[SERIES] After Hours 33
And yet another chapter with absolutely no sex in it. Oops! Ah well. At least there's action! Of a sort. ;)
TITLE: After Hours 33
AUTHORS: makingamochrie and anesthesiagirl
RATING: R for mild grodies
PAIRING: Colin/Ryan
DISCLAIMER: Very AU, Very Fiction, Don't own, Don't Sue
Author's Notes: See above.
Greg jumped to put some clothes on as Ryan yanked open the door. Two men, both of a height but polar opposites in girth, stood outside the door, talking rapidly to one another about things Ryan couldn’t even pretend to begin to understand.
As he was staring, open-mouthed, Greg, now fully dressed, pressed past him and reached out to the broadly girthed gentleman, grabbing his hand and swinging his body around with it. “Drew!” he greeted, beaming. “Glad you could make it so quick, man.”
“Glad to help, man, glad to help.” He looked up at the still gaping Ryan. “Hey, Lewis.”
“Mr…..Carey?” Ryan finally managed to spit out.
Drew looked up through his glasses and grinned. “Drew to my friends, Lewis.”
“Ryan to his friends, Drew,” Greg interrupted. “Keep your fantasies to yourself for now.”
At Drew’s mock pout, Greg turned to the smaller man. “And you must be John.”
“Indeed I am, and grateful to be at your service, sirs,” the small man answered. “I care a great deal for Mr. Mochrie and will do anything in my power to see that he is safely retrieved.”
“Great,” Greg said, rubbing his hands together. “Now that we’ve got the not-quite-A-team together, we just need to figure out a plan.” A touch on his shoulder stopped him, and he looked up into Ryan’s confused eyes, which darted from Drew to him and back again. “Used to be a marine before he got bit by the comedy bug and a few too many jelly donuts,” he said, sotto voce. “Believe me, the man knows what to do with a gun.”
“Listen, man,” Ryan said, grabbing Greg’s shoulder, “I don’t want anybody dead, you hear me? That’s murder, and if they find out we did it, we’re all going down.”
“No worries, dude,” Drew said, smiling as he retrieved his machine pistol from his bag and hefted it. “The latest in rubber bullets. They won’t die, but man, they’ll wish they had.”
John held up two thin, long rods. “Taser,” he said indicating the rod in his left hand. “And a nice shot of knock-out drug to seal the deal. They won’t remember anything that’s happened. Keeps us on the up and up, as you Yanks might say.”
Bowing their heads together, the four men began to work out a plan, very much aware that time was of the essence.
*******
“Begging your pardon, Mr. Enfield,” said one of the goons, “but it’s getting pretty obvious that he’s not going to do what you ask.”
Enfield glared at the goon, then looked down at his prisoner, bloodied and mangled and all but unrecognizable even to those who knew him well. Semi-conscious at best, he was reduced to moaning something none of them could understand. It was the same thing-a name, perhaps?-repeated over and over until some of the guards wanted to gouge their own eardrums out just to get it to stop.
He was well beyond signing anything, both hands sporting nothing but mangled, bloodied fingers more twisted than a pretzel. The agreement remained blank, staring up at Enfield, mocking him over his uselessness.
“We should maybe just let him go,” another guard said, twisting his own hands. He, along with most of the others, harbored a sneaking, if unvoiced, admiration for the pure spunk of the badly beaten man.
“And have him tell the police the second he regains full consciousness?” Enfield yelled. “You’re mad.”
“Then let’s just kill him and be done with it,” a fourth said, unstrapping his pistol from its holster. “And then get the fuck out of here. This place is giving me the creeps.”
Enfield nodded slowly, considering it. He had been considering it, actually, for the past hour or more, ever since it had become more or less obvious that he was not going to get what he came for. But to be left with absolutely nothing at all, after all this effort, was equally intolerable. Surely, there was something, anything, that he could gain from this genuine fuck-up of the highest order.
Something….
Then he smiled. “Smythe. Get me his wife.”
*******
Greg resisted the urge to hum the Mission Impossible theme as he knelt before a side door to the only warehouse that had light coming from within. John hooked up some James Bond type thing to the handle and flung the rest of the wire back to Greg, who snugged the end into the USB port of his laptop. Seconds later, there was a soft click, and Drew eased the handle to the side and the door open. The other three slipped in behind him, faces covered by cheap ski-masks and hands gloved in medical latex.
They entered into a dimly lit office that smelled like rotting fish, yesterday’s donuts, and coffee that might have been fresh last Christmas, if that. Ryan, whose sinuses were the most sensitive, held back a sneezing fit by strength of will as he waved the others forward toward the next door.
The window on the door was high up, even for Greg, so Ryan stepped through the group and peered into the room beyond. After a second, he stepped back, pale as milk and breathing heavily through his nose.
“What?” Greg whispered, demanding.
“C-Colin. At least…I think so. All blood.” He swallowed back bile and waited for the room to stop spinning.
“Hold it together, buddy,” Drew whispered, hefting his weapon. “Where is he?”
“C-Center of the room,” Ryan finally managed. “Cuffed to a chair. Enfield’s right next to him. Phone.”
“The others?” John asked gently.
“Didn’t…oh god….”
“It’s okay, Ry,” Greg said, grasping his elbow gently. “It’ll be okay, I promise.”
“Promise?” Ryan cried softly, rounding on him. “Promise what? What the fuck do we think we’re doing in here? Us? A whore, two comedians and an ex Intel agent? When was the last time any one of you hurt someone? I mean, really hurt someone, like the way Colin’s….” He put his hand tight over his mouth in an attempt to keep what little food he’d managed to consume down in his belly, where it belonged. “Oh, God,” he murmured, seeing spots before his eyes.
“We’re all he’s got, Ry,” Greg whispered, clamping a firm arm around his best friend’s waist. “We’re all he’s got, and we’re gonna get him out, no matter what the fuck it takes. You understand?”
Finally, with great reluctance, Ryan nodded and drew his hand away from his mouth, straightening. “Yeah,” he said, voice so hoarse, it was nearly unrecognizable.
“Alright then,” Greg replied, patting his friend’s side. “You just sit tight and let the ex Marine and the ex Intel agent do their stuff.” He nodded to Drew and John, who smiled grimly back at him.
Moving silently, John opened the door the tiniest of cracks, then brought his mouth to Drew’s ear. “Enfield first, I think. Then as many of the rest of them as you can get in a single sweep. Then we’ll figure out what comes next.”
“Got it.”
Easing the barrel of his matte-black Sig out of the tiny crack John had left for him, Drew took in a deep breath, remembered the words of his Drill Sergeant, and gently, almost lovingly, squeezed the trigger. The first shot disintegrated the plastic phone in Enfield’s hand. The second and third hit his shoulder and neck, respectively, causing him to slump to the ground in pain.
Changing his stance slightly, Drew eased more of the gun out of the crack and swept his fire several times around the room. Several men went down in a simultaneous heap, their own weapons clattering to the ground and skittering away along the smooth, almost slimy flooring of the warehouse.
The return fire from those still standing came quickly, and both Drew and John jumped back just as the tink-tink-thud of ammunition slammed into the heavy steel door protecting them.
“Well, at least that answers the question over whether they’re using real ammunition,” John said softly. He turned to Greg. “You ready with the sound disruptor?”
Nodding, Greg pressed the enter key on his laptop, then flung it through the crack in the door. The high pitched squeal shut off abruptly as Drew slammed the door. “Ryan!” he hissed. “Check the window! See if it’s doing any good!”
Steeling his guts, Ryan walked back to the wire-enforced window in time to see the remainder of the still standing men screaming in agony as they covered their ears in a vain attempt to shut the noise that seemed to be burrowing itself into their brains. “Looks like it’s working,” he muttered, eyes solely on Colin, who didn’t seem to be reacting at all. Ryan only hoped that meant he was unconscious and not….
“He’s not,” Greg said, reading his mind with uncanny accuracy. “Just keep that in the front of your mind, buddy. He’s alive and we’re gonna get him. Keep thinking it. Don’t ever stop, ok?”
Reluctantly, Ryan nodded and stepped back from the window to let the others in.
“Get the rest of the ones standing,” John whispered to Drew, who nodded.
Thankfully, the noise disruptor feedback loop had ended, and when John eased the door open once again, the sounds beyond were gone. Drew checked the layout, then drew a careful bead on those few left still standing, and fired in short, controlled bursts. “All down.”
“Alright,” John said. “You all know what to do. Let’s get it done and get out of here.”
TBC...
TITLE: After Hours 33
AUTHORS: makingamochrie and anesthesiagirl
RATING: R for mild grodies
PAIRING: Colin/Ryan
DISCLAIMER: Very AU, Very Fiction, Don't own, Don't Sue
Author's Notes: See above.
Greg jumped to put some clothes on as Ryan yanked open the door. Two men, both of a height but polar opposites in girth, stood outside the door, talking rapidly to one another about things Ryan couldn’t even pretend to begin to understand.
As he was staring, open-mouthed, Greg, now fully dressed, pressed past him and reached out to the broadly girthed gentleman, grabbing his hand and swinging his body around with it. “Drew!” he greeted, beaming. “Glad you could make it so quick, man.”
“Glad to help, man, glad to help.” He looked up at the still gaping Ryan. “Hey, Lewis.”
“Mr…..Carey?” Ryan finally managed to spit out.
Drew looked up through his glasses and grinned. “Drew to my friends, Lewis.”
“Ryan to his friends, Drew,” Greg interrupted. “Keep your fantasies to yourself for now.”
At Drew’s mock pout, Greg turned to the smaller man. “And you must be John.”
“Indeed I am, and grateful to be at your service, sirs,” the small man answered. “I care a great deal for Mr. Mochrie and will do anything in my power to see that he is safely retrieved.”
“Great,” Greg said, rubbing his hands together. “Now that we’ve got the not-quite-A-team together, we just need to figure out a plan.” A touch on his shoulder stopped him, and he looked up into Ryan’s confused eyes, which darted from Drew to him and back again. “Used to be a marine before he got bit by the comedy bug and a few too many jelly donuts,” he said, sotto voce. “Believe me, the man knows what to do with a gun.”
“Listen, man,” Ryan said, grabbing Greg’s shoulder, “I don’t want anybody dead, you hear me? That’s murder, and if they find out we did it, we’re all going down.”
“No worries, dude,” Drew said, smiling as he retrieved his machine pistol from his bag and hefted it. “The latest in rubber bullets. They won’t die, but man, they’ll wish they had.”
John held up two thin, long rods. “Taser,” he said indicating the rod in his left hand. “And a nice shot of knock-out drug to seal the deal. They won’t remember anything that’s happened. Keeps us on the up and up, as you Yanks might say.”
Bowing their heads together, the four men began to work out a plan, very much aware that time was of the essence.
*******
“Begging your pardon, Mr. Enfield,” said one of the goons, “but it’s getting pretty obvious that he’s not going to do what you ask.”
Enfield glared at the goon, then looked down at his prisoner, bloodied and mangled and all but unrecognizable even to those who knew him well. Semi-conscious at best, he was reduced to moaning something none of them could understand. It was the same thing-a name, perhaps?-repeated over and over until some of the guards wanted to gouge their own eardrums out just to get it to stop.
He was well beyond signing anything, both hands sporting nothing but mangled, bloodied fingers more twisted than a pretzel. The agreement remained blank, staring up at Enfield, mocking him over his uselessness.
“We should maybe just let him go,” another guard said, twisting his own hands. He, along with most of the others, harbored a sneaking, if unvoiced, admiration for the pure spunk of the badly beaten man.
“And have him tell the police the second he regains full consciousness?” Enfield yelled. “You’re mad.”
“Then let’s just kill him and be done with it,” a fourth said, unstrapping his pistol from its holster. “And then get the fuck out of here. This place is giving me the creeps.”
Enfield nodded slowly, considering it. He had been considering it, actually, for the past hour or more, ever since it had become more or less obvious that he was not going to get what he came for. But to be left with absolutely nothing at all, after all this effort, was equally intolerable. Surely, there was something, anything, that he could gain from this genuine fuck-up of the highest order.
Something….
Then he smiled. “Smythe. Get me his wife.”
*******
Greg resisted the urge to hum the Mission Impossible theme as he knelt before a side door to the only warehouse that had light coming from within. John hooked up some James Bond type thing to the handle and flung the rest of the wire back to Greg, who snugged the end into the USB port of his laptop. Seconds later, there was a soft click, and Drew eased the handle to the side and the door open. The other three slipped in behind him, faces covered by cheap ski-masks and hands gloved in medical latex.
They entered into a dimly lit office that smelled like rotting fish, yesterday’s donuts, and coffee that might have been fresh last Christmas, if that. Ryan, whose sinuses were the most sensitive, held back a sneezing fit by strength of will as he waved the others forward toward the next door.
The window on the door was high up, even for Greg, so Ryan stepped through the group and peered into the room beyond. After a second, he stepped back, pale as milk and breathing heavily through his nose.
“What?” Greg whispered, demanding.
“C-Colin. At least…I think so. All blood.” He swallowed back bile and waited for the room to stop spinning.
“Hold it together, buddy,” Drew whispered, hefting his weapon. “Where is he?”
“C-Center of the room,” Ryan finally managed. “Cuffed to a chair. Enfield’s right next to him. Phone.”
“The others?” John asked gently.
“Didn’t…oh god….”
“It’s okay, Ry,” Greg said, grasping his elbow gently. “It’ll be okay, I promise.”
“Promise?” Ryan cried softly, rounding on him. “Promise what? What the fuck do we think we’re doing in here? Us? A whore, two comedians and an ex Intel agent? When was the last time any one of you hurt someone? I mean, really hurt someone, like the way Colin’s….” He put his hand tight over his mouth in an attempt to keep what little food he’d managed to consume down in his belly, where it belonged. “Oh, God,” he murmured, seeing spots before his eyes.
“We’re all he’s got, Ry,” Greg whispered, clamping a firm arm around his best friend’s waist. “We’re all he’s got, and we’re gonna get him out, no matter what the fuck it takes. You understand?”
Finally, with great reluctance, Ryan nodded and drew his hand away from his mouth, straightening. “Yeah,” he said, voice so hoarse, it was nearly unrecognizable.
“Alright then,” Greg replied, patting his friend’s side. “You just sit tight and let the ex Marine and the ex Intel agent do their stuff.” He nodded to Drew and John, who smiled grimly back at him.
Moving silently, John opened the door the tiniest of cracks, then brought his mouth to Drew’s ear. “Enfield first, I think. Then as many of the rest of them as you can get in a single sweep. Then we’ll figure out what comes next.”
“Got it.”
Easing the barrel of his matte-black Sig out of the tiny crack John had left for him, Drew took in a deep breath, remembered the words of his Drill Sergeant, and gently, almost lovingly, squeezed the trigger. The first shot disintegrated the plastic phone in Enfield’s hand. The second and third hit his shoulder and neck, respectively, causing him to slump to the ground in pain.
Changing his stance slightly, Drew eased more of the gun out of the crack and swept his fire several times around the room. Several men went down in a simultaneous heap, their own weapons clattering to the ground and skittering away along the smooth, almost slimy flooring of the warehouse.
The return fire from those still standing came quickly, and both Drew and John jumped back just as the tink-tink-thud of ammunition slammed into the heavy steel door protecting them.
“Well, at least that answers the question over whether they’re using real ammunition,” John said softly. He turned to Greg. “You ready with the sound disruptor?”
Nodding, Greg pressed the enter key on his laptop, then flung it through the crack in the door. The high pitched squeal shut off abruptly as Drew slammed the door. “Ryan!” he hissed. “Check the window! See if it’s doing any good!”
Steeling his guts, Ryan walked back to the wire-enforced window in time to see the remainder of the still standing men screaming in agony as they covered their ears in a vain attempt to shut the noise that seemed to be burrowing itself into their brains. “Looks like it’s working,” he muttered, eyes solely on Colin, who didn’t seem to be reacting at all. Ryan only hoped that meant he was unconscious and not….
“He’s not,” Greg said, reading his mind with uncanny accuracy. “Just keep that in the front of your mind, buddy. He’s alive and we’re gonna get him. Keep thinking it. Don’t ever stop, ok?”
Reluctantly, Ryan nodded and stepped back from the window to let the others in.
“Get the rest of the ones standing,” John whispered to Drew, who nodded.
Thankfully, the noise disruptor feedback loop had ended, and when John eased the door open once again, the sounds beyond were gone. Drew checked the layout, then drew a careful bead on those few left still standing, and fired in short, controlled bursts. “All down.”
“Alright,” John said. “You all know what to do. Let’s get it done and get out of here.”
TBC...