Disorder Ch. 07

Beneath the gloom of an overpass was hardly a place to die in the stink and the dirt but that was just the way of it. Graffiti had lined the walls as John looked down on him, a broken light that must have been some kind of security feature, designed to deter those from the seedy underbelly of a city that should have been pulsing with life from loitering and lingering just where they were not wanted.

And just where were those who were not wanted supposed to go? Where was his place when one had deigned to reveal the coy and the plan, a scapegoat at best while the one in charge was a wolf in sheep's clothing? Sighing, he looked down at precisely the right moment, the hedgerow quivering as if stirred up by some bird that was brave enough to carve out a tiny corner of life in the suburbs of the city. There weren't many animals left in the city, managed with spikes to keep them away even as litter layered the streets. Maybe that was the downside of inebriating and sullying half the population with a constant stream of substances, ripe for abuse.

Walking, he kept his eyes down, thoughts carrying him away. It was fair. He didn't want to see the wolf coming for him. Nobody would.

But they were coming.

And they slammed into him with the force of a ton of bricks but the needle that jabbed into his neck was something that he did not expect. The prick shot through him and he grunted, although it was over too swiftly to fight back, his body crumpling to the sidewalk that he'd paced a hundred times or a thousand times over since Donnie had moved out there, although he'd undoubtedly now have to move again. Before he slipped into unconsciousness, bile rising up in the back of his throat and a shape looming over him that could only vaguely be discerned as a behemoth of a man, although the smirk that he was sure was there could not be seen at that moment. It didn't need to be seen.

Wasn't it funny how so little was actually needed in the world? It was a strange thought indeed to have but one that made John smile even as he slipped away, darkness wrapping him up in her arms like an old lover welcoming him back.

Yet he knew that was not the end.

*

He could not tell how much later it was when he woke, only that he came to in a gasp and a spit-up of drool and lord knew what else in the back of a vehicle. He should not have been so quick to tell where he was -- kidnapping was hardly something that he, personally, made any sort of habit of -- but the exhaust and misfire was not something that he could mistake for anything else, not even in the darkness. Heat clawed at his skin and he groaned, turning over onto his back, knees drawn up but bound. Testing the limits of his movement, he strained with his ankles, finding those tied too. Hands then? Of course, bound before his chest, clasped as if in prayer. That was not fitting. If he had ever thought to pray to a god, it would have been a god of the underworld that went with his line of so-called 'work'.

A fold of fabric over his eyes. Well, that was rather pointless, wasn't it? It wasn't as if he could see anything in the trunk of the car but they'd made sure to make him as helpless as he possibly could be. John seethed silently, even though he had, of course, been the one to walk into their trap. It could have been Donnie or Charles even that walked into it, depending on who their target would have been. In the grand scheme of things, it wouldn't have mattered, considering the family bonds at play, ties that could be broken or torn to shreds when a weakness, such as theirs, was thus exposed.

He swallowed and sank down into himself, breathing shortly and shallowly. The trunk reeked. Was that him? He really hoped it wasn't him. Rattling over bumps and potholes in the road, the car jostled him and he grunted, tossed from one side to the other, wrists crushed beneath the weight of his body. Pain didn't mean anything much to him though. It was just one more thing that, for the time being, reminded him that he was still alive.

But a passive player in the landscape of his life, he could do nothing as he lay in the car boot, jerking and rattling as if he was nothing more than luggage. Maybe that was the grand prize that they'd reduced him to, in the end, something that became a mere object to be used as he had used so very many in his life before. It was fitting too, in a way, but not in any kind of manner that he would have liked it to be considered as fitting. Poetic justice didn't ring through in his books and, well, he needed something more than what they wanted from him in his final hours.

That would come through. He was sure of it.

How much time had passed? It was impossible to say as he rolled against the back and struggled to breathe, the blindfold shifting and yet darkness enveloping him. Perhaps the deed had already been done, the hair clinging damply to the back of his neck the mere remnant of what he would forever feel for the rest of his 'afterlife', so to speak. For he would no longer be living, twisting and turning in a torturous repetition of what had happening, reliving and unloving it over and over again.

It was funny how the mind could play cruel tricks on a man when clad in darkness. He sweated and shook but there was no one there to see him and, yet again, for that, he was glad. It would not have been becoming to be observed in such a fashion, a twisted manner that did not depict him at his norm, let alone his best. It was the right thing to do, however, regardless of how much that one thought along turned his stomach, slicing up through his gut as if he had, quite literally, been stabbed.

Maybe that was how they would do it. Only time, however, would tell on that one.

The car trundled to a stop and he held his breath, although it was a futile endeavour. If they'd been the ones to fucking dump him in the trunk, they sure as hell knew that he was still there and expected him to be there. It would have been a mean feat indeed if he had managed to escape from a locked trunk, from the inside, while in transit. Although it would have been one to add to his portfolio of tricks, that chapter had long ago come to a close. And now he was in the final pages of a story come to its inevitable yet natural conclusion.

Was it there? He turned his head, catching his breath as the chain brushed his collarbones. Silver with onyx set into it, it had no real meaning to him and was a rather stupid thing to wear for such an occasion as when it could be used against him, muffled voices shuffling through the bodywork of the car as he tried not to breathe, tried to make himself, for once, appear small and weak, broken down. He had needed it, however, just as one last, little thing to keep him going, something that Donnie had said, offhandedly, would be his kind of thing. Back then, John hadn't really known why he'd bought it (Charles was the pickpocket and petty crime was hardly the deal for a man of John's stature) but the final hour seemed like the perfect time to ensure that the black stone was on his person. It would not identify him but it would, at least, personify him. And maybe that was all that a man needed.

The trunk rattled, someone striving to jimmy it open. Maybe it stuck. Maybe it would stay stuck. But he just had to stay there, biding his time, slowly but surely. All would come to pass and he could make his move once the right move revealed itself to him. It would be the last tool he had at his disposal, yet he was known for pulling one out of the hat at the last moment possible. Something akin to hope -- perhaps a distant relative -- rekindled in his gut and he clenched his jaw, the rag in his mouth foreign and dirty, caked with something that he didn't want to think about. Maybe he wasn't ready to go out just yet. But better him fighting the last fight, if that was what it was to be, than Donnie or Charles.

Definitely better.

The trunk slammed open and he stilled, wondering if the frantic pace of his heart was visible at his throat. There was nothing more vulnerable than a man's throat -- those who said it was the cock were fucking liars. Life and blood and breath were what contained a man and each of those pumped through there, pulsing with the virility that other parts of the body were responsible for. Someone laughed and spat, a globule of spittle landing square on his face, although he didn't even flinch. Let them think, then and there, that he was reduced down to nothing, malleable in their hands. If he'd been able to smirk, he would have done so. Then they would see.

"Get the fucker on his feet."

Hauled up, he was not idle. Snarling through the gag, he raged and spat and chewed at the rag, fighting tooth and nail with the weight of his body, throwing it from side to side. And, truly, there was a lot of him to throw around and a lot of him to put off his attacker's balance, someone cursing and shoving him straight off into a pair of much rougher and more grizzled hands. Those hands were hardened by years of work and had no trouble lugging him up, even if the motion did come with a grunt of effort. John growled through the gag with the nastiness of a caged beast, twisting and writhing with every last bit of strength that he had in his body -- it was not as if he was going to need it if he did not use it all up now -- for the elusive freedom.

Just a touch of it. Maybe that would be enough. Enough to chew through the ropes, slip the gag, get some measure of it -- and away! He was not lost yet even as footsteps echoed hollowly beneath him over a wooden floor, tossed down onto it with a stifled gasp that could not refill itself with just how the breath was knocked from his body. His assailant simmered a curse and John shot one back, even if it had to be done mentally. Well, it wasn't as if he was going to let them get away with it. Even if they did 'off' him, he was going to come back and haunt the lot of them, the rancid fucking bastards!

Anger gave him strength but that did not stop them as they heaved him up onto a chair, placed there as if on show for those who sought to eliminate him. Except, of course, it was not really him that was supposed to be sitting there, although they must not have been very good at telling the brothers apart if they hadn't yet realised that there was, at the very least, a difference in the shade of their hair. Against himself, he hoped that they wouldn't notice, that all would continue off without a hitch. Maybe then, at least, he would have bought Donnie some time. The notes he'd left for both of his brothers, however, in safe locations, would tease out a warning for them to disappear. Time was the only and last gift, in that worst case scenario, that he could give them.

And then the blindfold was ripped off along with the bite of the gag, leaving him blinking beneath a bare light bulb with two men looming over him. The skinnier of the two would have been the one who had grabbed him first of all for the cretin who must have done the bulk of the heavy lifting stood there with his arms crossed as much as he could over an impossibly broad chest, gut spilling out against a shirt and black jacket that looked fresh and, previously, unworn. John suppressed any reaction. New clothes were designed to be thrown away after a job was done: to hide the fluids that would, undoubtedly, seep into them.

"Jaunt sends his regards."

Shaking his head slowly, John worked out the kinks in his neck under the guise of a mocking, derisive motion. They wouldn't see him weak. Not when he didn't have anything to gain by it. And, now, it was a dangerous game at play indeed.

"Such a shame that bastard couldn't spare the energy to come here and do it himself, isn't it?" He shot back, eyes simmering with all the hatred that he could possibly put into a single expression. "Is he too busy sucking off some prick in jail then? Best place for him, isn't it?"

The man built like a brick wall did not react, merely blinking as if John was discussing the weather with him, but the second man, a smooth, blonde-haired gent who was dressed entirely too sharply and smartly for such an occasion, pressed his lips together more tightly, fingers closing around the wrist of his opposite arm. John's eyes locked on him instantly. He was the one to watch.

But he recovered himself quickly, smiling with a strange sense of serenity and smoothing his hair back, tied away from his face to show off his handsome cheekbones, looks that the ladies (or guys too) would have died for. A man in his position, of course, had to monologue and John could have laughed out loud at how his inexperience showed through as clear as day. Although it was as he suspected, he couldn't believe that they would have thought it all so easy to pull off, him a puppet to be put on show and made to dance. And there was just a jot of slack in the ropes around his ankles, further betraying a lack of aptitude, despite appearances.

There was a chance yet. A small one, but still a chance that could be snatched up, if he so dared as to take it for himself. And John always dared.

"Donnie, Donnie, Donnie..."

John could not help but shiver, however minutely. Just how many times over had he repeated Donnie's name to him in just that tone, that tone of power and control? Except he had meant it in a brotherly sort of way, their sort of way that could not be explained by mere words. This man just wanted to intimidate him, thinking, of course, that he was his brother.

Tilting his chin up defiantly, John met his eyes.

"Fuck you."

It didn't have to be either eloquent or elegant to make his point heard but all he got was a smile in return. A cruel, conniving, sickly sort of smile that made his stomach turn as he kept his expression carefully impassive.

"Ah... Such fight. He said that your brother was like this, too up his own for anyone's tastes, unwilling to listen to fair and just reason. He could have had it all and you too through him, you know, but he threw that all away and now you're going to be the one to pay the price for it. Although, maybe that's why..."

He paused to spare himself the decency of a little chuckle, turning his lips, pointedly, to the side. They were altogether too perfect for John's liking.

"That attitude of yours too... It's gotten you into some trouble. We found your programme, you know, even before the worst of it went down. We almost had you too and then Jaunt ended up on the run, thrown into the system and exploited, surely, as you planned all along. And all because you thought that you could take down our operation?"

The man smiled and narrowed his eyes, a little too far to be a natural, unthinking action.

"All for your brother... And just what is your relationship with your brother, hm? Should we go into that? How does John feel about you disappearing now, shall we say?"

John rolled his eyes. It didn't sound so real when it was put like that and he could imagine that it was happening to someone else, giving him some distance, derision rising up just like bile in the back of his throat. And that too said about their relationship? Well, that was already out in the open, clearly, from the very fact that the fucking plan was put into place.

"Why bother?" He challenged with a yawn, an eyebrow casually cocked as if he was about to drop a sharply witty remark once again. "You want to get rid of me or something, don't you? What, you going to get your fucking hands dirty, darling, and sully that pretty suit of yours? I bet the tags were hardly on that one before you lifted it from the store."

A weak insult but one that hit home as his target bristled visibly.

"This was tailored," he snapped in a low snarl, temple clearly throbbing, the pulse of blood through his veins as hot and fiery as the one that he so resembled. "Keith, take care of him. I don't have the time to waste on sewer rats."

John laughed, throwing his head back. Halfway to the door in the quickly heated anger and roughened-up passion that John would have, honestly, expected from Jaunt himself, the lost man of the hour, the man in charge who didn't have all the power paused.

"Seriously..." John could barely stop himself from laughing to speak, chest aching, although he could not be sure that it hadn't been stomped on during the course of his capture. "You're going to go and get yourself all snarled up over a comment like that? What's wrong with you fucking people? Don't any of you have a backbone?"

Maybe he just wanted to play some more. Maybe he thought that he had a better chance of getting out alive if the man hung around. Either way, John had to poke the bear just a little bit more, pushing his luck as he tested the waters. Could he really be...

The thought needed pursuit.

"Really, you're all the same," he said, following his best hunch and observing each and every little twitch in reaction, eyes souring. "You think you can put on a front in public and appear all smart and -- tailored, was it? Oh, dear one... The game doesn't work like that and you sure as fuck better wake up before someone puts you out of your misery. That's just why Jaunt got caught, isn't it? He got cocky. He thought he was better than everyone else. Better than m-my brother. And he was wrong, wasn't he?"

He almost slipped up but pushed on regardless, ploughing on as the man before him practically hopped from one leg to the other, shifting his weight as if he wanted nothing more than to launch himself at John and wrap his hands around his throat. But that wasn't John's deal and the damage was already very much in the process of being done. Best to see it through to the explosive end, was it not?

"He was wrong because he was fucking weak -- do you get that?" He spat. "And you're just the same as him, you'll all just be the same as him, thinking that you've got it in the bag. The only way to play the game is always to assume you've not got it and, well, my brother didn't fucking know that but I did. I may not be fucking any better than you but, together, we are!"

The words flew from his lips in a burst, startling even John, but the words of a dying man meant little in the grand scheme of things, his assailant opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water. It would have been comical if not for the dire nature of the scene at play, John heaving and gasping for breath, cheeks hot with emotion that he had not even realised had risen up, the man who wished to see his brother, Donnie, dead breathing far too quickly to be perfectly calm and serene. But neither was he, clearly, a man with enough experience at his back to get the job done himself. And that, surely, would be his undoing.

"I'm done with you."

Quite physically, he brushed off his hands on his trousers, straightening to tidy the fall of his tie, tucked into the suit jacket. John shook his head and laughed like a madman, rocking back and forth on the chair, just about careful enough only to keep all four legs on the floor. His captor's face twisted but he could barely see it as he scrunched up his face, howling for the sheer hell of it -- for what cause was there in holding it back anymore? He may have been crazy at some times but this guy, this guy, well, he was a fucking lunatic, thinking all that he did, the power trips played out and done while he was still standing at the starting line.

And it infuriated him.

"You're a lost cause, Donnie, and no one is going to know your name," he hissed, cutting through the mirth with genuine, dark intent. "I hope the afterlife is cruel to you. No one will ever remember you up here, your body stinking and rotting and nothing left of you for the world to know. There is no name for you here. Your brother will be next, mark my words."

"Small consolation that's going to be when I don't even know your fucking name either," John howled, eyes moistening with tears that most certainly were not from any form of pain or suffering, misguided joy throbbing hard and full in his chest. "You're nothing to me and you're never going to be fucking anything either!"