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JT can still hear the music over the sound of his own harsh breathing, over the grunts of the men as they force him onto his knees. He struggles as hard as he can - because he is not going to die at the hands of these assholes to a soundtrack by Lady Gaga - but his head is still reeling and there’s two of them and one of him. The zip-ties dig into his wrists where they’re secured behind his back, his cheek is pressed down against the rough surface of the workbench… and then a new sounds cuts through the air and he freezes where he’s pinned.
Oh, hell no.
A third man strolls into his field of vision, hefting a power drill in his hand and JT’s brain whites out for a few seconds of pure, freezing terror. The whirring sound pauses, just long enough for the man to ask:
“You a cop?”
JT tries to wrench away again and gets a kick to the back of his legs that makes him shout. He can shout all he wants and he knows it’s not gonna change anything: the night outside is full of the yells and laughter of drunken partygoers. No one’s going to look twice at the derelict-seeming garage down a back alley off the side of a nightclub.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he grits out. The drill whirrs to life again and the man crouches down, making sure JT can see the evil-looking thing up close.
“I asked if you were police. Or do you normally go around sticking your nose into other peoples’ business?”
“You normally go around snatching girls from outside clubs?” sneers JT. He already knows the answer: yes, but only the rich ones.
The gang have snatched three different young men and women in the last year, extorting cash out of their terrified families. Once Major Crimes was brought on board, things had moved fast: they’d narrowed down the gang’s probable hunting grounds - a short list of bars and nightclubs popular with New York’s over-privileged rich kids - as well as some of their most likely targets for ransom. JT and Bright had taken one club, Dani and a plain-clothes officer another. And then… thank God JT had noticed when the girl had slipped off through the back doors with a guy she didn’t arrive with. He’d thrown himself after the three men dragging her away into the narrow alleyway, and in the scuffle she’d managed to get away.
JT hadn’t been so lucky.
A pair of hands root though his pockets. JT grits his teeth at the intrusion but he can’t do a thing to stop them. A moment later and drill guy’s looking over his police I.D. in amusement. “I thought so. You really think it was a smart idea to come after us on your own?”
“Fuck you,” JT says, because what else is there to say?
“Detective Tarmel, huh? So, detective… what do you know?”
“I know if you kill me… you’re gonna be in even more trouble.” The men laugh: the guy holding him grinds his cheek against the pitted wood and the drill guy leans in closer. JT’s eyes skitter frantically upward, above the rusted carcasses of old cars to the high, dirty window, where the neon lights pulse to the distant rumble of music. He’d give anything to glimpse a reassuring flash of blue; to hear the sound of a siren. But he didn’t have time to make a call, and now his only back up is a skinny, unarmed profiler who JT’s 90% certain didn’t spot him leaving the club…
“You get one chance to talk before I start using this,” the man says softly, although the sadistic gleam in his eyes suggests JT could spill his guts right now and the drill would probably still be making an appearance in his near future. His very short future… because there’s no story he can spin here that isn’t going to end with him getting his brains splattered over the concrete…
“No? Ok, then,” murmurs the man. The drill fires up deafeningly close to his ear; so close he can feel the air ruffling his skin -
“Wait,” he pants. Maybe he can stall them - anything’s worth a try. “Wait -!”
“Hello?!”
The drill falls silent. Oh thank god thinks JT, and then a second later: what the hell?! He’s pulled up off the workbench and into a chokehold, the arm around his neck squeezing tight, killing any chance he has of shouting a warning.
“Hey,” calls that familiar voice. “Is anyone there?”
There’s the sound of footsteps, echoing off the concrete walls of the garage… moving closer towards the back room where they’ve dragged him. The man crouching beside him puts down the drill and pulls out a gun - and way to sneak up on the bad guys, Bright! JT thinks incredulously. His heart’s in his throat as Drill Guy stands up, his eyes on the shadows around the doorway. After a beat of consideration, he presses the gun to JT’s temple…
… and the profiler wanders into the room.
Whatever you else you might say about Malcolm Bright (and JT has a pretty long damn list in that regard) - the guy is smart. Surely to God, JT tells himself, the kid wouldn’t walk this obliviously into danger - not unarmed, not alone, not without some kind of plan…
Then Bright’s gaze lands on the four of them. His eyes widen in utter shock and JT decides that if, by some miracle, he survives the next few minutes, he is going to kill Bright himself.
“Oh my god,” Bright stammers, “oh - shit!” and JT tries to yell, to tell him to run -
- when, to his utter astonishment, Bright does.
The kid stumbles backwards, almost falling in his haste to get away and immediately JT’s fear is replaced by confusion. Because brave is something else he’d put on that list about Malcolm Bright (alongside a lot of other, less flattering descriptors) - but now Bright’s practically tripping over himself in his hurry to get away. His captors stare for a second before the gun’s lifting clear of JT’s head, targeting the profiler instead.
“Stay right there,” barks Drill Man. Bright freezes in his tracks.
“Please,” he gasps. “Whatever this is… whatever it is you’re doing…” his eyes land on the discarded power-drill and he swallows. “You can just… carry on and I’ll go.” Malcolm doesn’t even meet JT’s eyes where he’s staring up at him from his fucking knees. “This… this has got nothing to do with me.”
JT feels something freezing cold pooling in his stomach. After the shock of the first few seconds, he schools himself, trying to stop his feelings from writing themselves across his face.
It makes sense, he realises distantly. After all, there’s no point in them both dying here.
The arm at his throat loosens, then releases him entirely and JT falls forward, coughing. “Is he one of yours, detective?” Hands land on his shoulders again, fingers digging in cruelly until he’s gritting his teeth to keep from hissing in pain. Suddenly it’s him who’s doing his best not to catch Bright’s eye. He’s really trying, but stoicism can only stretch so far: JT’s not sure he’ll be able to hide the lie if he looks him in the eye. “He look like police to you?” he snaps.
Lucky for Bright, he really doesn’t.
Drill Man seems to think so, too: he looks Bright over in a way that still, in spite of everything, manages to make JT’s hackles rise. He can practically feel the men relaxing around him, all having reached the same conclusion: whoever the guy is who’s just wandered into their impromptu torture session, he isn’t a threat to any of them.
After a few more moments silence, JT steels himself and raises his eyes. Bright’s still standing there, looking downright terrified. Not that JT isn’t feeling pretty shaky himself - but he still wouldn’t have believed the profiler would go to pieces so completely. He’s seen Bright battling with fear before, no matter how much the guy tries to hide it: the night terrors, the daily meds, the hand tremor…
And that’s when JT realises: there’s not a trace of that tremor to be seen. Bright’s hands are perfectly steady where they’re raised in the air.
“Please,” Bright starts babbling. He’s lowering his arms now, holding them out in front of him in a desperate gesture of appeal - as if his hands are going to stop a bullet. “Please, don’t hurt me. I was just… I heard a noise. I can just go.”
“I don’t think so.” Drill Man smiles, cold as ice. JT starts struggling again without any conscious input from his brain - because the whole ‘clueless civilian’ act might have fooled these men but it’s not going to do a thing to stop them from shooting Bright right here in front of him -
Only the man doesn’t fire.
Bright’s just standing there, wide-eyed and helpless, and the guy doesn’t shoot. Something strikes JT around the head: the world short-circuiting in a flash of red, and when the garage has swum back into focus, still the guy hasn’t fired. JT lifts his head again, blinking blood out of his eye. For one absurd moment, he wonders if the guy’s actually showing mercy: if something about Bright’s begging has somehow broken through after a career in abducting terrified rich kids…
“That’s a nice watch,” says Drill Man finally.
Oh, thinks JT, his thoughts moving like treacle. And then, oh. You’ve gotta be kidding me…
He watches incredulously, understanding sweeping over him in a slow, surreal wave… because doesn’t Bright normally wear his watch on the inside of his wrist? The kid glances down at it, as if he’s only just remembering its existence. “I, uh… thanks?” he stutters.
It is a nice watch. ‘Nice’ is probably underselling it, given it cost more than JT’s annual pay cheque. It glitters enticingly at the end of Bright’s outstretched arm, right where these guys couldn’t miss it. His sleeves are rolled up, JT notices now as well, when he’s pretty sure they weren’t before - the only concession he’d made to blending in back at the club had been to pop the top button of his shirt. He could almost admire the sheer audacity of it, if he wasn’t too busy trying to process the fact that Bright has purposely walked in here alone and unarmed… and his plan to delay getting shot is to try and get kidnapped instead.
If either of them survive to give an official report on this, Gil's gonna have a heart attack.
Bright looks in seeming bewilderment between the three men, who are busy exchanging significant glances over the top of JT’s head. “You… you want the watch? Have it!” He starts fumbling it off his wrist and then freezes when Drill Man snatches his arm, yanking it out so he can examine the thing himself. “I swear, it’s not a fake,” Bright promises, looking nervous. “My family doesn’t do fake. My mom gives me a new one like, every Christmas.”
JT can practically see the dollar signs appearing in their eyes.
Drill Man looks Bright over, from the fancy wingtips to the ludicrously expensive shirt, and then lets go of his arm. Bright takes a nervous step back as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pair of plastic zip ties. “It’s your lucky day, kid. Get on your knees.”
“Wait, you… you don’t want the watch?! It’s worth a lot of money -”
“On your knees. Now.” The gun comes up warningly and Bright sinks meekly down. “That’s right. Hands behind your head.”
“Are you… are you going to kill me?”
“Nah,” says Drill Man, with a grin like a shark. “We’re gonna kill him.” He nods to JT and Bright follows his gaze, finally meeting JT’s eyes. It means that when Drill Man circles round to zip-tie Bright’s hands behind him, the profiler’s looking right at him.
Bright gives the barest fraction of a nod… and then he’s moving.
His hand shoots up as Drill Man leans down, grabbing him by the collar and smashing him face-first against the floor - just as JT surges upward, cracking the back of his head into his captor’s face. The guy’s out cold in an instant and JT stumbles to his feet, just in time for the third guy to realise what’s happening and lunge towards him with a snarl —
“Don’t move.”
The guy freezes. Bright is on his feet, the gun perfectly steady in that sometime-shaky hand of his, every trace of fear wiped clean off his face. “Step away from the Detective,” he says firmly, and JT is suddenly reminded that even though Malcolm is always the one without a gun, you probably need some pretty good marksmanship scores to make it into the FBI.
“I’d do what he says,” JT suggests helpfully. “Dude’s a lethal shot.”
Bright nods, offering up that gleeful, manic smile by way of confirmation. It looks twice as unnerving coming from behind the barrel of a gun and sure enough, the guy backs away hurriedly. “Ok then,” Bright announces cheerily. He moves over to JT, keeping the gun squarely on their one remaining hostile, swiping a pair of cutters with his other hand. A second later and JT’s hands are snipped free. “Detective Tarmel is going to arrest you now. If you try anything, I’m gonna have to shoot.”
“Please,” mutters JT, as he reaches out to spin the guy round. “Feel free to try something.”
A minute later and the guy’s cuffed in the corner of the garage, sat between his still-unconscious accomplices. “Always handy when the bad guys bring their own restraints,” says Bright happily. He straightens up from zip-tying the last of them and comes to hover at JT’s side. "Is your head ok?”
“It’s fine,” says JT, determinedly not letting his eyes drift down to the power-drill. He can still feel the sting of the graze at his temple where the drill-bit glanced against his skin. Bright doesn’t look convinced, eyeing the scratch with poorly disguised concern and JT can’t help himself. “You do know as plans go, that was completely insane, right?”
“Actually, the profile said this gang was in all likelihood impulsive and opportunistic,” Bright says, practically bouncing on his toes. “And before you say anything - I called for back up!” He looks impossibly pleased with himself. “Right before I came in. They should be here any minute.”
“So like… ten minutes too late if they’d decided to just shoot you?”
Bright pulls a face as if JT’s being impossibly pedantic. “It’s not like there were any other options,” he says, and the insane part is he actually believes it. It didn’t even occur to the guy not to walk straight into danger… not when there was a chance he could get someone else out of it. The profiler frowns at whatever expression is currently winning out on JT’s face. “What? Look, I had to improvise, ok?” He looks up at him anxiously, as if he didn’t just save JT’s ass from certain death. “There wasn’t much time, and… you really didn’t like the plan?”
JT claps him on the shoulder. The profiler actually flinches before he works out the gesture’s a friendly one: his look of surprise morphing into a tentative smile. His mental list was right, JT reflects: smart, brave… and a special kind of stupid. Classic Malcolm Bright.
“It was very you,” he declares finally. “But you know what? It worked for me.”