternoon light was beginning to darken, and the temperature was perceptibly dropping.
“Well, you two have managed to get yourselves into trouble, haven’t you?” Davenport remarked merrily. “What the hell are you doing out here?”
“I could ask the same of you.”
“Repaying my debts.” At her raised eyebrow, he shrugged. “I owe you my life; this squares that debt.”
“And you were following us in the first place because…?”
He shrugged again. “I was told to keep an eye on you and protect you if you needed it.” To her expression, he replied: “Oh come on, you didn’t think Five would let you go off wandering around London on your own interviewing potential witnesses in a terrorism trial without someone keeping an eye on you? I mean, really, Alex, you know better than that!” He smirked. How is it possible that someone who just probably saved your life can give you this overwhelming urge to punch them on the nose two minutes later?
“Isn’t this kind of demeaning for you?” she asked sweetly. “Or do they often ask you to babysit?”
Davenport just grinned more widely, not in the least bothered by the sarcasm. “They’re trying to give me ‘light duty’ whilst I’m still ‘re-acclimatising to work’ after being off sick for the past five months,” he explained, chuckling happily, then skipped lightly to one side as a would-be attacker revived sufficiently to try to grab his ankle, and cheerfully kicked the man in the ribs.
Reaching inside his coat, he retrieved a pack of plastic handcuffs and threw it to Eames. “You cuff them, I’ll keep an eye on them. Oh, and this is for you for now, we’ll get your own gun back once these silly bastards are safely tied up.” He reached inside again, and withdrew a holstered firearm, handing it across with practised caution.
It was a Glock 19; not necessarily her own choice of weapon, but standard-issue to NYPD officers, and familiar enough. She checked it over and found everything in order, secured the holster to her belt, and begun cuffing their assailants’ hands and feet, taking care not to get between them and Davenport, who had drawn his own weapon and was holding it comfortably by his side. She retrieved her own sidearm and offered the other back to Davenport, who shook his head, saying “Keep it for now”. Faced with two armed captors, their would-be attackers subsided into sullen resentment.
“Hold on, you’ve got a gun?” She’d almost forgotten Duncan Ampirelli’s presence. She didn’t look up as she finished cuffing the last two, then glanced across to see him rubbing gingerly at his rapidly-swelling left eye and staring incredulously at Davenport, who had been surveying the area thoughtfully.
He looked across, and replied, patiently, “Yes, Duncan, I have a gun.”
“Why didn’t you shoot the bastards?”
A corner of Davenport’s mouth quirked, just briefly, and Eames felt a sudden pang of queasiness as she instantly recalled just how unpredictable he could be.
“Oh, you think I should have shot them?” From behind him came a series of yells; he whirled swiftly and roared: “SHUT UP, or I’ll fucking gag you!” The yells died instantly.
“They were trying to kill us!”
“Really, they were trying to kill you, are you sure?”
“Well… yeah!”
“And you think they deserve to be shot?” He grinned, showing his teeth. “All right then!” Again he reached under his coat, and Eames’ stomach lurched as he retrieved another gun. Almost before she could blink, he’d pushed it into Duncan Ampirelli’s hand.
“All right then, Duncan. You do it!”