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When Ian came to in the back of a moving van with a bag over his head and his wrists cuffed together, he knew he was fucked. He could feel warmth trickling down the side of his face and the scratchy material rubbing against what felt like a gnarly head wound. He kept quiet and still for a moment until someone had reached down to grab him and he reacted, kicking out and struggling instinctively. "Get the fuck away from me" he'd snarled, earning a sharp kick to the stomach that winded him.
That had been the start of the nightmare.
Ian had overheard them talking. Cartel members, if the way they talked about the trade, their people and one singular goal: to make Milkovich pay. Mickey. They meant Mickey. Obviously they caught onto who had sold them out all of those years ago and was able to track them down, figure out his life, his routine and the people in it. His husband, for one thing. The man he'd sold them out for.
Making him pay could mean anything. He could be sent back to his husband in pieces as revenge, or they could be trying to lure him to where Ian was so they could take it out of his flesh.
It was hard not to let his imagination simply run with it as they drove further. Ian had always enjoyed movies, he'd seen a few mob movies -- enough to know that they don't take things like betrayal lightly. Only this was real, and Ian was fucked. He either is killed by these people or they kill Mickey. Because he's not stupid enough to believe that he won't come flying in to rescue him, but in doing so he'd be walking right into the trap that'd been set.
So as terrified as he is, he hopes... that he doesn't do that, that he uses those smarts of his to formulate some kinda plan. He knows that he's not giving up or giving in easily.
That was several hours ago. Ian doesn't know. He'd been dragged inside some kinda warehouse that smells like rot and cuffed to a chair and just left there. He yells and pulls at his cuffs, demanding answers or that they let him go, cursing everyone and everything, pulling out every name he can think of in the book until he finally lapses into uneasy silence. Finally, footsteps fill the room. The bag is ripped off his head and he's looking at one ugly sonofabitch. There's a metal table behind him as well as a guy with a camera and after that everything is a haze of blood and pain. He can recognize what broken bones and concussions look like on other people, but it's a little harder to keep track of what's what when everything hurts and when his head feels like his currently does.
"----as we say, unless you want your dear husband returned to you in pieces." The leader's voice fades in and out as Ian struggles to stay conscious. As if to prove he means business, the man picks up a knife from the table and without preamble, jams it into Ian's right hand. He howls, thrashing in pain before falling unconscious.
More time passes. He might actually die here.
Ian hates it, he doesn't want to die -- he wants to see his husband again and his family and not die in a disgusting warehouse surrounded by gang members, sitting in his own blood. And what's worse is that he might blame himself for this. Without even thinking of all the times that he did save him.
Of course, he was wrong to doubt -- rescue was here, just as he'd been losing hope.
That had been the start of the nightmare.
Ian had overheard them talking. Cartel members, if the way they talked about the trade, their people and one singular goal: to make Milkovich pay. Mickey. They meant Mickey. Obviously they caught onto who had sold them out all of those years ago and was able to track them down, figure out his life, his routine and the people in it. His husband, for one thing. The man he'd sold them out for.
Making him pay could mean anything. He could be sent back to his husband in pieces as revenge, or they could be trying to lure him to where Ian was so they could take it out of his flesh.
It was hard not to let his imagination simply run with it as they drove further. Ian had always enjoyed movies, he'd seen a few mob movies -- enough to know that they don't take things like betrayal lightly. Only this was real, and Ian was fucked. He either is killed by these people or they kill Mickey. Because he's not stupid enough to believe that he won't come flying in to rescue him, but in doing so he'd be walking right into the trap that'd been set.
So as terrified as he is, he hopes... that he doesn't do that, that he uses those smarts of his to formulate some kinda plan. He knows that he's not giving up or giving in easily.
That was several hours ago. Ian doesn't know. He'd been dragged inside some kinda warehouse that smells like rot and cuffed to a chair and just left there. He yells and pulls at his cuffs, demanding answers or that they let him go, cursing everyone and everything, pulling out every name he can think of in the book until he finally lapses into uneasy silence. Finally, footsteps fill the room. The bag is ripped off his head and he's looking at one ugly sonofabitch. There's a metal table behind him as well as a guy with a camera and after that everything is a haze of blood and pain. He can recognize what broken bones and concussions look like on other people, but it's a little harder to keep track of what's what when everything hurts and when his head feels like his currently does.
"----as we say, unless you want your dear husband returned to you in pieces." The leader's voice fades in and out as Ian struggles to stay conscious. As if to prove he means business, the man picks up a knife from the table and without preamble, jams it into Ian's right hand. He howls, thrashing in pain before falling unconscious.
More time passes. He might actually die here.
Ian hates it, he doesn't want to die -- he wants to see his husband again and his family and not die in a disgusting warehouse surrounded by gang members, sitting in his own blood. And what's worse is that he might blame himself for this. Without even thinking of all the times that he did save him.
Of course, he was wrong to doubt -- rescue was here, just as he'd been losing hope.
