A short fictional work based on the tv series 'Without a Trace'
Disclaimer: Without a Trace is owned by Jerry Bruckheimer Television, CBS Productions and Warner Bros. This fictional tale is for entertainment purposes only, not for commercial gain, which is prohibited.
He was barely able to draw a breath and unable to move. He felt his hands roughly pulled above his head and tied to the bedpost. A heavy booted foot kicked him hard in the groin and another foot hit his ribs. Several more blows found his face and torso. Pain rained down in fiery licks causing his already frantic breathing to become more erratic. There was a sound from downstairs and the brutality stopped. His fuzzy eyes saw the glint of the blade nearby but not the gun or his attacker.
"Martin?"
The call of his name brought his heavy eyes half open. It was all he could do to keep them from shutting. Danny was here. He had to warn him before Muller shot him. Danny wouldn't be prepared and Muller would have dead aim. Where was Muller? His glassy eyes roamed the room and the light from the bathroom spilled onto the large bloody puddle under him. Too much blood... a lot of blood... that wasn't good. He frowned and continued to try to draw a breath. He had to warn Danny. Where did Muller go? If Danny was walking through the house, Muller would kill him. He parted his lips, which felt like rubber and spilled a load of bloody saliva down his chin.
"...d..g..ad.r..rh..b... drumm..."
Garble. He couldn't produce a word, just garble. He moaned and fought hard to get his lips and tongue to make a word. Just one word, one that would let his partner know that danger was lurking.
"...g...g...g.."
He chuffed in frustration, the word wouldn't come. His eyes wouldn't stay open, he tried but they just slowly came down, like the curtain on the final act of the play.
"Hey, man you okay? I called but you didn't..." Danny's voice froze when he flipped the light on and illuminated the dark bedroom. Martin was tied to the bedpost, his legs splayed open on a bloody carpet. His face was pounded raw and half of it was covered in blood. From where Martin's dropped head hit his chin, blood ran onto his exposed chest. But the large amount of blood on the groin of the jogging pants and the bloody knife nearby caused Danny's heart to lurch and fall into his gut.
"Christ... aw, God no..."
He dropped to the fallen man's side, his shaky fingers slipping on the bloody neck for a pulse. He spotted the cellphone nearby and immediately flipped it open, pushing the speed dial Jack set up for a trouble call. He then dialed 911 and gave an order for help. Then he cut Martin down and gently laid him on the floor.
"Martin?" He slapped the bruised face hard and saw the brows furrow. "Come on, man, open them baby blues for me. It's Danny, Martin! Martin!"
He grabbed a towel from the bathroom and shoved it down Martin's pants, applying pressure. That caused the eye that wasn't swollen shut to open and regard him in a mix of shock, pain and confusion.
"Just lie still, man, don't move. You're bleedin' bad..." Danny rasped, forcing every word over the guilt lodged in his gut. "I should have been here..."
"...hell... doing... st...o...p..." Martin whispered, totally confused. He tried to push Danny's arm away and sit up
"Stop!" Danny ordered, "You're gonna bleed to death."
"...n...n...not... m...m...ine..."
"What?" Danny wrinkled his face and moved the towel away, then sighed in relief. "You scared ten years off me."
"...drug...ged... dr...ink... par...ty..."
So that was what was wrong with him, Danny mused, then his anger grew at the brutality of the attack. Martin had been drugged into submission and then beaten. The acid that this caused to churn inside him spilled out in his tone.
"Who did this to you?"
Danny's question invaded his muddled thoughts. He couldn't remember the beefy felon's name. But the one thing he did remember was the word that came to him when that blade was against his throat.
"...sweet... cheeks..."
"That prick!" Danny vented, easing a pillow under Martin's head. "I'll fuckin' cut his balls off."
"...care...ful... gun..."
"Me?" Danny winked, trying to reassure the worried face below him. "Caution is my middle name."
He left the battered body briefly when Martin's cell phone rang. "Jack?"
"What's wrong?" Jack demanded.
"That bastard Muller broke in while I was gone. He tied up Martin and beat the hell out of him. I called 911. There's blood all over the place in here, but not Martin's. I think he's still here but..."
It happened all at once. The injured man's eye opened unnaturally wide. His bloody lip began to move up and down. The eye was wild now, screaming at him that danger was close by. It was directed over his shoulder to the doorway. Danny kept his gaze fixed on the frantic eye before him. He dropped the phone and moved his hand to his waist where his gun was positioned.
"Danny?" Jack's gut clenched when the line went dead. He pressed the pedal to the metal and headed up the road for the Laurels. He was glad he'd left Vivian when Sam called.
"You didn't think I'd let pretty boy here have all the fun, did you?" Muller saw the dark-haired man's right hand snake inside his coat. "If you got a gun in there, you better toss it out, or I'll put sweet cheeks out of his misery."
Muller had heard enough of the conversation to realize something wasn't quite right. He'd heard enough to be suspicious. He had to make a decision quickly, he was bleeding heavily and he knew the cops were on the way.
"Look, loser, the gig is up. We're FBI agents and we know about your boss, Lily." Danny slowly turned around with both arms in the air. Muller was holding his left hand over a bloody side and the gun in the right hand was wavering. How far away was Jack? Would the sirens approaching cause the wounded man to make a fatal mistake? He couldn't take a chance with Martin's life.
Martin tried to stay awake, but failed. The last image he had was of Muller holding a gun on Danny who was trying his best to shield him from harm. Then everything faded to black.
"F.B.I.?" Muller muttered, blood seeping through his fingers. "You're lying and it won't save you."
"Look, I got my badge, okay?" Danny slowly moved for his wallet and flipped it open, revealing his identification. "We got you on tape, we know about you and Lily Amherst. She's gonna pin this on you, a murder rap you'll do time."
"Murder?" Muller shook his head. "No way... I didn't kill anybody. That sick bitch is the one who needs a padded room."
"Where's Riccardi?" Danny asked, stalling for time. Why weren't the police here? "He's not dead; she wanted the old man to watch. It was supposed to go down this weekend but then you two moved in and she couldn't let it go. She didn't like sweet cheeks asking all those questions. She thought maybe the old man set you two up, paid you to get information. We were supposed to take him and question him."
"Where's Peter?" Danny asked, relieved to see Jack appear in the hallway.
"Drop the gun, F.B.I.!" Jack ordered, glancing briefly past Danny and seeing Fitzgerald's bloody face.
Muller tossed the gun down and in one motion, whipped his arm around, followed through with his body and slammed the man behind him. He turned briefly at the top of the stairs and saw that Danny was following him. The blood loss was taking a toll on him and he staggered badly by the foyer, going to his knees. Then he heard a chilling voice from just behind him.
"Get up..."
"You can't shoot me, I'm not armed," he whined, trying to crawl away and eyeing his opponent.
"I'm not armed either." Danny's voice was low and menacing; he tossed his gun behind him and slowly walked over to the festering worm. "You sick son-of-a-bitch," he hissed, hauling Muller up with one hand and spliting his nose with the other.
"Danny!" Jack thundered, running over to where Taylor had the felon by the throat. The odd but distant look in his agent's eyes alarmed him. He knew that Danny wasn't aware of just how dangerous a position he was in right now. He also knew that Taylor was thinking of his battered partner. "Let go of him, Danny, you're gonna kill him. Danny! Let go!"
Through a red haze, the voice penetrated but it sounded far away. Danny wasn't aware again until he hit a wall and Jack was staring at him. He blinked and looked around, then saw Muller on the ground, choking and coughing up bloody phlegm. He saw the question in Jack's eyes and turned away.
"I'm, okay."
"The medics are outside, take them up to Martin. I got this." Jack saw the fists still balled up and the hatred piercing the air from the livid dark eyes. "Let it go, Danny. It's done. You hear me? Let it go."
Danny didn't reply, he took the stairs two at time. He froze in the doorway, his eyes glued to the unmoving blood streaked chest. Unmoving? He ran to Martin's side, his hand seeking the vein in the neck. Nothing. There was nothing.
"No... no... Martin!" he screamed, slapping the face hard. "Don't you fuckin' die on me. Goddammit, breathe!"
"What?" Jack hollered, having turned the felon over to the NYPD who arrived just as Taylor departed. The medics were already coming up the stairs.
"He's dead... he's dead... it's my fault. I didn't have his back. He thought I was here for him, I didn't..."
"Get out of the way," Jack ordered, shoving the babbling Taylor aside. He was about to give mouth to mouth, when the medics arrived. "He just stopped breathing. Prior to the beating he was apparently drugged and that affected his breathing."
Danny felt Jack's hand on his shoulder. He dropped his head and rubbed his burning eyes. Martin couldn't die; it just couldn't happen like this. His trembling fingers found the cross on his neck and he prayed to the Blessed Mother for help.
"They're baggin' him," Jack said softly, realizing how upset his agent was. The mechanical ventilation worked. He kept his eyes glued to the bloody chest and finally it began to move again. "He's responding!"
"Thank God," Danny whispered, kissing the crucifix and watching the medics begin treatment.
"He's stable," the medic reassured, while his partner secured the young man on the gurney. "Let's roll."
"Come on, we still have a job to do." Jack clapped Danny's shoulder and handed him his gun back. "Sam called; they have movement inside the warehouse."
His head hurt. He had no recollection of why he was in such pain. Brief images of a party appeared in the darkness. Strange faces and voices, expensive jewelry adorning surgically enhanced socialites and distant music caused him distress. A hangover? No, that didn't fit, he hurt too much. With a low moan, he tried to open his eyes, one wouldn't open.
"...st..uck...'
"Martin?"
Sam moved to the bed and peered down at him. It hurt her to see him lying so helpless, that wasn't like him. He was so strong and at times to her seemed invincible. His cocky attitude and brash charm had made him seem fearless, strong and dependable. Yet here he was, lying broken in a hospital bed wearing more color than Crayola carried in their crayon box. The lone eye was unfocused for a moment and the hand moved feebly on the bed. She snagged it, gave a tug and waited for the eye to find her.
"Shh...it's okay, you're safe now. You're in the hospital."
Hospital? Martin saw a blurry face with blonde hair. He knew the voice and when a soft hand gently stroked his face and a pair of lips kissed him, he knew who was near. Sam was here, taking care of him. Where was he? A hospital? What had happened? He frowned and thought again, as that hand stroked his battered cheek. He moaned again and leaned into it, seeking human comfort. Images returned of the strangers at a party. It was loud, he didn't know these people. Then another image invaded his throbbing skull, a beefy man with a feral grin and a gun. The gun was pointed right at Danny Taylor's head.
"No... Danny... no... dead... no... sorry... sorry... my fault..."
"Martin!" Sam tapped the battered face until the wavering eye found her. She cupped his chin and leaned close. "Listen to me. Danny is fine. He's at the office processing the prisoners. We got Riccardi and the other two men, they're all fine. Can you understand me? Danny is not dead."
He took a deep breath, hissing harshly at the pain that it caused down his side and swallowed hard. Sam wouldn't lie to him; Danny survived somehow. Danny saved his life. He heard her voice again; it seemed so very far away. He let the curtain come back down and fell into the blackness.
Time had no place in this strangeness he was lost in. Sounds came and went, odd metallic noises and unfamiliar voices. Hands were placed on him, needles invaded his flesh and it hurt to breathe. He opened his eyes and saw blurry faces, walls and an IV line. He heard someone calling him but couldn't comply, it hurt too much. Then a voice he knew sounded, a gruff voice, which was not happy with him.
"I know you can hear me, get your damn eyes open. Thanks to you and the other half of the Hardy Boys, I got no sleep last night, Fitzgerald. You open those eyes or I'll call your old man."
Jack found a grim smile when the lone eye opened and regarded him hostilely. The beginnings of the infamous Fitzgerald temper were sparking or trying to. He leaned over the rail and eyed his watch, it was just after six a.m. Martin was being held for twenty-four hours until the drugs in his system were gone. The beating left him badly bruised and with a broken rib, but he was lucky.
"You with me?"
"..mmm..hmm..." Martin managed, casting his painful orb at the phone. That got a deep laugh. "...dirty... trick..."
"That's why they pay me the big money, Junior." Jack saw the confusion rain down as the concussed man tried to figure out where he was. "Long Island Hospital, you got beat up last night on duty. The Riccardi case? He's fine, we found him."
Duty. Riccardi. What was last night? Why couldn't he remember anything? The pictures he wanted to see were missing; the odd strangers and expensive clothing made no sense. Then another face invaded, a large man, a knife pressed to his throat and painful blows. He shifted in the bed as if dodging the invisible blows and his ribs reminded him of what pain meant. His mouth formed a silent oval of agony and someone latched onto his hand. Jack? Why was Jack there? Where was ... was... the last image answered that question for him; Danny kneeling in front of his broken body with a gun to his head.
"...no... no... dead... didn't watch his back... sorry... Dan...ny..."
"Danny's not dead," Jack answered the delirious ramble. He used his free hand to tip the anguished face his way. "Hey, I'm talking to you. Look at me, right here. He's not dead, okay? He's at work. Martin?" Jack saw the eye flutter shut and hissed in annoyance. Had his words penetrated?
Jack stood in the doorway and shook his head, pondering for a moment. Danny looked awful; he'd not gotten any sleep. The distressed hair and unshaven face matched twin bloodshot eyes. The rumpled clothes seemed fitting housing the weary body slumped forward in an unforgiving plastic chair.
It had been a long night. The raid on the warehouse had been successful. There was a chamber beneath the bottom floor that she had outfitted into a large holding area. The three men were held there waiting for the moment of her final revenge. Peter Riccardi was indeed being held prisoner, along with Sayles and Everett. Save a few bruises and cuts, Peter was fine and staying with his grateful parents. Lily Amherst was being charged with several violations; she'd confessed to the crimes. She claimed that she was going to set the others free once the deed was done.
"You heard the doctor, Martin might not be awake for hours. Go home. Get some sleep and a hot shower. You'll feel better."
"I'm fine."
Danny's monotone voice did little to dispel the team leader's concern. He wasn't fine and they both knew that. Danny bled for his family and Martin was family. Until the blue eyes were looking back at him and they were squabbling over something trivial, he wouldn't be fine. Danny spent all night processing the prisoners, updating the Florida and California police and doing his paperwork. Jack sent him home at dawn, after arriving at work directly from the hospital. He told the stubborn agent that his partner would recover fine. A concussion, major bruising and a broken rib along with several contusions would keep Fitzgerald out of action for awhile.
So he sighed, moved across the room and set the bag down. He handed over the coffee he'd intended to drink himself. He gave over the sandwich as well. At least Taylor was wise enough to take nourishment. Jack walked to the other side of the bed, pausing long enough to look over his battered agent. Martin's face was swollen on one side and discolored; the left eye was a swollen blue and purple mass. Stitches rimmed his left eyebrow and lower lip. Jack pulled the spare chair over and sat down, watching as the sandwich disappeared. The belly might be full but the eyes were empty and that bothered him.
"You give a whole new meaning to the word stubborn."
"It's my fault."
Danny's voice was barely audible.
"You two are quite a pair," Jack commented, leaning his forearms on the rail. He nodded to the bruised face below them. "That was the only thing he said earlier. That he failed you; didn't back you up. He thought you were dead."
Danny looked up sharply for a moment studying Jack's face. He rose, stretched and went to the window. He squinted as the strong sun hit his pained eyes. He knew Jack was right, but it didn't make it any easier. Every time he looked at the mottled colors marring Martin's face it hurt. It hurt to think that he was drugged and tied up like a dog, beaten to unconsciousness. It hurt because he should have been there. What if that bullet had hit him instead of Muller?
"Don't Riccardi, Sayles and Everett's lives mean anything to you?"
"What?" Danny turned back, annoyed that Jack was gnawing away at his misery. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Because of you, they're alive, back with their families. Would you feel better if you were lying there?"
"He wouldn't have left me," Danny replied, "He's a pain in the ass that way."
"He's on sick leave, you're not. You still have a job to you. So I'm telling you again, you're on duty tomorrow. We got three new MP's. Go home, get some sleep, that's an order, Taylor."
"Yes sir," Danny tossed back with vinegar. "Gimme a minute with him."
Danny waited until Jack left and stared at the bed. He moved closer and let the words come out. He told his partner how sorry he was, he wasn't sure if Martin heard him but he needed to speak them aloud.
The soft voice soothed him, drew him from the bleakness he was lost in. He didn't hear the words but the voice was compelling. It pulled him along, carried him to the light. He peeled his eye open and gazed around the room, blue walls, dusty curtains and a haggard face. Danny's profile was almost too painful to bear. He was exhausted, unkempt and his eyes were lost. Martin wanted to say something, his dry lips parted but no words came.
"I'm so sorry, man. I gotta tell you, when I came into the room and saw that knife... all that blood on your pants. I thought that bastard had killed you. I should have been there."
Guilt. Danny wasn't guilty. How could he think that? Martin needed to take that guilt away, to bring the cocky, full-of-himself, sun melting smile back onto Taylor's face. He thought for a moment, as the slow recollections of their assignment filed into his memory, taking their proper place. Most of it came back, right through the party but after that just an image of Danny with a gun to his head.
"...you... right..."
"Huh?" Danny leaned over the bed and saw the bruised eye observing him. Martin heard him apologize and agreed. It was his fault. He hung his head and sighed hard.
"...m'superman... huh..."
"Yeah," Danny was relieved, Martin didn't blame him. "You ain't got the ass for those tights though. Red ain't your best color."
"Com... man... do..." Martin teased and got the smile he'd waited for.
"See? I'm rubbing off on you already. Hey, listen, you're gonna be fine. They're gonna let you out later, I'll pick you up, okay? That doctor said you got a concussion and can't be alone for awhile. Hope you still like my frozen pizza."
Martin snaked the hand up through the bar and latched on. For Danny, it was enough; he could go home and rest now.
By the time eight p.m rolled around, Danny was whistling. He'd gotten word from the hospital that Martin was ready for discharge. He entered the room and saw his battered friend sitting on the side of the bed, dressed in an FBI navy blue sweat suit. A nurse was helping him to finish dressing, tying the laces on his sneakers. Two more were nearby reviewing his chart and making sure his medications were ordered.
"Danny!"
Danny paused by the bed and smiled back at the wide grin before him. "You look awful. You're lucky I got just what the doctor ordered, lots of TLC Danny style."
"You're not kidding," Martin replied, keeping his game face. "Being back home sleeping in your arms. Waking up with your kisses and feeling you close," he sighed deeply, peering up at his 'lover' with full adornment. He took Danny's hand and pressed it to his face, lifting and parting his lips for a kiss.
"What?" Danny's voice rose a full octave and he stepped back in alarm. He saw the nurse pause over Martin's left foot and look at both of them oddly. "What did you say?"
"You're gonna have to be careful thought, I'm pretty sore, no rough stuff for awhile. Maybe we could play in the hot tub again? You really work magic under those bubbles..."
"Whoa!" Danny put both hands up "Martin, you really hit your head hard. We're not together. For that matter, we're not gay. It was a job, that's all, for work, don't you remember that?"
"...last thing I remember is your hands down my pants..." Martin replied huskily.
"Really?" the nurse smirked, tied the shoe and stood up, joining her giggling friends in the doorway. "All the good looking ones are taken, what a shame."
"Uh, listen, I can explain that," Danny pleaded to the nurse who just shook her head. "I thought he was bleeding to death, I had to put pressure on..." he eyed the other two nurses in the doorway, "Honest, I'm not with him."
"Danny? Don't you love me anymore?" Martin choked out his eyes full of sorrow. "You said I was your love muffin, didn't you?"
"I didn't mean it that way, I mean I did but not in that exact..." His head spun from the bed to the curious faces in the doorway. "I'll be right back," he told his love struck partner.
"He's such a sweet guy, how can you hurt him like that?"
"He's my partner, I mean on the force not in real life," Danny replied to the first nurse, eyeing all of them. "This concussion, would it make him remember being someone else? We were undercover as a gay couple for the FBI. He thinks he's still that guy. When will that go away?"
Head injuries are very tricky," the first nurse said.
"Could be he'll wake up later and remember everything," the second nurse added.
"Or he might never get that back," the third said, tapping the handsome dark-haired agent's chest. "Love muffin huh? Nice, I like that, very clever."
"Yeah, that's me, the smart one," Danny commiserated.
"Why don't you get your car, we'll bring him down in the wheelchair."
"Yeah, okay," Danny answered, ducking back into the room but staying away from the pleading blue eye. "Hey, I'm gonna get the car now, okay?"
"Okay," Martin yawned. "I think we'll skip the hot tub tonight, I'm too tired. We'll just cuddle by the fire and play for awhile."
"Cuddle, uh... uh... we'll... uh... uh..." Danny stammered badly, the battered face was nearly angelic, the eye glowing with adoration. "I uh... better get... uh... the car now... yeah ,that's it... the car."
"No kiss goodbye?" Martin pleaded, parting his lips and running his tongue across the lower one.
"No!" Danny retorted then saw pain appear in the sky eye. "Uh... I mean your stitches... you know... uh... I gotta go..."
The nursing trio remained in the hall until the alarmed and upset man disappeared into the elevator. Then they entered the room, all laughing hysterically.
"Don't that hurts..." Martin pleaded, laughing and holding his injured side.
"Oh, honey, you're good," one nurse stated. "Love muffin? I thought I'd die."
"How long are you going to keep him dangling?"
"I haven't decided," Martin grinned, knowing that the little game would chase the Taylor blues away for good. "I'm having too much fun watching him squirm."
Martin kept the pretense up for the ride home. But he was in a lot of pain and by the time he got to bed, he was too tired and sore to act anymore. Danny got his sneaks off and eased him down onto the bed. Martin caught the back of his neck and pulled his face closer, parting his lips. He ran his free hand up Danny's inner thigh slowly.
"I'm hungry, Danny, I need you..." The look of pure alarm staring back at him caused him to laugh, a bit too hard. "Gotcha!"
"You're fuckin' twisted, you know that!" Danny stepped back and watched Martin double over, cradling his injured ribs. "Serves you right!"
"Guess that means... I'm not... your... love muffin... anymore..." Martin wheezed.
Danny narrowed his eyes and watched the prankster ease his ailing body into the bed. He left the room twice, coming back to check on him. He woke him up every two hours to see if he was okay. Then as dawn approached, he got an idea. He eyed the deep sleeper and an evil grin formed on his lips.
"I'm like the Marines, you mess with the best, you die like the rest..."
Martin sighed and yawned, stretching a bit and opened his eyes. His headache reminded him he was thirsty and due for painkillers. He eyed the clock and frowned, the digital readout said it was nearly noon. Where was Danny? He vaguely recalled a voice saying that he was leaving and Sam was coming over. When was that?
"Danny?"
He turned the light on and something hit his face. He blinked in horror and sat up, eyeing his room. His plain navy blue comforter was replaced by one that was bright turquoise with large yellow and hot pink lizards running all over it.
"What the hell..."
Suspended from the ceiling were dozens of tiny chili peppers wearing cowboy hats. He limped into the bathroom and gasped in horror. His conservative beige room was converted into a Mexican mess. The shower curtains were green with red chili peppers in bright yellow sombreros. Towels bearing bright purple coyotes on a hot pink background were on all the racks and small ceramic ones held his toothbrush and mug. Matching patterned carpets and a rug on the back of the toilet burned his eyes. Mini cacti that were motion activated began to sing 'La Cucuracha' as soon as he moved. Dozens of them were sitting on the sink, floor, toilet back, shower stall top, window sill and they lined the floor. There were Mexican characters in a variety of shapes and sizes in his bedroom as well, all singing and playing music.
A noise from the other room alerted him. Instead of the doorbell, 'La Cucaracha' was loudly playing in his hallway. He heard Sam's voice in the outer hall, asking to be let inside. To his horror, as he staggered along, his walls had posters of dancing chili peppers, colorful lizards and green frogs dressed like banditos. They adorned the living room as well. He groaned when he entered the kitchen. The curtains had been replaced by the very ones he'd tossed back in the store. More cacti and dancing chili peppers along with a stuffed Mexican dog wearing a large hat was perched high above, on a spot he couldn't reach. The phone rang and he picked it up, his raspy voice betraying his shock.
"Hello?"
"Rise and shine, love muffin!"
"Taylor! You're dead meat!"
The End
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