Human Target Fic: Damage Control Part 2 (Constellation Series)
Title: Damage Control (Part 2 of 3)
Author: tree979
Summary: A simple job spins out of control, leaving Chance in the hands of a psychotic Navy SEAL. Case fic. WARNING! Contains a scene involving torture!
Fandom: Human Target
Characters: Chance, Guerrero, Winston, Ames, , OC
Rating:T
Genre: General
Series: Fifth fic in The Constellation Series
Permission to archive to WWOMB: Yes
Notes:All the fics in the Constellation Series are adapted from a much longer fic called Comfort. The main difference is that whilst Comfort is a slash fic, the stories in the Constellation Series are not. If you have already read Comfort you'll find a lot of the Constellation Series is basically the same, so feel free to skip it.
Disclaimer. does not belong to me. no money made in this.
Chapter 5
Winston's cell rang as he headed back to the van. He'd left Clinton with his uncle at SFPD, along with the security footage from the apartment block, and when he spotted Guerrero's name flash up on his cell phone, he quickened his pace, eager to get behind the wheel so he could get moving and find Chance.
"Guerrero-"
"I got a lead from the doctor," he interrupted. "Grimes' wife inherited a property out by Half Moon Bay. I'm heading out there now."
"How can you be sure that he's even there?"
"Grimes let something slip in one of his sessions about his wife inheriting her grandfather's old house and he said it was a safe place for him. Something about there being no cell coverage so They can't spy on him."
"They? Who are 'They'?"
"The Navy, the government, the little green men, who the fuck knows? Doc says Grimes has had some kind of psychotic break. He's paranoid, and right now he'll be looking for somewhere to hole-up, out of sight. The doc recons that he sees Chance as a threat and is probably planning to interrogate him."
"Okay, what's the address? We'll meet you there."
"I can handle Grimes, but I need you to run interference with NCIS. The doc says that Grimes is batshit crazy. If he gets one whiff of the Navy or the cops moving in on him, he's likely to panic and kill Chance."
"They'll want to talk to the shrink-"
"Taken care of, dude. Just need you to keep them chasing their tails so I can get Chance out before they show up and fuck things up."
"You didn't…?"
"Relax. The shrink's with me. I figured he might as well make himself useful. If he can't talk Grimes down, he can at least provide a distraction."
"NCIS are still gonna head to his office though," Winston said. "They might be able to get something from his records."
"Also taken care of. They'll need a warrant to get the records, and by the time they get it a small electrical fault will have fried the doc's hard drive and started a fire that will have burned up any paperwork lying about the place. Just make sure you send them anywhere but Half Moon Bay. I'll take care of the rest."
"But how am I supposed to-"
"Improvise."
Winston swore as Guerrero hung up on him. He could track down the address of the house in Half Moon Bay from what Guerrero had told him, and part of him wanted nothing more than to high-tail it over there to help Chance, but he couldn't deny that it was more important for him to deal with NCIS.
"So?" Ames asked. "Has Guerrero found them or what?"
"He's got an address. He's heading there now with the shrink."
"Well let's go! What are you waiting for?"
Winston sighed and turned the key in the ignition. "We're going back to the apartment block. You think you can sneak back in the way you came out?"
"Yeah, but why would I want to?" Ames asked, puzzled.
"Because Bethany Hicks had a little run in with Lieutenant Grimes in the hallway and she overheard him talking about heading for the docks. She needs to be back in position in the building to give NCIS a hot tip about where to find Grimes."
Ames frowned, "So Grimes is heading for the docks? Why don't we-"
"No, we just want NCIS to think that's where he's heading so Guerrero can… Ah, screw it. Just get back in the building and make sure they start looking for Grimes at the docks. Okay?"
----------
It was a forty minute drive out to the property at Half Moon Bay, so it was inevitable that at some point Heatly was going to try and initiate a conversation. He seemed to take his abduction fairly well, especially considering that he was familiar with Guerrero's reputation; but the fact that he was cuffed to the passenger seat, along with the presence of his distraught secretary in the trunk, was added incentive to keep a cool head. He was still a psychiatrist though, so whether it was out of professional curiosity, or more likely in an attempt to try and manipulate the situation to his benefit, he tried to draw Guerrero into conversation.
"If Grimes has reached the point at which he is openly acting on his on his delusions of persecution, there may be little I can do to influence him," he said, once Guerrero had ended his phone call.
Guerrero shrugged, apparently indifferent to what the doctor had just said. Heatly waited a while, giving him a chance to reply, but none was forthcoming. Guerrero kept his eyes on the road and maintained a speed a hairsbreadth below the limit.
Heatly tried a different approach. "Facing Grimes alone may not be the best way to help your friend. Although the presence of law enforcement is likely to push him into doing something rash, trying to take him out on your own is suicidal. You'll be of no use to your friend if you're dead."
"Not planning on letting him kill me, doc. Besides, I'm not going in alone. You're gonna get him talking, keep him distracted while a make my move."
"Grimes is a deeply disturbed individual, but that won't affect his instincts and training. He is still a SEAL and he's not going to go down easily."
Again Guerrero shrugged, as if taking on a psychotic Navy SEAL was just one of those things that had to be done from time to time.
"And what if you do manage to deal with him? What happens to Mary? And me? You're just going to let us go?"
"Well, that depends on you. As long as you make yourself useful, you and Mary have nothing to worry about. Not from me anyway. I can't say that the Navy will feel the same way though."
"I don't know what-"
"Come on doc, I know you're supposed to be good, but not even you would normally receive payments upwards of five grand per session. The Grimes family were paying you off to keep a lid on just how severely fucked up their son is. Judging from your notes, Lieutenant Grimes isn't just a little shell-shocked, he has full-blown paranoid schizophrenia. He should have been institutionalised until his condition could be stabilised, and you had a responsibility to inform the Navy that he was unfit for duty. You could have prevented his wife's death; at the very least you're looking at a clear case of criminal negligence."
He doctor paled, but didn't reply.
"Of course it would be difficult to make a case against you since all your records were destroyed, but I emailed copies of Grimes' files to a friend of mine. If for any reason I don't make contact with him by midnight tonight, he'll ensure that those files are seen by the right people. But as long as you pull your weight, you have nothing to worry about."
Heatly sat in silence for the rest of the journey.
----------
Chance had no way to gauge the amount of time he'd been held in the garage. It felt like hours, maybe even a full day, but he knew that was more to do with the circumstances than the actual passage of time. Grimes had beaten him with the belt until his back felt like a raw, pulpy mess, and Chance observed the splatter of his own blood hit the concrete floor from time to time. He'd managed to create that distance he needed between his physical and mental state, but although he could watch his blood hit the floor fairly dispassionately, it was not something he could keep up indefinitely.
He still hadn't spoken since he'd goaded Grimes into striking that first blow, but with each lash of the belt against his back, it got harder to remain silent. It was growing increasingly difficult to hold his body rigidly in position to ensure that the noose around his neck didn't draw any tighter, and the immobility was building a slow ache in his joints that, as he'd predicted, only got worse the longer he had to maintain his position kneeling on the concrete floor
The fact that he was being held in what seemed to be a domestic garage led him to believe that he was probably in a residential area, but knowing that there were probably people within shouting distance didn't really help him. If he tried to call out, all Grimes would have to do was give him a shove and the noose would tighten, cutting off his voice, along with his air supply, in seconds. Even if he could have attracted someone's attention, what then? He'd be putting an innocent bystander in danger for nothing. His only option was to keep quiet and wait for Guerrero, so that's what he did.
Perhaps Grimes got tired, or maybe he was bored of repeating the same action with no audible response from Chance, but eventually he tossed the metal studded belt on to the workbench and began rummaging through his holdall again. The brief respite did nothing to help Chance. His back was so raw that without the distraction of fresh blows being rained down on his body, he could feel every heartbeat pulsing through the mangled flesh of his back, building into a unrelenting burning that increased with every passing second.
When Chance saw Grimes retrieve a military grade stun gun from the holdall, he found himself hoping that Grimes had expertise with using the device for the purposes of torture. If he was inexperienced with using a stun gun to inflict pain, rather than to incapacitate, there was a risk that he would apply a prolonged shock that could send Chance's muscles into spasm. If that happened there was every chance that he would be knocked from his knees and the noose would strangle him.
Grimes pulled up a lawn chair and sat behind Chance, letting the anticipation build for a moment. The pressure to say something, to fill that silence was immense, but Chance resisted the urge to provoke him further, knowing that he was only likely to get through this if Grimes maintained some level of control.
Apparently Torture 101 was covered in SEAL training though, because Grimes did know what he was doing. He started with Chance's bare feet, applying jolts that were excruciatingly painful, but not enough to induce convulsions. Silence was no longer an option, as each jolt of electricity ripped through the soles of his feet and sent bolts of pain up his legs and through his body, forcing an involuntary grunt from his lips. Grimes took his time, letting Chance recover for a few seconds before reapplying the current, alternating from time to time between his feet and his fingertips. The repeated shocks were exhausting as well as painful, and Chance found it harder to focus on the idea that help was on the way. He was unable to concentrate on anything but willing himself to get through the pain, one second at a time.
Chance was beginning to experience involuntary tremors in his legs as his body struggled to hold up to the stress of staying upright despite the punishment it was receiving, and Grimes, ever the attentive torturer, returned the stun gun to his holdall and stood watching him for a moment.
"What do they want me to do?" Grimes muttered to himself, as he stared at Chance as though he were a particularly troublesome crossword puzzle. "He doesn't talk. He has nothing to say anyway, because I know, and they know that I know. Perhaps he isn't the test. A distraction? A decoy? But they know that I know…. I know that they know that I know…"
Chance wasn't particularly reassured by Grimes' little conversation with himself. If he decided that Chance was not integral to whatever test formed part of his paranoid delusion, he may decide that there was no point in keeping him alive. Grimes shook his head, and seemed to reach some kind of decision.
"What, you're giving up already?" Chance asked, trying to provoke a lucid response. "You were doing okay for a while there."
Grimes responded by kicking him in the gut, and Chance had to force himself to absorb the blow and not give into the natural urge to double over. He needed a moment to catch his breath before he could try speaking again, but when he caught the distant look in Grimes' eyes, he realised that he held no further interest to him, and talking to him wasn't likely to get him anywhere. Grimes even seemed slightly bored as he picked up a can of gasoline and unscrewed the lid.
Chance knew that his time was running out and there was still no sign of Guerrero, but rather than focus on the hopelessness of his situation, he found himself contemplating what his reaction would be to being too late to save him. It would be spectacular, that was for sure, but what if Guerrero was careless in his vengeance against Grimes? Not so long ago Guerrero's emotional response to the mere threat on Chance's wellbeing had resulted in him behaving rashly and getting himself hurt. If Chance were actually killed, he doubted Guerrero would have the presence of mind to ensure that he had a workable exit strategy after dealing with Grimes, and NCIS would eventually track down their location. Chance had faced his own mortality too many times before, and in terms of karma, he felt it was inevitable that he would one day meet a violent end, but the thought of being responsible for Guerrero's demise was something that truly frightened him.
It was more for Guerrero's sake than his own that he tried to talk to Grimes again.
"You've served your country well, Lieutenant Grimes. That has not gone unnoticed by -"
Chance's words were cut off abruptly when Grimes sloshed gasoline into his face. He managed to close his eyes in time to avoid being blinded, but the harsh fumes still made his eyes stream and sting. Only a small amount went in his mouth and he managed to spit that out as Grimes emptied the rest of the can over his body. As it hit the broken skin on his back, the gasoline burned like acid, and Chance bit down on his lip to stop himself from crying out as the pain and nausea threatened to induce another blackout.
Grimes tossed the empty gas can on to the workbench, and retrieved a book of matches from the side pocket of his holdall. Chance recognised the logo on the matchbook as one belonging to a bar Ames had once dragged the team into after the completion of a case. Guerrero hadn't been impressed by the bar's tourist-friendly ambiance, and when Chance remembered the expression on his face as Ames handed him drink in a hollowed out pineapple, complete with a sparkler and miniature pink umbrella, his heart ached with the thought that he'd never get to that murderous look on Guerrero's face again.
Grimes was about to strike a match when an unfamiliar voice called his name, startling Chance and dragging him out of his memories, back to the garage and his immanent death.
"Lieutenant Grimes, please put down the matches."
"Doctor Heatly?" Grimes seemed to have a little trouble adjusting to the sudden appearance of his doctor, but in his confusion, he dropped the matches, much to Chance's relief. "How.. Why… What are you doing here?"
"It's time for us to talk, Lieutenant Grimes. I'm here to help you decide your next move."
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Chapter 6
The house at Half-Moon Bay was dark and deserted when Guerrero pulled up outside. He made a cursory sweep of the single floor building before going back to the car to retrieve the doctor. A thin line of light escaping beneath the garage door when he'd arrived had already pin-pointed the most likely place for Grimes to be holding Chance, but the heavy garage door didn't look like a promising place to enter unnoticed. His quick scout through the house had revealed an internal door that opened into the garage from the kitchen, and he reasoned that he'd stand a much better chance of opening that door without immediately alerting Grimes to his presence.
Guerrero uncuffed the doctor and pulled him to his feet, pressing a finger to his own lips to indicate that he should keep quiet. Heatly nodded and followed him into the house. Guerrero drew his gun and headed straight for the kitchen, and it occurred to Heatly that if he was ever going to make a run for it, now was the time. He dismissed the idea as soon as it occurred to him. It wasn't just the thought of what Guerrero might do to poor Mary, who was still locked in the trunk; or even the knowledge that he would face criminal charges over the way he'd mishandled Grimes' case that stopped him from running. It was the cold shame eating away at his soul that his actions were in part responsible for Grimes' descent into madness and the death of his wife.
Despite the fact that the lean physique of his youth had long since disappeared, thanks to a good twenty years behind a desk and the inevitable middle aged spread, in his heart, Heatly was still a Marine. He was ashamed that he'd let money seduce him into betraying everything he believed in, everything he'd fought for and good friends had died for.
Semper Fidelis…
What loyalty had he shown to God and country by accepting bribes to hide the extent of Grimes' deteriorating mental state? He'd told himself that he was doing the SEAL a favour by treating him quietly, that perhaps with the right treatment he could return to active duty without the unnecessary stigma of a diagnosis of a serious mental illness; but deep down he knew what he was doing was wrong. By all accounts Grimes was a good man, a good soldier, before all this happened. He had deserved to receive the appropriate treatment, to be taught to manage his condition with a little dignity, not cover it up until it ate him away from the inside. He owed it to Grimes to try to negotiate a way out of this mess without unleashing Guerrero on him. Despite what he'd said to Guerrero in the car, he wasn't entirely sure that Grimes' mind would be clear enough to use his combat skills to their full effect, and there was no way of knowing who, if anyone, would walk away from a confrontation between the two men.
Guerrero eased the door to the garage open in almost perfect silence. Heatly's view into the garage was obstructed by Guerrero himself, but he could see his face lit up in profile by the fluorescent light of the garage as he looked inside, and his stomach sank. Heatly had seen madness in many forms throughout the years; first as a Marine when he'd faced men caught up in the heat of the battle to survive, and later dealing with those who had been part of such horrific situations that their own minds twisted against them; but it wasn't madness that he saw in Guerrero's face at that moment. It was worse. He saw an iron-clad sanity, inflexible and calculating. He knew he was looking at a man who was capable of monstrous violence without being affected by it; but worst of all beneath that remained the capacity to care, and right now the one person it seemed he cared deeply about was in danger. Heatly thought of what Guerrero had said at his office: "There is nothing I wouldn't do to ensure my colleague's safety, and I mean nothing."
Heatly knew he was going to have to step in now for there to be any chance to avoid carnage, so he reached out and put one hand on Guerrero's arm.
"Let me try," he whispered. Guerrero begrudgingly allowed him to trade places with him, and when Heatly saw what Grimes had done to his friend, he was amazed that Guerrero had shown so much restraint.
Heatly barely had time to take in the sight of the blonde man tied to a ring in the floor, noose around his neck and blood oozing from his bruised and lacerated back, before he noticed the can of gasoline in Grimes' hands.
"You've served your country well, Lieutenant Grimes" the blonde man said. "That has not gone unnoticed by -" Heatly winced as Grimes threw gasoline in the helpless man's face, and Guerrero immediately picked up on his reaction.
"What the fuck has he done?" Guerrero demanded.
"Put the gun away," Heatly replied. "Please. For the sake of your friend."
"What the…?" Guerrero was hit by the smell of gasoline as Heatly stepped into the garage.
"Dr Heatly?"
"It's time for us to talk, Lieutenant Grimes. I'm here to help you decide your next move."
----------
When Chance heard the doctor's voice, he turned his head as far as the noose would allow, and saw the doorway though which he'd entered the garage. The room beyond the door was unlit, and the bright lights of the garage made it impossible for him to see who or what lay beyond that door, but he knew that Guerrero wasn't far away. He hid his relief, and coughed loudly, partly to signal to Guerrero that he was conscious and knew that he was there, but also to draw attention to the gasoline fumes. The chances of Guerrero firing off a round and missing his target were fairly remote, but if a round ricocheted off any of the numerous tools or metal surfaces in the garage, there was always the risk of a spark that could ignite the gasoline that was still dripping from his body.
"This is a test," Grimes said. "You're here to witness my test."
"The test is over, Lieutenant," Heatly replied. "It's time to report back to base for debriefing."
Grimes seemed to consider this for a moment. Chance could see that the doctor wasn't nearly as calm as he sought to appear. His face had the greasy sheen of a cold sweat to it, and despite the open and non-threatening body language he was trying to display, Chance could see the tremors in his hands. Heatly was anything but sure of how Grimes would react, and Chance wondered what it had taken for Guerrero to get him to co-operate.
"The test is over?" Grimes asked, frowning.
"Yes. It's over. You have done very well."
Grimes nodded, seeming to accept what the doctor was telling him. "But that's the final test, isn't it? To see if I complete my mission?"
"There is no mission, Grimes!" Heatly said, his fragile façade cracking as fear crept into his voice. "It's over! It's all over!"
A peaceful, almost serene look spread across Grimes' face, and for a moment Chance dared to hope that the doctor's words had pulled him back from the precipice; but then, almost as if in slow motion, Grimes planted one foot on Chance's chest and shoved. Chance managed to stay on his knees, but it really didn't matter; the noose snapped tight around his neck, the cord biting deep into his throat as his airway clamped shut. He dragged himself upright, but it was no use, the knot had pulled too tight and his hands were still bound behind his back, so he had no way to even try to loosen the knot.
Heatly tried to rush to his aid, but Grimes caught him by the shirt and punched him three times to the face in rapid succession, still with that eerie look of calm on his face. He probably would have beaten the man further, but he was distracted by the figure that appeared out of the darkness.
Despite Grimes having lost touch with reality, he still had the presence of mind to draw his knife when he saw Guerrero moving towards him. Guerrero had anticipated this, and rather than rushing in, he forced himself to hold back and focus on the fight rather than the sight of Chance slowly having the life choked out of him.
Flecks were already beginning to cloud Chance's vision, but he thought he saw the metallic gleam of a knife in Guerrero's hand before his sight began to fade away. His head seemed to grow too heavy to hold up, and as it lolled backwards he thought, That's good. Guerrero is very good with knives.
"Help him," Guerrero said to Heatly.
A flicker of anger passed across Grimes' face, and his attention momentarily shifted back to where Heatly was struggling to his feet. Guerrero took advantage of the distraction and struck at with a punishing combination of blows that should have ended with a slash to the side of Grimes' neck, but as soon as the attack began, his attention snapped back to Guerrero. He countered his moves with a rapid series of blocks, before trapping Guerrero's arm against his body and raking his blade across Guerrero chest, leaving a long, but largely superficial gash, and shoving Guerrero away.
The move threw Guerrero for a second. There were only three rules when it came to a knife fight: expect to get cut; finish it fast; and fight to kill, because if you didn't, the other guy sure as hell would. There was nothing wrong with the speed of Grimes' movements, but the intent to kill, the will to strike the critical blow was not there.
There was no time to think. Chance was not breathing. How much time had passed since Grimes had kicked him? Thirty seconds? A minute? Chance was already losing consciousness. Had it been longer than that? How much longer did he have before it was too late?
Grimes kept looking at Chance, then Guerrero, then back to Chance again. Guerrero's blood was boiling, and every second was pulling Chance further away from him. Heatly had been right, Grimes still had the instincts and training to fight and kill, but for some reason he was holding back.
Guerrero tried again, throwing a flurry of punches, kicks and strikes at Grimes, but again he countered every move, deflecting what should have been lethal strikes into mere flesh wounds, scrapes and nicks. He was good, but not that good, and if Guerrero could just make himself focus on the fight instead of the colour draining from Chance's face, and the fact that he was still not breathing, he could have made short work of taking Grimes down. But Chance's lips were now turning blue, despite Heatly's attempts to try to loosen the cable wrapped around his throat. If there was just more time…
Grimes seemed content to fight Guerrero off without making any attempt to end it, and the way he kept throwing in wild, pointless slashes made it feel like he was just taunting him. In a sudden flash of clarity Guerrero understood what the SEAL was doing. He had no intention of even attempting to end the fight with Guerrero until Chance was dead. He'd been rambling on about some kind of test, but holding Guerrero off, keeping him occupied whilst Chance was strangled to death was his real objective. That's why he kept looking back at Chance; his life was just a way of keeping score. As long as Heatly's efforts to help Chance were ineffectual, he didn't bother to intervene; Guerrero was the real threat to the outcome of his "test".
Guerrero could see that if he didn't step in to help Chance immediately, it wouldn't matter what the outcome was with Grimes. So, as it had done more times than Guerrero cared to remember, it came down to doing what the other guy wouldn't, to pushing beyond the limits of what even a seasoned fighter might expect.
The exchange of blows was so fast that Guerrero was running on almost pure instinct, but he forced himself to push Chance from his mind and focus on finding the opening he needed. When the moment came, he almost missed it. His instinct was to deflect Grimes' blade away from himself when he went to make another of those infuriating slashes against his abdomen, but he caught himself just in time, and deflected the blow downwards and slammed his left leg onto the blade, burying it to the hilt into the flesh of his outer thigh.
There was a split second delay as Guerrero's nerve-endings took a moment to register the bone-jarring pain of the seven inch blade impaling his leg, but the adrenaline surging through his system at least kept him on his feet. Grimes seemed to be having trouble keeping up with events, and was trying to pull his knife free but the muscles in Guerrero's thigh had clamped down on the blade, making it next to impossible to pull it out. His face crumpled into a look of bewilderment as he kept tugging at the knife with both hands, seemingly unable to understand how it had got stuck, and Guerrero took advantage of his confusion and stabbed repeatedly at the undefended area under his left arm.
The look of confusion was replaced by one of surprise on Grimes' face as he stumbled sideways under the force of the attack, and Guerrero made one final vicious slash across his throat as Grimes slumped to the ground, his eyes wide with disbelief as he bled out onto the bare concrete floor.
Guerrero ditched his knife and scanned the array of tools hanging on the wall over the workbench, before grabbing a set of bolt cutters. His injured leg was stiff and next to useless as he dragged himself across to where Heatly was still trying to dig the cable out of Chance's neck.
"Hold him up!" Guerrero ordered, and the doctor did his best to hold Chance upright as Guerrero cut through the knot as close to Chance's neck as he could.
It seemed to take forever, but finally the cable gave way and Chance slumped back awkwardly into Heatly's arms. Guerrero didn't waste time trying to free Chance's hands and feet from where they were still tethered to the ring in the floor; the only thing that mattered was making him breathe. Guerrero dropped to the floor beside him and used the bolt cutters to work away at the remains of the knot until the cable finally fell away. He felt for a pulse, and it was there. Slow, but definitely there, despite the fact that Chance still wasn't breathing.
It wasn't the ideal position in which to perform mouth to mouth; Chance's limbs were tangled beneath him, but Heatly supported his head as Guerrero tipped it back, pinched his nose shut and covered his mouth with his own, forcing air into his lungs.
Guerrero was oblivious to the pain in his leg as he poured every ounce of strength and will power into bringing Chance back. There was little resistance as he forced the breath back into his body, and his chest was rising and falling, so it seemed that at least his airway had only been squeezed shut, not entirely crushed.
It took both an eternity and only three breaths before Chance gave a weak cough and began breathing on his own.
"Chance! Chance, can you hear me?" Guerrero asked, holding his face in his hands. "Open your eyes, dude…"
His eyelids started to flutter, and he tried to groan but the sound caught in his throat and turned into a dry, hacking cough.
"Just shut up and concentrate on breathing, okay?" Guerrero said with equal parts relief, affection and exasperation.
Chance opened his eyes and looked up at him. It took a second for him to focus on Guerrero's relieved and blood splattered face, but as soon as he did, his face broke out in a wide grin.
Guerrero smiled back at him and mutter an affectionate "dude" just as Chance's eyes rolled back and he passed out.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Chapter 7
"You're friend is going to need a hospital," Heatly said. "I can call for an ambulance from the landline, if it's still connected, but…"
"No hospitals!" Guerrero snapped at him. He'd managed to cut Chance free from the restraints that had been tethering him to the ground, and Heatly had helped him get him lying on his side. Guerrero was sitting on the floor with Chance's head resting on his uninjured leg, and he was examining the extent of his injuries. As far as he could tell, the damage to his back was fairly superficial, nothing that wouldn't heal given time, but the fact that he was still drenched with gasoline was giving him cause for concern. Aside from the obvious threat of something igniting it, Guerrero knew that the gasoline alone could cause chemical burns if it was left on the skin long enough, and it wasn't going to do Chance's open wounds any good, not to mention his breathing.
Guerrero looked around and spotted a garden hose wrapped around a spool by a faucet on the wall, next to the door leading back to the house. "Hook that hose up and bring it over here. I need to wash this shit off of him."
Heatly did as he was ordered, turning on the water and handing him the hose in silence. Guerrero let the water flow over his hands, washing away the blood before gently wiping the gasoline from Chance's face. He took care to ensure that the water didn't run into his nose or mouth, and Chance began to stir.
"Easy," Guerrero murmured, as he rinsed the water through his hair.
When Guerrero seemed satisfied that he'd washed away as much gasoline from his face and head as he could, he sighed.
"Sorry Chance, but this is gonna hurt."
He winced as he turned the hose on to the bloody mess on Chance's back. The shock of the cold water on his wounds started to revive him, and Guerrero had to catch Chance's hand as he tried to reach behind him to fend off whatever was responsible for inflicting this new wave of agony.
"Hey, lie still," Guerrero murmured soothingly. "I've got you, okay? But I have to wash this shit off your back."
Chance shivered and screwed up his face as Guerrero continued to irrigate his wounds as gently as he could, but he did seem to respond to his voice and calm down a little, although he clung on to Guerrero's hand as if his life depended on it.
"Look, I understand your reluctance to involved the authorities, I really do," Heatly said, glancing over at where Grimes' body lay in a pool of blood, his eyes still wide open and staring up in disbelief at where Guerrero had stood. "But your friend, Chance, he needs a hospital and proper medical treatment! Listen to his breathing! The cable, the fumes and now being soaking wet! What's going to happen if his airway swells shut?"
Chance's breathing was laboured, and there was already bruising and swelling to his throat from where the cable had bitten deep into his flesh. Guerrero hadn't thought much past getting him breathing again, but he could see the doctor had a point, Chance's condition was anything but stable. There was his own wound to consider too, driving with a knife still sticking out of his leg was likely to prove difficult. He'd managed to miss all the major blood vessels, but his leg felt unnaturally heavy and unresponsive, as well as hurting like hell. He was in no condition to get either of them to one of his alternative healthcare providers, the nearest of whom was a alcoholic former army medic who was at least a half hour drive away.
"Fine," Guerrero sighed, resigning himself to the fact that, given the situation, he had no other choice. "Call an ambulance."
When Heatly didn't move, Guerrero frowned. "What are you waiting for? Move!"
"Mary is still in the trunk…"
"And she's gonna stay there until you call the fucking ambulance!"
Heatly looked as if he was going to push the matter, but when Guerrero dropped the hosepipe and reached beneath his jacket and pulled out his gun, he got the message and hurried inside the house to make the call without further argument.
Chance was still shivering, so Guerrero pried his hand free from his grip and managed to shrug his jacket off. It was wet and splattered in places with god-knows-whose blood, but it was better than nothing. Guerrero carefully placed it over Chance's arms and chest, taking care not to let it touch the seeping wounds on his back.
The whole nightmarish scene in the garage was going to require an explanation when the ambulance showed up , but Guerrero pushed the thought from his mind. It was obvious enough from Chance's wounds that he hadn't been the antagonist in all of this, and Guerrero would just have to deal with the fallout of his own actions later once Chance was warm, dry and suitably medicated.
Guerrero's concept of time was a little hazy as he sat with Chance waiting for the ambulance, but at some point the heard the sound of a vehicle pull up outside the garage. He tore his gaze away from Chance's shivering form and watched the doorway apprehensively, but when Winston walked in rather than the medical personnel he'd been hoping for, he grunted and turned back to watching Chance's laboured breathing.
"What the…?" Winston spluttered, looking around the garage and taking in the general carnage of the scene around him. "This is what you call handling a situation?"
Guerrero glared at him for a second, but didn't dignify his question with an answer.
"What the hell happened here?" Winston asked. "Why is Chance soaking wet?"
"What the fuck do you think happened?" Guerrero snapped. "That maniac nearly killed Chance! And he's wet because I thought water was preferable to gasoline, okay? You got any more questions?"
Winston frowned, and he was about to really lay into Guerrero when he noticed the knife sticking out of his leg and the blood that was seeping through his jeans. Guerrero was so intent on tending to Chance that he'd done nothing to staunch the slow ooze of blood from his own injury. He swallowed the harsh words he'd been about to throw in Guerrero's face when he realised that he'd done everything he could for Chance. Winston took off his own jacket and lay it carefully over Chance's legs, and for a second Guerrero actually looked grateful before his expression turned back into a concerned scowl.
"We need to get out of here. Heatly went to call an ambulance and we need to be gone before it shows up. I probably can't drive, but-"
"Are you out of your goddamn mind?" Winston snapped. "Look at him!" Chance was grey faced and shivering, and judging from the state of his back and the rasping sound of his breathing, it wasn't just from the cold. "What the hell are you going to do if he stops breathing? Did you even think of that? He needs proper medical attention. We can't just bundle him into the back on the van and take him off to see one of your shady contacts!"
"There's no time-"
"The ambulance is already on its way, Guerrero, and they have the equipment to help him! What are you going to do if he stops breathing? Give him a makeshift tracheotomy with a pocket knife and ballpoint pen?"
The thought of having to cut into Chance's throat turned Guerrero's stomach, and forced him to face the danger he'd be putting him into.
"Alright. Wait for the ambulance then. But I need to be gone before the cops show up. If you help get to the car I should be able to…" Guerrero's voice faded away as Chance reached for his hand and squeezed it. He looked down and saw a look of grim determination in Chance's eyes. "Dude, I can't…" Chance squeezed his hand again, harder this time, and tried to shake his head, which only set off another dry hacking cough.
"Hey, take it easy," Guerrero said, rubbing at Chance's hand, which was still gripping his. As soon as the coughing subsided, Chance mouthed the word "stay", effectively taking the decision out of Guerrero's hands. He could try and kid himself that he had to give in to Chance to keep him calm, but the truth was a bit more complicated than that. Chance needed him, and it would have taken more strength than he had to leave him when he was so badly hurt.
"You really gonna leave him like this?" Winston asked.
"No," Guerrero sighed. "No, I'm not. I doubt I'd even be able to drive right now anyway."
Chance smiled at him, and Guerrero suspected that he knew the reason he was staying had nothing to do with whether he was able to drive or not.
"Well, you've managed to make one hell of a mess here!" Winston said, looking at Grimes' lifeless body. He found he had no sympathy for Grimes; whatever he'd done to Chance had nearly killed him, and he couldn't help feeling a certain satisfaction in knowing that Guerrero had dealt with him so brutally.
"Yeah, but I wasn't exactly planning on sticking around to clean it up."
"I dropped Ames back at the apartment building and she fed NCIS some bullshit story about Grimes heading for the docks, but I don't think that will keep them busy for long, not when the paramedics get here and call it in."
Guerrero nodded and pulled his keys out of his pocket, holding them out to Winston. "Probably best if you let Heatly's receptionist out of the trunk before they get here."
Winston's eyebrows shot up, but he nodded and took the keys without a word, and headed back into the kitchen where Heatly was waiting.
"I didn't think it was wise to go back in there," Heatly admitted shame-facedly. "Not when your colleague was so upset and, well, armed.
"Good call," Winston said, handing him the keys to Guerrero's car.
Heatly accepted them with a grateful look.
"I don't think I need to point out that Guerrero is not a man you want to cross," Winston said. "Don't even think about taking off in his car."
The blood drained fom Heatly's face and he shuddered. "I don't have a death wish! I'll let Mary out and come straight back."
Winston nodded, picked up a clean-ish looking tea towel and walked back into the garage.
"You given any thought to how we're gonna explain all this?" he asked, crouching down and carefully pressing the towel to the wound on Guerrero's leg.
"Not really," Guerrero answered, wincing and slapping Winston's hands away. "It's pretty self-explanatory, don'tcha think?"
Winston grunted. "Not sure that's what the Navy guys are going to think."
"Maybe I can help."
Winston and Guerrero turned to look at Heatly, who was standing in the doorway with a terrified woman clinging to his side.
"Bit late for that, doc," Guerrero sneered.
Heatly winced. "All of this is my fault."
"No arguments there," Winston mumbled.
"So I think the least I can do is take responsibility for it. I'll tell NCIS that I hired you to monitor Grimes, and that when we found him, you fought but I was the one who killed him."
Guerrero let out a humourless laugh. "You really think anyone is going to buy that? You're a bit past your fighting days, doc."
"They don't need to believe it, they just need an explanation," Heatly replied. "The threat of going public about a decorated SEAL, a war hero no less, kidnapping and torturing an innocent private citizen should be enough for them to accept whatever explanation we agree on. The military abhors scandal."
"He has a point," Winston conceded. "I think it's worth a try."
Guerrero shook his head. "Fine. Whatever. You may want to consider finding my knife and putting your prints on it though."
"James, no!" the tearful woman at Heatly's side sobbed.
"It's alright, Mary," Heatly said. "I need to do this!"
"But he kidnapped you!" she said, pointing an accusing finger at Guerrero. "And he locked me in the trunk of his car and…"
"Is she gonna be a problem?" Guerrero asked, giving the woman a calculating look.
"No!" Heatly replied sharply.
"'Cause if she is…"
"She'll be fine!" Heatly insisted. "Won't you?"
"I can't… I can't lie about-"
"Maybe it's best if you just say you fainted," Winston said carefully. "You can tell them that you were in the car and didn't see anything. That's no too far from the truth."
Mary sobbed, but nodded her head.
"We'd better find that knife," Heatly said.
----------
A police car turned up with the ambulance, but luckily the paramedics overruled the cops' attempts to get a statement from Guerrero, insisting that he join Chance in the back of the ambulance and be taken to hospital immediately. It was hard for the cops to put up much of an argument, what with the knife still lodged in Guerrero leg, and Chance's breathing was only getting worse, so they had to be content with talking to Winston, Healy and a very distraught Mary.
Riding in the back of the ambulance set Guerrero's teeth on edge, but Chance was definitely breathing easier once the paramedic started him on oxygen, and his colour soon improved. The medic only made the mistake of trying to give Guerrero some pain relief once, before turning his attention exclusively to treating Chance, who was visibly amused by what Guerrero had told the man he could do with his needles.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Author: tree979
Summary: A simple job spins out of control, leaving Chance in the hands of a psychotic Navy SEAL. Case fic. WARNING! Contains a scene involving torture!
Fandom: Human Target
Characters: Chance, Guerrero, Winston, Ames, , OC
Rating:T
Genre: General
Series: Fifth fic in The Constellation Series
Permission to archive to WWOMB: Yes
Notes:All the fics in the Constellation Series are adapted from a much longer fic called Comfort. The main difference is that whilst Comfort is a slash fic, the stories in the Constellation Series are not. If you have already read Comfort you'll find a lot of the Constellation Series is basically the same, so feel free to skip it.
Disclaimer. does not belong to me. no money made in this.
Chapter 5
Winston's cell rang as he headed back to the van. He'd left Clinton with his uncle at SFPD, along with the security footage from the apartment block, and when he spotted Guerrero's name flash up on his cell phone, he quickened his pace, eager to get behind the wheel so he could get moving and find Chance.
"Guerrero-"
"I got a lead from the doctor," he interrupted. "Grimes' wife inherited a property out by Half Moon Bay. I'm heading out there now."
"How can you be sure that he's even there?"
"Grimes let something slip in one of his sessions about his wife inheriting her grandfather's old house and he said it was a safe place for him. Something about there being no cell coverage so They can't spy on him."
"They? Who are 'They'?"
"The Navy, the government, the little green men, who the fuck knows? Doc says Grimes has had some kind of psychotic break. He's paranoid, and right now he'll be looking for somewhere to hole-up, out of sight. The doc recons that he sees Chance as a threat and is probably planning to interrogate him."
"Okay, what's the address? We'll meet you there."
"I can handle Grimes, but I need you to run interference with NCIS. The doc says that Grimes is batshit crazy. If he gets one whiff of the Navy or the cops moving in on him, he's likely to panic and kill Chance."
"They'll want to talk to the shrink-"
"Taken care of, dude. Just need you to keep them chasing their tails so I can get Chance out before they show up and fuck things up."
"You didn't…?"
"Relax. The shrink's with me. I figured he might as well make himself useful. If he can't talk Grimes down, he can at least provide a distraction."
"NCIS are still gonna head to his office though," Winston said. "They might be able to get something from his records."
"Also taken care of. They'll need a warrant to get the records, and by the time they get it a small electrical fault will have fried the doc's hard drive and started a fire that will have burned up any paperwork lying about the place. Just make sure you send them anywhere but Half Moon Bay. I'll take care of the rest."
"But how am I supposed to-"
"Improvise."
Winston swore as Guerrero hung up on him. He could track down the address of the house in Half Moon Bay from what Guerrero had told him, and part of him wanted nothing more than to high-tail it over there to help Chance, but he couldn't deny that it was more important for him to deal with NCIS.
"So?" Ames asked. "Has Guerrero found them or what?"
"He's got an address. He's heading there now with the shrink."
"Well let's go! What are you waiting for?"
Winston sighed and turned the key in the ignition. "We're going back to the apartment block. You think you can sneak back in the way you came out?"
"Yeah, but why would I want to?" Ames asked, puzzled.
"Because Bethany Hicks had a little run in with Lieutenant Grimes in the hallway and she overheard him talking about heading for the docks. She needs to be back in position in the building to give NCIS a hot tip about where to find Grimes."
Ames frowned, "So Grimes is heading for the docks? Why don't we-"
"No, we just want NCIS to think that's where he's heading so Guerrero can… Ah, screw it. Just get back in the building and make sure they start looking for Grimes at the docks. Okay?"
----------
It was a forty minute drive out to the property at Half Moon Bay, so it was inevitable that at some point Heatly was going to try and initiate a conversation. He seemed to take his abduction fairly well, especially considering that he was familiar with Guerrero's reputation; but the fact that he was cuffed to the passenger seat, along with the presence of his distraught secretary in the trunk, was added incentive to keep a cool head. He was still a psychiatrist though, so whether it was out of professional curiosity, or more likely in an attempt to try and manipulate the situation to his benefit, he tried to draw Guerrero into conversation.
"If Grimes has reached the point at which he is openly acting on his on his delusions of persecution, there may be little I can do to influence him," he said, once Guerrero had ended his phone call.
Guerrero shrugged, apparently indifferent to what the doctor had just said. Heatly waited a while, giving him a chance to reply, but none was forthcoming. Guerrero kept his eyes on the road and maintained a speed a hairsbreadth below the limit.
Heatly tried a different approach. "Facing Grimes alone may not be the best way to help your friend. Although the presence of law enforcement is likely to push him into doing something rash, trying to take him out on your own is suicidal. You'll be of no use to your friend if you're dead."
"Not planning on letting him kill me, doc. Besides, I'm not going in alone. You're gonna get him talking, keep him distracted while a make my move."
"Grimes is a deeply disturbed individual, but that won't affect his instincts and training. He is still a SEAL and he's not going to go down easily."
Again Guerrero shrugged, as if taking on a psychotic Navy SEAL was just one of those things that had to be done from time to time.
"And what if you do manage to deal with him? What happens to Mary? And me? You're just going to let us go?"
"Well, that depends on you. As long as you make yourself useful, you and Mary have nothing to worry about. Not from me anyway. I can't say that the Navy will feel the same way though."
"I don't know what-"
"Come on doc, I know you're supposed to be good, but not even you would normally receive payments upwards of five grand per session. The Grimes family were paying you off to keep a lid on just how severely fucked up their son is. Judging from your notes, Lieutenant Grimes isn't just a little shell-shocked, he has full-blown paranoid schizophrenia. He should have been institutionalised until his condition could be stabilised, and you had a responsibility to inform the Navy that he was unfit for duty. You could have prevented his wife's death; at the very least you're looking at a clear case of criminal negligence."
He doctor paled, but didn't reply.
"Of course it would be difficult to make a case against you since all your records were destroyed, but I emailed copies of Grimes' files to a friend of mine. If for any reason I don't make contact with him by midnight tonight, he'll ensure that those files are seen by the right people. But as long as you pull your weight, you have nothing to worry about."
Heatly sat in silence for the rest of the journey.
----------
Chance had no way to gauge the amount of time he'd been held in the garage. It felt like hours, maybe even a full day, but he knew that was more to do with the circumstances than the actual passage of time. Grimes had beaten him with the belt until his back felt like a raw, pulpy mess, and Chance observed the splatter of his own blood hit the concrete floor from time to time. He'd managed to create that distance he needed between his physical and mental state, but although he could watch his blood hit the floor fairly dispassionately, it was not something he could keep up indefinitely.
He still hadn't spoken since he'd goaded Grimes into striking that first blow, but with each lash of the belt against his back, it got harder to remain silent. It was growing increasingly difficult to hold his body rigidly in position to ensure that the noose around his neck didn't draw any tighter, and the immobility was building a slow ache in his joints that, as he'd predicted, only got worse the longer he had to maintain his position kneeling on the concrete floor
The fact that he was being held in what seemed to be a domestic garage led him to believe that he was probably in a residential area, but knowing that there were probably people within shouting distance didn't really help him. If he tried to call out, all Grimes would have to do was give him a shove and the noose would tighten, cutting off his voice, along with his air supply, in seconds. Even if he could have attracted someone's attention, what then? He'd be putting an innocent bystander in danger for nothing. His only option was to keep quiet and wait for Guerrero, so that's what he did.
Perhaps Grimes got tired, or maybe he was bored of repeating the same action with no audible response from Chance, but eventually he tossed the metal studded belt on to the workbench and began rummaging through his holdall again. The brief respite did nothing to help Chance. His back was so raw that without the distraction of fresh blows being rained down on his body, he could feel every heartbeat pulsing through the mangled flesh of his back, building into a unrelenting burning that increased with every passing second.
When Chance saw Grimes retrieve a military grade stun gun from the holdall, he found himself hoping that Grimes had expertise with using the device for the purposes of torture. If he was inexperienced with using a stun gun to inflict pain, rather than to incapacitate, there was a risk that he would apply a prolonged shock that could send Chance's muscles into spasm. If that happened there was every chance that he would be knocked from his knees and the noose would strangle him.
Grimes pulled up a lawn chair and sat behind Chance, letting the anticipation build for a moment. The pressure to say something, to fill that silence was immense, but Chance resisted the urge to provoke him further, knowing that he was only likely to get through this if Grimes maintained some level of control.
Apparently Torture 101 was covered in SEAL training though, because Grimes did know what he was doing. He started with Chance's bare feet, applying jolts that were excruciatingly painful, but not enough to induce convulsions. Silence was no longer an option, as each jolt of electricity ripped through the soles of his feet and sent bolts of pain up his legs and through his body, forcing an involuntary grunt from his lips. Grimes took his time, letting Chance recover for a few seconds before reapplying the current, alternating from time to time between his feet and his fingertips. The repeated shocks were exhausting as well as painful, and Chance found it harder to focus on the idea that help was on the way. He was unable to concentrate on anything but willing himself to get through the pain, one second at a time.
Chance was beginning to experience involuntary tremors in his legs as his body struggled to hold up to the stress of staying upright despite the punishment it was receiving, and Grimes, ever the attentive torturer, returned the stun gun to his holdall and stood watching him for a moment.
"What do they want me to do?" Grimes muttered to himself, as he stared at Chance as though he were a particularly troublesome crossword puzzle. "He doesn't talk. He has nothing to say anyway, because I know, and they know that I know. Perhaps he isn't the test. A distraction? A decoy? But they know that I know…. I know that they know that I know…"
Chance wasn't particularly reassured by Grimes' little conversation with himself. If he decided that Chance was not integral to whatever test formed part of his paranoid delusion, he may decide that there was no point in keeping him alive. Grimes shook his head, and seemed to reach some kind of decision.
"What, you're giving up already?" Chance asked, trying to provoke a lucid response. "You were doing okay for a while there."
Grimes responded by kicking him in the gut, and Chance had to force himself to absorb the blow and not give into the natural urge to double over. He needed a moment to catch his breath before he could try speaking again, but when he caught the distant look in Grimes' eyes, he realised that he held no further interest to him, and talking to him wasn't likely to get him anywhere. Grimes even seemed slightly bored as he picked up a can of gasoline and unscrewed the lid.
Chance knew that his time was running out and there was still no sign of Guerrero, but rather than focus on the hopelessness of his situation, he found himself contemplating what his reaction would be to being too late to save him. It would be spectacular, that was for sure, but what if Guerrero was careless in his vengeance against Grimes? Not so long ago Guerrero's emotional response to the mere threat on Chance's wellbeing had resulted in him behaving rashly and getting himself hurt. If Chance were actually killed, he doubted Guerrero would have the presence of mind to ensure that he had a workable exit strategy after dealing with Grimes, and NCIS would eventually track down their location. Chance had faced his own mortality too many times before, and in terms of karma, he felt it was inevitable that he would one day meet a violent end, but the thought of being responsible for Guerrero's demise was something that truly frightened him.
It was more for Guerrero's sake than his own that he tried to talk to Grimes again.
"You've served your country well, Lieutenant Grimes. That has not gone unnoticed by -"
Chance's words were cut off abruptly when Grimes sloshed gasoline into his face. He managed to close his eyes in time to avoid being blinded, but the harsh fumes still made his eyes stream and sting. Only a small amount went in his mouth and he managed to spit that out as Grimes emptied the rest of the can over his body. As it hit the broken skin on his back, the gasoline burned like acid, and Chance bit down on his lip to stop himself from crying out as the pain and nausea threatened to induce another blackout.
Grimes tossed the empty gas can on to the workbench, and retrieved a book of matches from the side pocket of his holdall. Chance recognised the logo on the matchbook as one belonging to a bar Ames had once dragged the team into after the completion of a case. Guerrero hadn't been impressed by the bar's tourist-friendly ambiance, and when Chance remembered the expression on his face as Ames handed him drink in a hollowed out pineapple, complete with a sparkler and miniature pink umbrella, his heart ached with the thought that he'd never get to that murderous look on Guerrero's face again.
Grimes was about to strike a match when an unfamiliar voice called his name, startling Chance and dragging him out of his memories, back to the garage and his immanent death.
"Lieutenant Grimes, please put down the matches."
"Doctor Heatly?" Grimes seemed to have a little trouble adjusting to the sudden appearance of his doctor, but in his confusion, he dropped the matches, much to Chance's relief. "How.. Why… What are you doing here?"
"It's time for us to talk, Lieutenant Grimes. I'm here to help you decide your next move."
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Chapter 6
The house at Half-Moon Bay was dark and deserted when Guerrero pulled up outside. He made a cursory sweep of the single floor building before going back to the car to retrieve the doctor. A thin line of light escaping beneath the garage door when he'd arrived had already pin-pointed the most likely place for Grimes to be holding Chance, but the heavy garage door didn't look like a promising place to enter unnoticed. His quick scout through the house had revealed an internal door that opened into the garage from the kitchen, and he reasoned that he'd stand a much better chance of opening that door without immediately alerting Grimes to his presence.
Guerrero uncuffed the doctor and pulled him to his feet, pressing a finger to his own lips to indicate that he should keep quiet. Heatly nodded and followed him into the house. Guerrero drew his gun and headed straight for the kitchen, and it occurred to Heatly that if he was ever going to make a run for it, now was the time. He dismissed the idea as soon as it occurred to him. It wasn't just the thought of what Guerrero might do to poor Mary, who was still locked in the trunk; or even the knowledge that he would face criminal charges over the way he'd mishandled Grimes' case that stopped him from running. It was the cold shame eating away at his soul that his actions were in part responsible for Grimes' descent into madness and the death of his wife.
Despite the fact that the lean physique of his youth had long since disappeared, thanks to a good twenty years behind a desk and the inevitable middle aged spread, in his heart, Heatly was still a Marine. He was ashamed that he'd let money seduce him into betraying everything he believed in, everything he'd fought for and good friends had died for.
Semper Fidelis…
What loyalty had he shown to God and country by accepting bribes to hide the extent of Grimes' deteriorating mental state? He'd told himself that he was doing the SEAL a favour by treating him quietly, that perhaps with the right treatment he could return to active duty without the unnecessary stigma of a diagnosis of a serious mental illness; but deep down he knew what he was doing was wrong. By all accounts Grimes was a good man, a good soldier, before all this happened. He had deserved to receive the appropriate treatment, to be taught to manage his condition with a little dignity, not cover it up until it ate him away from the inside. He owed it to Grimes to try to negotiate a way out of this mess without unleashing Guerrero on him. Despite what he'd said to Guerrero in the car, he wasn't entirely sure that Grimes' mind would be clear enough to use his combat skills to their full effect, and there was no way of knowing who, if anyone, would walk away from a confrontation between the two men.
Guerrero eased the door to the garage open in almost perfect silence. Heatly's view into the garage was obstructed by Guerrero himself, but he could see his face lit up in profile by the fluorescent light of the garage as he looked inside, and his stomach sank. Heatly had seen madness in many forms throughout the years; first as a Marine when he'd faced men caught up in the heat of the battle to survive, and later dealing with those who had been part of such horrific situations that their own minds twisted against them; but it wasn't madness that he saw in Guerrero's face at that moment. It was worse. He saw an iron-clad sanity, inflexible and calculating. He knew he was looking at a man who was capable of monstrous violence without being affected by it; but worst of all beneath that remained the capacity to care, and right now the one person it seemed he cared deeply about was in danger. Heatly thought of what Guerrero had said at his office: "There is nothing I wouldn't do to ensure my colleague's safety, and I mean nothing."
Heatly knew he was going to have to step in now for there to be any chance to avoid carnage, so he reached out and put one hand on Guerrero's arm.
"Let me try," he whispered. Guerrero begrudgingly allowed him to trade places with him, and when Heatly saw what Grimes had done to his friend, he was amazed that Guerrero had shown so much restraint.
Heatly barely had time to take in the sight of the blonde man tied to a ring in the floor, noose around his neck and blood oozing from his bruised and lacerated back, before he noticed the can of gasoline in Grimes' hands.
"You've served your country well, Lieutenant Grimes" the blonde man said. "That has not gone unnoticed by -" Heatly winced as Grimes threw gasoline in the helpless man's face, and Guerrero immediately picked up on his reaction.
"What the fuck has he done?" Guerrero demanded.
"Put the gun away," Heatly replied. "Please. For the sake of your friend."
"What the…?" Guerrero was hit by the smell of gasoline as Heatly stepped into the garage.
"Dr Heatly?"
"It's time for us to talk, Lieutenant Grimes. I'm here to help you decide your next move."
----------
When Chance heard the doctor's voice, he turned his head as far as the noose would allow, and saw the doorway though which he'd entered the garage. The room beyond the door was unlit, and the bright lights of the garage made it impossible for him to see who or what lay beyond that door, but he knew that Guerrero wasn't far away. He hid his relief, and coughed loudly, partly to signal to Guerrero that he was conscious and knew that he was there, but also to draw attention to the gasoline fumes. The chances of Guerrero firing off a round and missing his target were fairly remote, but if a round ricocheted off any of the numerous tools or metal surfaces in the garage, there was always the risk of a spark that could ignite the gasoline that was still dripping from his body.
"This is a test," Grimes said. "You're here to witness my test."
"The test is over, Lieutenant," Heatly replied. "It's time to report back to base for debriefing."
Grimes seemed to consider this for a moment. Chance could see that the doctor wasn't nearly as calm as he sought to appear. His face had the greasy sheen of a cold sweat to it, and despite the open and non-threatening body language he was trying to display, Chance could see the tremors in his hands. Heatly was anything but sure of how Grimes would react, and Chance wondered what it had taken for Guerrero to get him to co-operate.
"The test is over?" Grimes asked, frowning.
"Yes. It's over. You have done very well."
Grimes nodded, seeming to accept what the doctor was telling him. "But that's the final test, isn't it? To see if I complete my mission?"
"There is no mission, Grimes!" Heatly said, his fragile façade cracking as fear crept into his voice. "It's over! It's all over!"
A peaceful, almost serene look spread across Grimes' face, and for a moment Chance dared to hope that the doctor's words had pulled him back from the precipice; but then, almost as if in slow motion, Grimes planted one foot on Chance's chest and shoved. Chance managed to stay on his knees, but it really didn't matter; the noose snapped tight around his neck, the cord biting deep into his throat as his airway clamped shut. He dragged himself upright, but it was no use, the knot had pulled too tight and his hands were still bound behind his back, so he had no way to even try to loosen the knot.
Heatly tried to rush to his aid, but Grimes caught him by the shirt and punched him three times to the face in rapid succession, still with that eerie look of calm on his face. He probably would have beaten the man further, but he was distracted by the figure that appeared out of the darkness.
Despite Grimes having lost touch with reality, he still had the presence of mind to draw his knife when he saw Guerrero moving towards him. Guerrero had anticipated this, and rather than rushing in, he forced himself to hold back and focus on the fight rather than the sight of Chance slowly having the life choked out of him.
Flecks were already beginning to cloud Chance's vision, but he thought he saw the metallic gleam of a knife in Guerrero's hand before his sight began to fade away. His head seemed to grow too heavy to hold up, and as it lolled backwards he thought, That's good. Guerrero is very good with knives.
"Help him," Guerrero said to Heatly.
A flicker of anger passed across Grimes' face, and his attention momentarily shifted back to where Heatly was struggling to his feet. Guerrero took advantage of the distraction and struck at with a punishing combination of blows that should have ended with a slash to the side of Grimes' neck, but as soon as the attack began, his attention snapped back to Guerrero. He countered his moves with a rapid series of blocks, before trapping Guerrero's arm against his body and raking his blade across Guerrero chest, leaving a long, but largely superficial gash, and shoving Guerrero away.
The move threw Guerrero for a second. There were only three rules when it came to a knife fight: expect to get cut; finish it fast; and fight to kill, because if you didn't, the other guy sure as hell would. There was nothing wrong with the speed of Grimes' movements, but the intent to kill, the will to strike the critical blow was not there.
There was no time to think. Chance was not breathing. How much time had passed since Grimes had kicked him? Thirty seconds? A minute? Chance was already losing consciousness. Had it been longer than that? How much longer did he have before it was too late?
Grimes kept looking at Chance, then Guerrero, then back to Chance again. Guerrero's blood was boiling, and every second was pulling Chance further away from him. Heatly had been right, Grimes still had the instincts and training to fight and kill, but for some reason he was holding back.
Guerrero tried again, throwing a flurry of punches, kicks and strikes at Grimes, but again he countered every move, deflecting what should have been lethal strikes into mere flesh wounds, scrapes and nicks. He was good, but not that good, and if Guerrero could just make himself focus on the fight instead of the colour draining from Chance's face, and the fact that he was still not breathing, he could have made short work of taking Grimes down. But Chance's lips were now turning blue, despite Heatly's attempts to try to loosen the cable wrapped around his throat. If there was just more time…
Grimes seemed content to fight Guerrero off without making any attempt to end it, and the way he kept throwing in wild, pointless slashes made it feel like he was just taunting him. In a sudden flash of clarity Guerrero understood what the SEAL was doing. He had no intention of even attempting to end the fight with Guerrero until Chance was dead. He'd been rambling on about some kind of test, but holding Guerrero off, keeping him occupied whilst Chance was strangled to death was his real objective. That's why he kept looking back at Chance; his life was just a way of keeping score. As long as Heatly's efforts to help Chance were ineffectual, he didn't bother to intervene; Guerrero was the real threat to the outcome of his "test".
Guerrero could see that if he didn't step in to help Chance immediately, it wouldn't matter what the outcome was with Grimes. So, as it had done more times than Guerrero cared to remember, it came down to doing what the other guy wouldn't, to pushing beyond the limits of what even a seasoned fighter might expect.
The exchange of blows was so fast that Guerrero was running on almost pure instinct, but he forced himself to push Chance from his mind and focus on finding the opening he needed. When the moment came, he almost missed it. His instinct was to deflect Grimes' blade away from himself when he went to make another of those infuriating slashes against his abdomen, but he caught himself just in time, and deflected the blow downwards and slammed his left leg onto the blade, burying it to the hilt into the flesh of his outer thigh.
There was a split second delay as Guerrero's nerve-endings took a moment to register the bone-jarring pain of the seven inch blade impaling his leg, but the adrenaline surging through his system at least kept him on his feet. Grimes seemed to be having trouble keeping up with events, and was trying to pull his knife free but the muscles in Guerrero's thigh had clamped down on the blade, making it next to impossible to pull it out. His face crumpled into a look of bewilderment as he kept tugging at the knife with both hands, seemingly unable to understand how it had got stuck, and Guerrero took advantage of his confusion and stabbed repeatedly at the undefended area under his left arm.
The look of confusion was replaced by one of surprise on Grimes' face as he stumbled sideways under the force of the attack, and Guerrero made one final vicious slash across his throat as Grimes slumped to the ground, his eyes wide with disbelief as he bled out onto the bare concrete floor.
Guerrero ditched his knife and scanned the array of tools hanging on the wall over the workbench, before grabbing a set of bolt cutters. His injured leg was stiff and next to useless as he dragged himself across to where Heatly was still trying to dig the cable out of Chance's neck.
"Hold him up!" Guerrero ordered, and the doctor did his best to hold Chance upright as Guerrero cut through the knot as close to Chance's neck as he could.
It seemed to take forever, but finally the cable gave way and Chance slumped back awkwardly into Heatly's arms. Guerrero didn't waste time trying to free Chance's hands and feet from where they were still tethered to the ring in the floor; the only thing that mattered was making him breathe. Guerrero dropped to the floor beside him and used the bolt cutters to work away at the remains of the knot until the cable finally fell away. He felt for a pulse, and it was there. Slow, but definitely there, despite the fact that Chance still wasn't breathing.
It wasn't the ideal position in which to perform mouth to mouth; Chance's limbs were tangled beneath him, but Heatly supported his head as Guerrero tipped it back, pinched his nose shut and covered his mouth with his own, forcing air into his lungs.
Guerrero was oblivious to the pain in his leg as he poured every ounce of strength and will power into bringing Chance back. There was little resistance as he forced the breath back into his body, and his chest was rising and falling, so it seemed that at least his airway had only been squeezed shut, not entirely crushed.
It took both an eternity and only three breaths before Chance gave a weak cough and began breathing on his own.
"Chance! Chance, can you hear me?" Guerrero asked, holding his face in his hands. "Open your eyes, dude…"
His eyelids started to flutter, and he tried to groan but the sound caught in his throat and turned into a dry, hacking cough.
"Just shut up and concentrate on breathing, okay?" Guerrero said with equal parts relief, affection and exasperation.
Chance opened his eyes and looked up at him. It took a second for him to focus on Guerrero's relieved and blood splattered face, but as soon as he did, his face broke out in a wide grin.
Guerrero smiled back at him and mutter an affectionate "dude" just as Chance's eyes rolled back and he passed out.
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Chapter 7
"You're friend is going to need a hospital," Heatly said. "I can call for an ambulance from the landline, if it's still connected, but…"
"No hospitals!" Guerrero snapped at him. He'd managed to cut Chance free from the restraints that had been tethering him to the ground, and Heatly had helped him get him lying on his side. Guerrero was sitting on the floor with Chance's head resting on his uninjured leg, and he was examining the extent of his injuries. As far as he could tell, the damage to his back was fairly superficial, nothing that wouldn't heal given time, but the fact that he was still drenched with gasoline was giving him cause for concern. Aside from the obvious threat of something igniting it, Guerrero knew that the gasoline alone could cause chemical burns if it was left on the skin long enough, and it wasn't going to do Chance's open wounds any good, not to mention his breathing.
Guerrero looked around and spotted a garden hose wrapped around a spool by a faucet on the wall, next to the door leading back to the house. "Hook that hose up and bring it over here. I need to wash this shit off of him."
Heatly did as he was ordered, turning on the water and handing him the hose in silence. Guerrero let the water flow over his hands, washing away the blood before gently wiping the gasoline from Chance's face. He took care to ensure that the water didn't run into his nose or mouth, and Chance began to stir.
"Easy," Guerrero murmured, as he rinsed the water through his hair.
When Guerrero seemed satisfied that he'd washed away as much gasoline from his face and head as he could, he sighed.
"Sorry Chance, but this is gonna hurt."
He winced as he turned the hose on to the bloody mess on Chance's back. The shock of the cold water on his wounds started to revive him, and Guerrero had to catch Chance's hand as he tried to reach behind him to fend off whatever was responsible for inflicting this new wave of agony.
"Hey, lie still," Guerrero murmured soothingly. "I've got you, okay? But I have to wash this shit off your back."
Chance shivered and screwed up his face as Guerrero continued to irrigate his wounds as gently as he could, but he did seem to respond to his voice and calm down a little, although he clung on to Guerrero's hand as if his life depended on it.
"Look, I understand your reluctance to involved the authorities, I really do," Heatly said, glancing over at where Grimes' body lay in a pool of blood, his eyes still wide open and staring up in disbelief at where Guerrero had stood. "But your friend, Chance, he needs a hospital and proper medical treatment! Listen to his breathing! The cable, the fumes and now being soaking wet! What's going to happen if his airway swells shut?"
Chance's breathing was laboured, and there was already bruising and swelling to his throat from where the cable had bitten deep into his flesh. Guerrero hadn't thought much past getting him breathing again, but he could see the doctor had a point, Chance's condition was anything but stable. There was his own wound to consider too, driving with a knife still sticking out of his leg was likely to prove difficult. He'd managed to miss all the major blood vessels, but his leg felt unnaturally heavy and unresponsive, as well as hurting like hell. He was in no condition to get either of them to one of his alternative healthcare providers, the nearest of whom was a alcoholic former army medic who was at least a half hour drive away.
"Fine," Guerrero sighed, resigning himself to the fact that, given the situation, he had no other choice. "Call an ambulance."
When Heatly didn't move, Guerrero frowned. "What are you waiting for? Move!"
"Mary is still in the trunk…"
"And she's gonna stay there until you call the fucking ambulance!"
Heatly looked as if he was going to push the matter, but when Guerrero dropped the hosepipe and reached beneath his jacket and pulled out his gun, he got the message and hurried inside the house to make the call without further argument.
Chance was still shivering, so Guerrero pried his hand free from his grip and managed to shrug his jacket off. It was wet and splattered in places with god-knows-whose blood, but it was better than nothing. Guerrero carefully placed it over Chance's arms and chest, taking care not to let it touch the seeping wounds on his back.
The whole nightmarish scene in the garage was going to require an explanation when the ambulance showed up , but Guerrero pushed the thought from his mind. It was obvious enough from Chance's wounds that he hadn't been the antagonist in all of this, and Guerrero would just have to deal with the fallout of his own actions later once Chance was warm, dry and suitably medicated.
Guerrero's concept of time was a little hazy as he sat with Chance waiting for the ambulance, but at some point the heard the sound of a vehicle pull up outside the garage. He tore his gaze away from Chance's shivering form and watched the doorway apprehensively, but when Winston walked in rather than the medical personnel he'd been hoping for, he grunted and turned back to watching Chance's laboured breathing.
"What the…?" Winston spluttered, looking around the garage and taking in the general carnage of the scene around him. "This is what you call handling a situation?"
Guerrero glared at him for a second, but didn't dignify his question with an answer.
"What the hell happened here?" Winston asked. "Why is Chance soaking wet?"
"What the fuck do you think happened?" Guerrero snapped. "That maniac nearly killed Chance! And he's wet because I thought water was preferable to gasoline, okay? You got any more questions?"
Winston frowned, and he was about to really lay into Guerrero when he noticed the knife sticking out of his leg and the blood that was seeping through his jeans. Guerrero was so intent on tending to Chance that he'd done nothing to staunch the slow ooze of blood from his own injury. He swallowed the harsh words he'd been about to throw in Guerrero's face when he realised that he'd done everything he could for Chance. Winston took off his own jacket and lay it carefully over Chance's legs, and for a second Guerrero actually looked grateful before his expression turned back into a concerned scowl.
"We need to get out of here. Heatly went to call an ambulance and we need to be gone before it shows up. I probably can't drive, but-"
"Are you out of your goddamn mind?" Winston snapped. "Look at him!" Chance was grey faced and shivering, and judging from the state of his back and the rasping sound of his breathing, it wasn't just from the cold. "What the hell are you going to do if he stops breathing? Did you even think of that? He needs proper medical attention. We can't just bundle him into the back on the van and take him off to see one of your shady contacts!"
"There's no time-"
"The ambulance is already on its way, Guerrero, and they have the equipment to help him! What are you going to do if he stops breathing? Give him a makeshift tracheotomy with a pocket knife and ballpoint pen?"
The thought of having to cut into Chance's throat turned Guerrero's stomach, and forced him to face the danger he'd be putting him into.
"Alright. Wait for the ambulance then. But I need to be gone before the cops show up. If you help get to the car I should be able to…" Guerrero's voice faded away as Chance reached for his hand and squeezed it. He looked down and saw a look of grim determination in Chance's eyes. "Dude, I can't…" Chance squeezed his hand again, harder this time, and tried to shake his head, which only set off another dry hacking cough.
"Hey, take it easy," Guerrero said, rubbing at Chance's hand, which was still gripping his. As soon as the coughing subsided, Chance mouthed the word "stay", effectively taking the decision out of Guerrero's hands. He could try and kid himself that he had to give in to Chance to keep him calm, but the truth was a bit more complicated than that. Chance needed him, and it would have taken more strength than he had to leave him when he was so badly hurt.
"You really gonna leave him like this?" Winston asked.
"No," Guerrero sighed. "No, I'm not. I doubt I'd even be able to drive right now anyway."
Chance smiled at him, and Guerrero suspected that he knew the reason he was staying had nothing to do with whether he was able to drive or not.
"Well, you've managed to make one hell of a mess here!" Winston said, looking at Grimes' lifeless body. He found he had no sympathy for Grimes; whatever he'd done to Chance had nearly killed him, and he couldn't help feeling a certain satisfaction in knowing that Guerrero had dealt with him so brutally.
"Yeah, but I wasn't exactly planning on sticking around to clean it up."
"I dropped Ames back at the apartment building and she fed NCIS some bullshit story about Grimes heading for the docks, but I don't think that will keep them busy for long, not when the paramedics get here and call it in."
Guerrero nodded and pulled his keys out of his pocket, holding them out to Winston. "Probably best if you let Heatly's receptionist out of the trunk before they get here."
Winston's eyebrows shot up, but he nodded and took the keys without a word, and headed back into the kitchen where Heatly was waiting.
"I didn't think it was wise to go back in there," Heatly admitted shame-facedly. "Not when your colleague was so upset and, well, armed.
"Good call," Winston said, handing him the keys to Guerrero's car.
Heatly accepted them with a grateful look.
"I don't think I need to point out that Guerrero is not a man you want to cross," Winston said. "Don't even think about taking off in his car."
The blood drained fom Heatly's face and he shuddered. "I don't have a death wish! I'll let Mary out and come straight back."
Winston nodded, picked up a clean-ish looking tea towel and walked back into the garage.
"You given any thought to how we're gonna explain all this?" he asked, crouching down and carefully pressing the towel to the wound on Guerrero's leg.
"Not really," Guerrero answered, wincing and slapping Winston's hands away. "It's pretty self-explanatory, don'tcha think?"
Winston grunted. "Not sure that's what the Navy guys are going to think."
"Maybe I can help."
Winston and Guerrero turned to look at Heatly, who was standing in the doorway with a terrified woman clinging to his side.
"Bit late for that, doc," Guerrero sneered.
Heatly winced. "All of this is my fault."
"No arguments there," Winston mumbled.
"So I think the least I can do is take responsibility for it. I'll tell NCIS that I hired you to monitor Grimes, and that when we found him, you fought but I was the one who killed him."
Guerrero let out a humourless laugh. "You really think anyone is going to buy that? You're a bit past your fighting days, doc."
"They don't need to believe it, they just need an explanation," Heatly replied. "The threat of going public about a decorated SEAL, a war hero no less, kidnapping and torturing an innocent private citizen should be enough for them to accept whatever explanation we agree on. The military abhors scandal."
"He has a point," Winston conceded. "I think it's worth a try."
Guerrero shook his head. "Fine. Whatever. You may want to consider finding my knife and putting your prints on it though."
"James, no!" the tearful woman at Heatly's side sobbed.
"It's alright, Mary," Heatly said. "I need to do this!"
"But he kidnapped you!" she said, pointing an accusing finger at Guerrero. "And he locked me in the trunk of his car and…"
"Is she gonna be a problem?" Guerrero asked, giving the woman a calculating look.
"No!" Heatly replied sharply.
"'Cause if she is…"
"She'll be fine!" Heatly insisted. "Won't you?"
"I can't… I can't lie about-"
"Maybe it's best if you just say you fainted," Winston said carefully. "You can tell them that you were in the car and didn't see anything. That's no too far from the truth."
Mary sobbed, but nodded her head.
"We'd better find that knife," Heatly said.
----------
A police car turned up with the ambulance, but luckily the paramedics overruled the cops' attempts to get a statement from Guerrero, insisting that he join Chance in the back of the ambulance and be taken to hospital immediately. It was hard for the cops to put up much of an argument, what with the knife still lodged in Guerrero leg, and Chance's breathing was only getting worse, so they had to be content with talking to Winston, Healy and a very distraught Mary.
Riding in the back of the ambulance set Guerrero's teeth on edge, but Chance was definitely breathing easier once the paramedic started him on oxygen, and his colour soon improved. The medic only made the mistake of trying to give Guerrero some pain relief once, before turning his attention exclusively to treating Chance, who was visibly amused by what Guerrero had told the man he could do with his needles.
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