Archive of Our Own

He remembers when he told JJ he didn’t care.

They had been 16 and stupid. They had been 16 and desperate.

They’d been 16 and young and he hadn’t known better then.

He didn’t care who was trying to kill them. He didn’t care about the risk or the cost or any of it. He wasn’t giving up the hunt.

Years later, John B’s not 16. He’s got several treasure hunts under his belt, and he’s long since buried his father, but he can’t pretend he’s not still looking for gold.

He should know better, maybe.

But the call of the hunt is impossible not to heed. The thrill, the draw, the everything. It’s all he knows; it’s who he is.

To him, he can’t pretend. It’s still worth the risk.

Until, one day, it isn’t.

-o-

This treasure is the biggest yet.

They all are, is the thing. John B is like his father in this: what’s next is always better than what came before. It’s bigger; it’s more valuable.

It’s more dangerous.

That’s part of the game, and he knows it. They all know it.

And John B?

Always has another lead to follow.

He’s always got a plan to make it work.

Is it risky?

Sure, but it’ll be worth it. For the gold. For the notoriety. For the satisfaction of being the one.

When the others have doubts, he grins. “Come on. What do we have to lose?”

Like the answer isn’t: everything.

-o-

It’s not that John B actually thinks that. He knows he’s growing up. He knows he has responsibilities and people who care about him. He has a life with Sarah; he has a surf shop. Pope is going to be a coroner, and Cleo is going to take over Heyward’s store one day. JJ has his charter shop and Kie is saving turtles and okay.

They have something to lose.

But maybe when you win enough, you forget what it means.

Maybe he’s forgotten what losing looks like.

-o-

“I’m just saying,” JJ tells him one night as they share a beer looking out over the marsh. “Like. We got to be careful.”

John B actually laughs. “You’re telling me that? You?”

JJ frowns a little. “And why not?”

“JJ, you’ve always had more shit than the rest of us,” he reminds him. “I mean. Stealing from drug dealers? Stealing ambulances and breaking the wrong guy out of jail? Driving straight at the cops?”

“You weren’t even there for that," JJ protests. “Or the ambulance thing, technically.”

“No, but I’ve been there for a lot more than the others,” he says.

JJ looks a little grumpy at that, a frown darkening his face. “I’m not saying I’m not with you, Bree. I’m just saying – like, we have a lot to lose now. I have a lot to lose now.”

John B pats him on the shoulder. “It’s going to be fine,” he says. “Trust me.”

JJ sighs a little, looking back out across the water. He holds the beer, not quite finishing it. “You really think it’s worth it?”

John B doesn’t hesitate. For a second. He doesn’t think about Sarah and the surf shop, Pope and his dead people, Cleo and her family. He doesn’t think about Kie saving turtles or JJ finally having a home and a job and a family for the first time ever.

He just thinks about the hunt.

He just thinks about the treasure.

“Absolutely,” he says, like a promise. “It’s absolutely worth it.”

JJ nods, then. “Then you know I’m with you,” he says, and he sounds sure enough that John B believes him. “To the end, Bree.”

They clink their beers and drink to the sunset.

-o-

The end is supposed to be a far off thing.

John B knows it won’t be easy.

But he thinks they’ll win.

Right up until the second when he loses.

Because JJ was right, when you get down to it. John B is a lot like his treasure-obsessed father, in the end.

-o-

He doesn’t see it coming. If he did, he would have done it differently.

Right?

He would have done everything differently.

-o-

He clocks the asshole tailing him early in the day. Pope tells him to be careful; he saw them outside the store. Sarah doesn’t like it, and Kiara flips them off. Cleo offers to stay around for protection, and JJ gives him a wary look. “Square groupers?”

John B laughs, shoving JJ playfully. “You still don’t know what the hell you’re looking for.”

JJ grins back. “I’m under duress, man!”

Let them come, John B thinks. Like all the others.

Let them come.

-o-

It’s not what he expects, though.

He’s picking up notes at the Chateau; JJ’s taking a piss. They’re supposed to meet up with the others later, when Sarah is done at the shop and Cleo has closed up with the Heywards. Pope is putting together the last of their research on the latest lead to show to Mr. Sunn, just to get an outside opinion about it all.

This lead is a good one. It’s an ancient artifact, and John B has come by it through a series of mostly legal trades. In the end, the guy holding onto it had surrendered to them willingly after another buyer played dirty. He’d been so scared for his life that he’d handed it over to John B the instant he promised to use it for the greater good.

It’s the critical clue, the piece that brings the hunt together. It’s the plat mat; it’s the gnomon. It’s all of it and more.

The damn thing has been sought after for centuries, so John B knows they can’t sit on it; the artifact alone is going to attract attention, much less the lead it represents.

People do stupid shit for money, he knows.

They do just as much stupid shit for science and prestige and all of it. People just do stupid shit.

He knows they’ve got people on their tail, so they have to make their plans and move before things get too hot. More people will show up, and the sooner they act, the sooner they can be done with this. This is a precarious stage in the hunt, and they’re all ready for it.

That’s what he expects. He’s ready for drama and intrigue and a little bit of creative maneuvering. They’ll go over their notes; they’ll put together a half-ass plan. It’ll work. They’ll have this treasure in no time.

He knocks on the bathroom door. “You ready?”

“I got to take a shit!” JJ shouts back.

“Don’t plug it up!” John B says with a frown.

“No promises!”

John B rolls his eyes, taking his notes out to the front porch. He’s going to sit, just chill for a few minutes when – he sees the shadow.

The movement.

They’re on the porch.

One from the front; the other from behind.

And shit John B thinks as they come at him.

It’s not what he expects at all.

-o-

They’ve got him, and they’ve got him good. He throws a punch and misses wildly, and he’s smashed face first into the floorboards. He yelps as they wrench his arms back, and shit. He’s going down without a fight.

Then, the front door opens.

“What the–” JJ starts. “John B?”

He makes a sound – a warning, a plea – he’s not sure. One of the guys rushes JJ, and John B bucks. He throws the man off him, and he catches a glimpse of JJ throwing himself at the second guy.

The smart thing would have been to run, but JJ does the JJ thing instead. He tackles the man with the grace of a half-feral child, and they both hit the ground hard, crashing into one of the chairs and slamming into the wall.

The ensuing scuffle is more even than John B’s solo go around, but the end result is still the same. He’s not much of a brawler, and a few hits to the head, and he goes down with blurred vision. He’s forced onto his stomach, and this time, his arm is wrenched back so far, he’s worried it may pop out of the socket. He can’t stop himself; he screams.

JJ screams back, and he sees the flash of movement as JJ runs to intercept.

That’s his mistake. JJ’s and his own. The bastard holding him down wheels around, pulling a gun from his waistband. John B’s heart thuds – worried he’s going to shoot – but he doesn’t have to. JJ has too much momentum to stop, and all the guy has to do is slam it into JJ’s head.

JJ drops instantly, collapsing in a heap, as John B screams his name.

But one more hit to the back of his head and John B goes silent, too.

They’ve got him.

They’ve got him good.

-o-

John B is scared when he wakes up in a cage, face to the concrete floor and smashed against the bars. Everything hurts, and his head is spinning, and he can’t quite remember what happened or why he’s here.

Then he looks around, at the shitty little room they’re in. Dark walls, no window. A bare bulb from the ceiling. And–

A second cage.

John B is scared when he wakes up in a cage, sure.

But he’s downright terrified when he sees JJ passed out in a cage next to him.

“JJ,” he says, adrenaline flooding over him. He rushes to the bars, grabbing them tight. The cages are close but not touching. He can reach the bars to JJ’s cage, but his prone form is curled up on his side, too far to touch. “JJ!”

JJ doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch. His eyes are closed and his face is slack. His limbs are tangled, legs and arms in front of him. From here, John B can’t see if JJ is breathing. He can see the bruise forming around his eye and his split lip. Blood is coating half his face, clearly from an injury hidden by his matted blonde hair.

He remembers the fight, then.

Rather, he remembers the abduction.

He remembers going down.

Dark and black until waking up here.

In cages.

Shit.

Shit.

This is bad. For a second, that’s all John B can process, and his mind tumbles over itself in a numb litany. The sheer weight of how bad it is seems to short circuit his higher reasoning skills, and he’s not sure what to do.

He’s not even sure where to start.

He needs to get out of here, obviously. He looks at JJ, still crumpled on the floor. He needs to get JJ out of here. But he doesn’t know where here is, and he has no idea how to get out of the cage.

Biting his lip, he looks at the cage again, taking in the specifics. It looks like a basement of some sort, given the lack of natural light on rough cement finishes. The room isn’t as big as you’d think for two cages being inside, and John B wonders how the hell they got cages in here.

Or why for that matter. It could have been a storage room at some point, or someone just has a shitty take on interior decorating.

The cages, for what it’s worth, and built into the cement, anchored directly into the walls and floor. They’re the real deal, too. Strong and unrelenting. If he had a crowbar, he might be able to leverage something loose, but he doesn’t. And these bars aren’t going anywhere.

He focuses on the inherent weak points, but he has nothing to attack the hinges with, and the lock is secure. He pats his pockets, to see what he has on hand, but he’s been cleared of his shit.

He glances at JJ and thinks of the pocket knife he surely had in him when they were abducted. It’s probably gone now, too, like John B’s wallet and phone. Not that he can ask JJ, since the blonde is still out cold.

“JJ,” he calls, and he forgoes the pretense of being secretive. They’ve already been kidnapped and caged. He’s not sure who he’s trying to kid. “JJ, wake up!”

JJ doesn’t reply, stays still and silent on the floor, and John B rattles the cage in frustration. He hates it, seeing JJ hurt and being able to do nothing. He tries again to reach him, but all he can do is shake the bars separating him from JJ to no avail.

“JJ, come on,” he pleads, not hiding his growing desperation. “I could use some help here, bud. Please.”

A plea seems like a good way to go. JJ will do anything for him, and he knows it.

But JJ can’t right now. He’s unconscious and John B has no idea how bad it is.

Although, at this point, it’s all sort of relative. Whoever has snatched them must want them alive, and they wouldn’t throw a dead guy into a cell, would they? This set up is too elaborate to not have a point.

No matter how John B thinks it through, though, that’s bad for them. Sure, it’s better than taking a bullet to the head outright and being dumped into the marsh. That is certainly the worst case scenario. But being abducted? Being locked in cages?

Even if JJ is okay right now – they’re probably still screwed. John B needs to find a way out of here – and he needs to find a way out of here now.

The idea is good, but there’s no time to act on it. As soon as he finds some kind of resolve, he hears a nose. He turns, looking hopefully over at JJ, but JJ’s crumpled form hasn’t moved.

He startles more, turning toward the door.

Where two men are entering.

John B recognizes them, but only in the most basic sense. They’re the assholes who ambushed them back at the Chateau. He suspects they’re the shadowy figures that have been stalking him for the last few days – but beyond that, he’s got nothing.

Are they probably after treasure?

That seems likely.

Are they willing to go to great lengths to get what they want?

He glances at JJ again.

Yeah, that seems likely too.

“Step by from the door,” the first orders. He looks like the nicer one of the two, but that’s not saying much.

The second guy is being totally cliche about it, cracking his knuckles in some attempt to be ominous. It’d be ridiculous if it wasn’t working.

“Why?” John B asks, eyes darting nervously between the two of them before he glances at JJ again. JJ is good at bullshitting people. He’s great at reading the room. There’s about a 50/50 chance he’d say the wrong things – or save their asses entirely.

JJ’s still not moving, though. Shit, John B hopes he’s alive.

“Because we’re going to open it, and I would prefer not to have to knock you out for this next bit,” he explains simply.

John B isn’t sure if it’s a good or bad thing that they’re being honest.

Or if he wants them to be lying.

John B doesn’t know anything.

He looks at JJ again, despite himself.

The man sighs, as if this puts him out. “Well, if you prefer the hard way–”

He reaches for the lock, pulling a key out of his pocket. It’s on a tassel keychain, of all things, and John B tenses. He looks at the guy – the other guy – the door–

The door swings open and shit. John B’s got one chance.

He rushes, hard and fast. He makes it past the first guy.

Right in time for the second guy to nail him with a punch, right across the jaw. It’s just one punch, but it’s a damn good punch, and John B goes down – hard – with his head spinning and his ears ringing. Everything goes a little out of focus, and when he’s yanked up, everything goes dark.

He’s aware of sound – and movement – and he blinks a few times. He sees a flash of cement floor. He sees a door. A room – a chair–

He’s shoved down, and the impact jars him. Everything is still spinning, but things start coming back into focus. His head bobs forward as he struggles with consciousness, and then the ringing in his ears comes to an abrupt stop as the ropes are tied around his wrists with another around his chest.

His breathing catches, and his clarity returns enough to figure it out. His arms are behind his back, tied tight and secure. The rope around his chest keeps him upright against the metal chair he’s been sat on.

The room he’s in is much like the other. Bare and vaguely light with a single bulb. There are no windows – just a single door and a drain in the middle of the floor.

There are no cages in this one. A few boxes, though. He can’t tell what’s in them. There’s also a card table, pushed up to one of the walls, and a second chair sits lonely next to it.

The two men are both there, standing in front of him. The first guy looks a little annoyed. The second seems to be enjoying this. It takes a certain kind of person to hunt for treasure, John B knows this. There’s an inherent selfishness in it all – he can’t pretend that’s not the case. In some cases, it makes you like Big John – willing to get your hands a little dirty.

In other cases, it makes you like Singh – getting your hands very dirty.

Sometimes it makes you like Ward – completely insane.

Where do these assholes fall on the spectrum?

Considering that there is kidnapping and cages involved, John B is worried they’re taking this to a whole new level of shit.

“Okay, so, are we done being dramatic?” the guy asks.

John B grunts, feeling vaguely incredulous as he pulls against the bonds. “You literally kidnapped me and threw me in a cage – but I’m being dramatic?”

The second guy grins, but the first one seems unswayed by that answer. “It’s a big play, I know,” he says. “But you have something we need, and we’re running out of time to get it.”

That’s hardly a surprise. In treasure hunting, everyone is after the same clues. It can get scrappy when you’re all vying for it. His experiences with Ward and Singh have demonstrated just that.

But most people usually ask. Make the diplomatic play first. They all tried to bribe him, coerce him–

Kidnapping? Should probably be a last resort. Even Singh, taking Kie, had put her up in luxury before things got hot.

“That’s surprisingly not very informative,” John B tells them.

“An artifact,” the man says. “You have an artifact.”

He knows what artifact they’re talking about. Of course he knows. It’s the same artifact they spent weeks looking for. The one he’d traced down; the one Pope had verified. The one JJ had connived a way to look at.

The one that Kiara and Sarah are currently hiding right now.

Because John B’s not a complete idiot. After documenting and studying the artifact, he knew they needed to put it on ice to keep it – and themselves – safe.

From something like this.

He’d suspect someone would make a play for it. That’s why Cleo is making fakes. They’d been planning to plant the fakes and throw people off their scent – and use the fakes in case someone got too close.

Again, none of them had counted on kidnapping.

Much less cages.

John B swallows hard, though. He can’t say any of that now.

These idiots know enough to know he found it.

They don’t know much else, though, or they wouldn’t be making this play – after following them for three days.

“I have lots of artifacts,” John B says, and it’s kind of true. He’s found artifacts. Whether or not it’s been lots is debatable – and not actually the point.

“We’ve been following you for three days, kid,” the guy explains. “We thought you had it in the house – but we didn’t find anything. We checked your little surf shop, too, but came up blank. We searched your buddy’s house and his dumb-ass charter shop.”

John B trains himself not to look surprised. He’d known these guys were following them – but he hadn’t picked up on that.

All those searches? And none of them had noticed?

These guys had some precision training to pull that shit off.

Which means they’re good at execution.

But not great at treasure hunting.

All in all, that’s not a great combination – unless John B is ready to cave.

For the record, he isn’t.

“My colleague wanted to get more aggressive,” he continues.

John B raises his eyebrows. “This is less aggressive?”

“He thought murdering you all on the spot would be more effective, but I convinced him that since you hid the damn thing, we needed you to talk first,” he says.

It’s not a bad conclusion. Since it involves John B not dying.

Though, it’s also not a great conclusion. He’s tied to a chair right now, so he’s not sure that the not dying part is permanent.

“You could have just asked,” John B says, and he knows it’s audacious.

The guy laughs, like this is the funniest thing he’s heard all day.

All week maybe.

“Sure, kid,” he says. “You want to tell me where it is?”

“Depends,” John B says. And he postures. “What are you going to do with it?”

“Uh, mostly get filthy rich and make a name for myself,” he says. “You?”

“Well, I am filthy rich,” John B says smugly. “So I thought I’d donate it to a museum. Benefit the greater good.”

This is mostly true. He is rich. Like, rich rich.

And he is going to donate the artifact.

After he finishes using it to find the treasure.

His dad had always been very clear about this: philanthropy and personal success don’t have to be mutually exclusive.

He knows this.

These assholes seem to know it, too.

“Don’t bullshit us, kid,” the guy says. “That treasure isn’t just an archeological wonder. It’s the key to finding the treasure, and we know it as well as you do.”

There’s no point in arguing that. Treasure hunters can’t shit other treasure hunters when it comes to these things. John B’s been around this game just long enough to know that.

He’s seen his dad talk himself out of tough situations.

He doesn’t think about the last time, the time that got him killed.

He just doesn’t

Instead, he lifts his head and stares back at these idiots with an air of defiance. “If you knew that, why didn’t you find it yourself?”

The second guy looks a little irked by this. “That was our lead. Your guy? Was supposed to give it to us. We paid big for that piece of shit, and he betrayed us.”

John B feels his heart skip a beat, and his confidence wavers. “You two were his other buyers?”

Because that makes sense. He’d thought the guy giving them the artifact was overreacting. He’d been so happy to get it that he hadn’t thought to wonder why he was getting it. Idle threats of violence were commonplace in this line of work.

This one wasn’t so idle, then.

The bad news is that these guys are ready to kill to get this thing.

The good news is that they can’t kill John B until they know where it is. If they knew where it was, they wouldn’t be here, and John B trusts his friends to do their jobs right. The artifact is safe and secure and all John B has to do is not die. He can posture; he can buy time. He can make them believe he has to take them in person and work out a distraction.

That’s what his dad would do.

(It doesn’t matter if his dad is dad; it doesn’t.)

The first guy seems to understand the connection John B has just made. “You bet, kid,” he says. “So you can imagine we’re – anxious to get it back.”

John B looks from him to the other guy – who has done nothing but look like a menacing oaf this whole time. He reminds himself that he still has the power here.

He has the answers.

He can keep this in play.

“I mean, I get being anxious,” John B says, working hard to keep his voice calm and his body collected. “But it’s not my fault he screwed you over.”

“True,” the guy says. He makes a face like he’s sorry – even though he’s clearly not. “But now I’m tired of playing nice. My buddy here? Isn’t so big into rules. So we’d like what we paid for.”

“If you want to talk about payment–” John B starts.

“No, so, here’s the thing,” he says. “We paid enough. It’s ours. So, this is my appeal to your good graces and social norms.”

That’s – ridiculous. At least when JJ spins a dumb lie, he does it with the conviction that makes you buy into it. This is just posturing – especially since John B is still tied to a chair and JJ is – what? In a cage?

“Good graces and social norms?” John B asks. “I mean, you’re the one tying people to chairs and locking them in cages. So I’m not sure you have much room here to talk.”

The man inhales sharply, and John B can see that his polite conversation is a facade. He’s getting pissed.

No, he is pissed.

He may be more dangerous than the asshole behind him.

“We paid for it,” he says simply. “We want it. And we’re done playing games.”

“Okay, I get that you’re pissed,” John B says. “But I still don’t see how that's my problem. I didn’t rob you guys. I just didn’t.”

The man draws a slower breath and paces in front of John B. “Not your problem – maybe,” he says. “But still kind of your solution. Just tell us where it is. We’ll let you go, and this will all be a fun story you can tell the grandkids someday.”

It’s awfully dismissive considering the stakes. As if kidnapping isn’t already part of the equation. Fun story, indeed.

“Why the hell would I tell you anything?” John B asks with a snort.

In retrospect, he’s playing his hand too hard. He’s not thinking before he speaks. He’s not using the right finesse. He knows he’s right, but antagonizing the people who have kidnapped you when they’re already out for blood – is probably a bad idea.

The first one looks at him like he’s an idiot.

The second one stands behind him and stifles a chuckle.

“You do realize that we’ve captured you and have you tied to a chair,” he says. “If you don’t tell us, you’re smart enough to know how this ends.”

“If you kill me, you’ll never find it,” John B retorts defiantly. It’s almost reflex, ingrained in him by his old man. Despite himself, he is his father’s son sometimes.

“Who said anything about killing you?” the first asks. “That’s not an effective way to get anything.”

The second smirks. “It’s not as much fun either.”

John B looks between them, trying to gauge just how screwed he is. The first guy is tall and built, with a manicured beard and toned biceps. He’s wearing a shirt that is too tight just to show it off. He looks annoying.

The second looks less vain, and more dangerous. The look on his face is a little bit deranged. They both seem especially okay with how this is going.

They both seem set on getting what they want at any cost.

“We’re here asking nicely,” the first says.

“You literally kidnapped me and threw me in a cage,” John B reminds them.

The man inclines his head. “We have more…convincing ways to get you to talk,” he says.

“People have ideals and morals until the blood starts pouring,” the second says, cracking his knuckles. His face gleams. “Pain is a very powerful motivator. And fear? Scared people don’t keep secrets all that well, now, do they?”

It’s not hard to figure out.

It’s not hard to put these pieces together. If he is his father’s son, he knows what these guys want.

And he knows what they’re willing to do to get it.

Torture, then.

They’re going to beat it out of him.

He’s momentarily terrified. Anyone would be.

But the idea of it hardens in his gut, and he realizes – whatever.

He’s been here; he’s done that. He’s faced the darkness before – and won.

These assholes?

They can’t scare him.

John B refuses to give them that power.

He lifts his head, defiant. “Fine by me,” he says, diffident. “Do your worst.”

He braces, expecting a blow. But the man smirks and nods to his friend. The friend disappears, and John B doesn’t understand.

“That’s it?” John B asks, tugging against the ropes tying him to the chair. “That’s all you got?”

The man shrugs, his grin widening. “Just give us a second,” he says. “You asked for the worst.”

The door opens again. John B flinches despite himself. He wonders what it is. A bat, maybe. Or, like, jumper cables? Is that a real thing people do? Or an ice bucket and lighter?

John B’s never been tortured before. He’s actually not sure what to expect.

So he doesn’t get it at first.

Not when the guy drags JJ through the door, kicking and screaming.

Not when the guy throws JJ on the ground, and JJ looks up at him with wide, terrified eyes. “John B?”

Not when the man lashes out–

At JJ.

The first punch smashes across JJ’s face, sending him sprawling to the ground. The guy follows up with a flurry of kicks, hard and unrelenting, to JJ’s stomach and chest. He doesn’t stop until he kicks JJ onto his back, slamming down a boot so hard that the crack of JJ’s ribs is audible.

JJ is left panting and gasping. He reaches a shaking hand up to his ribs, but seems to lack the strength to roll over and protect himself.

And the first man smirks at him again.

“You asked for the worst,” he says snidely. “And I’m only too happy to oblige.”

-o-

The truth is, JJ has taken more than his share of hits in life. John B has seen him get his ass handed to him. He’s picked him up off the boneyard pavement after run-ins with the Kooks. He’s scraped him off the front porch when he passes out after altercations with Luke. He’s seen JJ go down from a suckerpunch, and he’s carried his limp ass back to the Twinkie when he gets in over his head with drunk tourons and their hot girlfriends.

It’s all bad.

None of it compares to this.

After breaking a few more of JJ’s ribs and smashing his nose, JJ looks ready to be down for the count. He’s bleeding all over the place and gasping. He’s not stupid enough to get up, not when he knows he’s screwed. Luke has conditioned him for this shit.

It doesn’t matter, though. As terrible as Luke Maybank is, he’s not like this. Once JJ is down, he leaves him there and considers the lesson taught. These assholes poke at JJ with their feet, stomping on one of his hands until the fingers crack, before hauling him up by the hair.

JJ is dazed already, and the change in equilibrium nearly does him in. John B sees his eyes go unfocused – open and unseeing – as one of the guys drags JJ to his knees. JJ sways, almost drunkenly, while he fumbles with his consciousness, and it’s clear he would collapse back to the ground if he was able.

He’s not able. The hand fisted in his hair is knuckle white, keeping JJ up by his hair alone, craning his neck back so JJ’s facing up toward John B.

Blood is coating his face, smeared all over from his busted nose. His eyes are half-lidded while he tries to focus, and it takes JJ a painful amount of time before his blue eyes clear enough to lock on John B’s.

They’re screwed, is all. John B is in denial, but JJ sighs with resignation, slumping as the hand in his hair keeps him painfully upright. His arms hang limp at his sides – one hand curled up and broken – and he’s not able to do anything.

Still, he shakes his head. Small and miniscule. He wants John B to know.

They’re screwed.

JJ knows it; JJ’s accepted it.

John B shakes his head back, face set like stone.

JJ inhales convulsively, biting back a whimper. He wrinkles his nose, bringing his focus to bear, and he shakes his head again.

Don’t give them what they want, JJ says.

His eyes don’t move; he doesn’t waver.

No matter what they do, don’t give them what they want.

It’s like a bucket of ice water, jumping into the ocean on a hot day. Cold and stark and no. John B doesn’t want that answer. He doesn’t accept that conclusion. JJ has already determined there’s no way out, and he’s done the only JJ thing he knows to do. He’s made himself the expendable one.

That’s what JJ does. JJ thinks everyone around him deserves more than he does. He’ll forfeit his future for his friends every damn time. Luke has conditioned him for that, too. The whole damn town has conditioned him for that.

John B refuses. But–

The second guy comes around, smirking as he looks down at JJ. “He’s telling you he’s got this, isn’t he?” he says with a chuckle. “I’ll give him credit for holding out. Most people would fold by now. I appreciate his balls.”

John B struggles against the rope, straining against them even though he knows it’s pointless. They’re tight; they’re secure. There’s no way in hell he’s getting out. “Let him go.”

The man holding JJ gives him a shake, and JJ’s face crumples a little. He has to close his eyes to breathe through it.

The other man comes to John B, looking down at him with cold amusement in his eyes. “He’s going to make this fun,” he says. “Because I don’t think he’s going to break.”

John B pulls so hard he nearly tips the damn chair over.

The man chuckles, patting him on the shoulder. “No,” he says shortly. “I think you’re the one going to break.”

John B struggles, pulling as hard as he can against the bonds and seething. “You assholes,” he says, rocking the chair with his efforts with renewed vigor. “Let him go!”

It seems to be what they want to hear. The second guy grins, looking impossibly pleased. “I think we should see,” he says to his buddy, but his eyes are taunting John B. He tightens his grip on JJ with a smirk. “Who breaks first.”

“I’m game,” the other guy says, and he turns back to JJ, kicking him as hard as he can in the gut.

JJ grunts, the air leaving his lungs as the other guy lets him fall. He barely hits the ground when they’re on him again.

And all John B can do is watch while they torture his best friend.

-o-

The beating is one thing. It’s bad, but it’s nothing they haven’t faced before. He knows JJ can take it.

Even so, they push it to the limit. They are relentless on JJ’s torso, until his entire chest and abdomen is discolored and mottled. His shirt is lost in the melee, and John B can only think, when they’ve run out of open skin, that maybe that will be that.

They leave JJ gasping and blinking blindly on the floor, circling back around to John B. “What do you think?” the first asks. “Is that enough?”

John B glares, making a face as he strains against the ropes. “This is stupid,” he says, mustering all he can of his fake bravado while JJ struggles to breathe. “We figured out the clues, but you two idiots are doing this instead. It’s not as hard as you think.”

The second hisses at him, grabbing him by the hair and craning his neck back. “You have the artifact,” he says, giving John B a violent shake. “And I know for a fact it was given to you, not found, so spare me your bullshit or I’ll kill you both.”

For good measure, his meaty hand locks around John B’s throat, still smeared with JJ’s blood. The sudden loss of oxygen makes him panic, lungs seizing up as he chokes and the man sneers at him.

“He can’t talk like that,” the first says, shoving the second off. “Stick to the plan.”

The second looks truly put out. “This is getting boring as shit,” he whines. “If we aren’t getting gold, I need to hurt someone.”

“The point of this is to get the gold, remember?” the first sneers. He shoves John B for good measure. “He’s going to talk. He will.”

The second breathes heavily through his nose. John B sees him flex his fist.

The first gets the message and rolls his eyes. “So you hurt him,” he says, nodding his head to the ground where JJ is still struggling to keep his eyes open. “Win-win, right?”

Win-win for the sadistic assholes. John B knows it’s a lose-lose. For him. For JJ.

Not that JJ has much more to lose. He’s managed to get his eyes open, but he lacks the coordination to do much else. He flails, mostly falling into his side, and he just barely looks coherent when the bastards turn on him again.

“Just — no,” John B says, desperate to draw their attention. He squirms, pulling hard, but it doesn’t help. It doesn’t even distract them as they close in on JJ. “Leave him alone!”

“You going to talk?” the first one singsongs back to John B. The other reaches down for JJ, who holds up his hands in a meager attempt to protect himself.

John B doesn’t even have the chance to answer before JJ is yanked up again. He flails, yelping in pain, as he is roughly shoved to his knees yet again. In their grasp, JJ struggles. To get out, maybe. Just because he’s scared to sit there and take it. Instinct.

Shit, John B doesn’t know.

It doesn’t matter.

The hit JJ is expecting doesn’t come. Instead, the second one pulls a light out of his pocket and flicks the flame on. The first presses down so hard on JJ’s shoulders that JJ gasps, and John B realizes what’s happening a split second before JJ does.

“No–” he starts, but the pleas get stuck in his throat. He can’t quite articulate them. He can’t quite make them make sense. He can’t quite do anything. “No, please–”

The man rounds on JJ, holding the flame in front of him. John B can see the flame reflected in JJ’s pupils as his breath catches. He swallows visibly, painfully.

“Human flesh doesn’t burn like paper. It’s not like tinder that just goes up with a spark,” he says, and the flame dances dangerously close to JJ’s nose while the first man holds him in place by force. “But it does burn. It singes and it curls. It catches layer by layer, cutting through the epidermis into the fatty layers beneath.”

JJ is just on this side of panicking, but John B is past it. He struggles violently, rocking the chair in the process as he yells at them, incoherent and angry. Desperate.

He’s so desperate it terrifies the shit out of him.

The man turns toward him, looking him right in the eyes. “It doesn’t always hurt at first,” he says. “But it keeps burning and burning and burning. Have you smelled burning flesh before?”

He turns suddenly, faster than John B can clock, and he presses the lighter to the exposed skin of JJ’s upper chest with unrelenting cruelty. JJ cries out in shock, but as he’s forced into the flame, it turns into a scream. He tries to bite it off, but the sound comes out like a whimper, and JJ sags in relief when the lighter is pulled away.

The searing patch of JJ’s flesh is red and blistered, and JJ slumps against the man holding him, forcing him to switch his grip, using one hand to fist in his hair to keep him upright.

Before there’s a second of reprieve, the light flicks on again, and the man presses it hard into JJ’s stomach. JJ writhes, but there’s nowhere he can go, and John B can see the tears streaming down his face before the lighter is pulled away again.

“You ready to talk yet?” the guy holding JJ asks.

JJ’s eyes flutter open, and he drools blood. He still shakes his head before the man thrashes him, and he shuts his eyes with a whimper.

The second man grins, flicking the lighter flame again. “Not yet,” he says, smirking now. “Wait until the stench of your friend’s burnt flesh makes you retch. Then we’ll see what you have to say.”

Before he can protest, before he can barter, the man turns the flame on JJ again, pressing it against the tender skin around his throat and holding it there until JJ screams.

-o-

They go until the lighter runs out of fluid. JJ has burns up and down his body, with large patches on his chest and a painfully deep scald mark on his right arm, where the flesh has blackened and warped, pulling away from the muscle in gory detail.

JJ is shaking so bad that he can’t stop, and he’s pale beneath the blood and bruises. The man is still holding him upright, but JJ’s body has gone slack. His eyes are starting to look oddly distant, from blood loss, from injury, from shock — John B doesn’t know.

He just knows JJ can’t take much more.

No, that’s not it. JJ will never give in; he’ll hold out even when his body goes. He’ll never surrender; they’ll have to kill him first.

They will, though. That’s the thing.

And John B is the one who can’t take much more.

After the smell of burnt flesh lingers in the air, the first man sighs. “You really want us to keep going?” he asks.

John B doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what to do. Telling them anything is a death sentence. Not just for him. For JJ.

He just – he doesn’t know what time he’s buying. If he’s dragging this out to the inevitable end. Or if they’ll find an out. They always do.

But this time they’re caged in. Not just physically but mentally.

And God.

John B doesn’t know what to do.

The second guy grins, seemingly encouraged by the silence. “Good,” he says, tossing the lighter aside. He pulls a switchblade from his pocket with a glint in his eyes. “Because this next bit is my favorite.”

-o-

Whatever this asshole did in the army, John B knows it wasn’t good. Maybe it changed him. Seeing combat. Or maybe he’s one those types, who join up to let his violence out.

Whatever the case, he’s good with a blade.

Like, unsettlingly good.

Cleo is also good with knives, and she likes them more than a normal person should. But she doesn’t like using them.

Not to draw blood.

Not like this.

This bastard doesn’t just cut JJ. He doesn’t stab him.

God, he flays him open.

The other guy keeps JJ painfully on his knees, holding him upright and still while his buddy cuts. He traces long lines along JJ’s exposed skin, slicing him open in the most sensitive spots. The cuts are deep enough to weep blood but not deep enough to be dangerous.

No, the point is to make JJ suffer. To make him squirm with each cut. To make him agonize over each stroke.

And the point is for John B to watch him bleed.

JJ takes it as stoically as he can. He bites back his cries, visibly steeling himself even as his body shakes. There are silent tears on his face, but he doesn’t cry out. To keep these bastards from reveling in his pain, maybe.

To protect John B from the worst of his torture, certainly.

John B for his part flinches with each cut. He clamps his lips shut and refuses to give in. Telling them anything is a death sentence. He can’t.

But watching this—

Is nearly impossible.

The slow and methodical process crosses overs chest and abdomen, scarring his arms and the planes of his back. A few dance up along his neck, causing JJ to seize up convulsively, before the asshole traces the blade down to JJ’s shorts.

With a sadistic grin, he cuts open the top of the shorts, letting them sag open just slightly. At this, JJ shudders violently, his cheeks flushing as the blade slips further down to the delicate flesh.

It’s only then that JJ whimpers, trying to pull back to no avail, and the guy smiles in satisfaction as he draws the blade up once more.

“You like that one?” he taunts JJ, leaning down to get in his face. He presses the blade to JJ’s cheek. “Should we scar that pretty boy face of yours?”

JJ’s breath catches, and John B can’t stand it. He pulls hard. “No! Leave him alone!”

The man’s glances back at him smirking. He digs the blade in deeper, eliciting a small trickle of blood before he pulls it away.

John B exhales and JJ says in relief.

Right before the bastard takes the blade and plunges it hard into the flesh of JJ’s shoulder.

This time, JJ can’t help himself. He screams, his entire body contorting. The movement is so violent that the first man loses his grip, and JJ slumps face first to the ground. He lays where he falls, writhing and panting with a small, pained whimper, and the first man uses his toe to prod JJ, catching him on his damaged shoulder first before rolling him all the way over.

JJ hits his back with a sob. He tries to choke it back, squeezing his eyes shut as he gasps. His shoulder is bleeding freely now, smearing more blood down JJ’s arm and across his chest.

The man steps over JJ and comes back to him, squatting down in front of him.

“So, are you ready to end this?” he asks, peering at John B intently. He’s so close that John B has no choice to look back.

No choice but to look the man in the face.

He keeps his mouth shut as firmly as he can, grinding his teeth together. He doesn’t trust himself to speak. He’s not sure if he’ll seethe or if he’ll capitulate. He’s not sure which option is right anyway.

As if there is a right answer. His eyes flick to JJ again.

The second man has eased himself back, and he’s leaned against the wall now. They’ve left JJ on the floor, unbound and unguarded. It’s a display of dominance, John B knows. They want to show how much they’ve broken JJ. They don’t need to hold him down anymore. They don’t even need to look at him. JJ isn’t walking out of here.

For as much as JJ has lost, John B feels like he’s lost more.

It feels like he’s on the verge of losing everything.

“You see how bad it is,” the first guy says. He has the audacity to sound sincere about it. Like the bastard cares. “He doesn’t need to suffer like this, but it is going to get worse. We are very, very good at what we do.”

“Good at torture?” John B asks, incredulous. “Who the hell are you guys anyway?”

The second guy grunts, still wiping JJ’s blood off his knife. He throws the dirty towel at JJ, who whimpers as it lands on his ruined skin.

“Treasure hunters, just like you,” the first says. “But it is a second career, if you will.”

“Bit of a midlife crisis,” the second says. He rolls his shoulders, putting the blade away again and stepping over JJ to get to them. “Still getting our feet wet.”

“In other words, we’re still looking for our first score,” the first continues. “We’ve levied our bank accounts to get this far and frankly, our reputation is on the line.”

“Reputation?” John B asks. He thinks of Singh. He thinks of his dad killing two men in a boat. He hasn’t come to terms with it yet, just what sort of career this is. But he didn’t think it was this.

“Spend some time in the army, kid,” he says. “It’ll do you good.”

“Teaches you all sorts of good shit,” the second agrees. “The army might have made something out of that one.”

He nods to JJ. JJ’s eyes are opening and closing at uneven intervals. His breathing isn’t quite right, and John B thinks he’s not exactly conscious even if he hasn’t passed out yet.

Army guys. And not the ones who become heroes. The ones who become private mercenaries. They should be running overseas operations and earning blood money.

But no. These two assholes decided to try treasure hunting.

“This isn’t the army,” John B seethes. He’s still working his wrists against the ropes. The skin is raw, and he feels blood start to slick up and down his wrists. He doesn’t care. “God, it’s treasure hunting. It usually doesn’t work out, if you haven’t noticed. Most of us spend our whole lives chasing treasure, and we get one or two scores. Some never get it.”

“Nah, man,” the second says. “I don’t play that shit.”

“Look, we can’t afford failure,” the first says. “Literally.”

These guys are clearly new to treasure hunting. Anyone in the game knows it’s a slog. It’s not a pursuit for instant gratification. You have to expect a few failures along the way.

Or a lot of failures.

John B’s failed more than he’s succeed, and his dad–

He can’t think about his dad right now.

His eyes linger on JJ, who is still clinging stubbornly to consciousness. He’s not sure why JJ fights so hard; it’s just a JJ thing. To not give up. To never break.

That makes this harder and easier and everything in between.

He looks back at the men and tries to remind himself what he’s known from the start. He can’t just give them what they want. He has to find leverage; he has to build time, space – something, anything.

“Look,” he says. “Even if I had the artifact–”

“Which you do,” the first guy says without hesitation. “You have it, and we know you have you.”

“You searched my house – you searched my business. You searched my friend’s house,” John B reminds them. “I mean, if I had it–”

The guy sighs, clearly seeing his error here. “We know you hid it,” he says. “Come on, do you think we like kidnapping people for shits and giggles? This is work.”

“Nah, man, I’m having fun,” his buddy says. He nods at JJ and prods him with his foot. “Right, kid?”

JJ groans, curling in a little bit as his face contorts.

John B tries not to flinch.

The first guy is clearly exasperated. “I just want the artifact!”

“If you can’t even find it, how do you think you’d be able to use it?” John B points out. “You guys clearly have a certain skill set, but that doesn’t make you treasure hunters.”

He’s not sure if this is bravado. He’s not sure if he’s lobbying to make himself useful. He’s not sure if he’s just being an idiot.

John B’s just not sure.

He’s tied to a chair and his best friend has been tortured in front of him.

He’s not sure.

“What we do with it really isn’t your problem,” the guy says.

“It’s just a lot of work and no real guarantee of payoff here,” John B says. He shrugs as best he can with his hands tied behind his back. “I mean, if you want a fast payoff, just go rob a bank. When you hunt for treasure, you can spend months and years gathering clues and putting together leads.”

“It has been years,” the guy says. “That’s what you’re not getting. We put in years, and someone pulled a bait and switch at the last minute and gave two years of our pursuit to you. So now? It’s personal.”

It’s not that John B didn’t understand that. His dad always took it personal. Singh had carried a personal vendetta for generations. Shit, John B himself had broken into Ward’s house in the Bahamas for personal reasons.

He gets it. When you’re in too deep, everything seems like it’s on the table. His dad had murdered two men in the pursuit, and he’d gone after treasure all the way until the end, until he was bleeding out on a boat in the middle of the jungle in South America.

John B knows what personal looks like.

He knows what you do when it’s personal.

He’s younger than these guys. They’re stronger and more equipped and they have no idea what they’re doing.

Not just with treasure and clues.

But with the part of themselves they’re putting out there.

The part they may never get back if this goes wrong.

That had been his dad’s mistake.

It’s been what kept the Pogues together and alive, despite the treasure.

“Just walk away,” John B says, the memory of his father’s blood still stark in his mind. “This isn’t worth what you think it is.”

The man’s lips twist up into a pain so wry that it looks painful. “Says the guy who has the treasure.”

The second one shakes his head from behind. “Says the one willing to let his best friend die to keep the second one.”

He can’t help it; he looks at JJ. He’s still struggling for air. He’s still hanging on the edges of his consciousness while John B dithers.

He doesn’t mean to hesitate, but he also can’t help him. The first guy notices. “This is what we’re trying to tell you,” he says. He points at JJ. “We’re in too deep. You don’t have to be. You can make his suffering end. Just tell us where the artifact is.”

He says it in a way that makes you want to believe him. He’s almost convincing; you almost believe he’s not a crazy-ass kidnapper with a blood-thirsty best friend. JJ’s eyes clear a little bit as he looks over at John B. He looks long enough for John B to know he still understands.

He understands everything.

John B yanks at his bonds again. “You’re full of shit,” he says. “All this – you’re not going to let us go once you get what you want. You said it yourself, you’re in too deep.”

“Like you got all your clues legally?” the guy says. “If I let you go in one piece, I doubt you’ll go to the cops. Even your buddy here. If he’s alive, I think you’ll keep this on the DL. I just want the gold. You can find the next treasure.”

It’s an offer, at least. So they’re bargaining. “Let him go,” John B counters. “Let him go and I’ll tell you.”

The man smirks. “Nice try, but no. I’ll keep my leverage.”

“But what about my leverage?” John B counters. The blood is slicking his wrists now, dripping down his hands and fingers. “How do I know if I tell you, you’ll let him go?”

From behind the first guy, the second stalks forward. “This is bullshit,” he says. “You don’t know, kid. But if you don’t tell us, I’ll torture him until he begs me to die. How about that for leverage?”

For good measure, he turns on JJ, slamming his foot into JJ’s stomach. JJ cries out, biting it back as he flops to the side and presses his face against the cement in agony.

John B yanks again, so hard that he feels fresh blood well up. “No,” he says. “No way.”

The first guy draws a long breath and lets it out hard. He looks annoyed now. “Fine,” he says. He glances at his friend. “Then I guess we do this the hard way.”

He grins, looking down at JJ with a sadistic sort of pleasure. “Nah,” he says, bending over to grab JJ by the hair and yanking him up. “I think you mean the fun way.”

-o-

John B strains as hard as he can against the bonds keeping him tied to the chair, but it doesn’t do any good. His wrists are raw and bloody, his fingers are numb, and none of it matters. The two assholes don’t even look at him; they don’t talk to him at all.

No, JJ gets their full attention.

The first guy holds JJ in place, fingers fisted into his hair and weight bearing down on him. JJ’s entire body shakes and he tries to pull away – but there’s nowhere for him to go. The other guy, the one with the clear sadistic bent, takes JJ by his non-broken hand. He grins as JJ as he holds it up between them.

“I know you’re doing your best not to scream,” he says. “But I’m pretty sure you’re going to want to give it a go this time.”

JJ shudders, twitching against the grip that holds him there.

The man pulls out pliers with a chuckle.

“I know from experience,” he smirks. Then he looks at his buddy. “Shit, we forgot the ear protection, didn’t we?”

The first man huffs, adjusting his grip on JJ, as if in anticipation. “Just get it done,” he orders. “The sooner he screams, the sooner his friend talks.”

The man’s grin widens. He all but winks at JJ. “This is going to hurt, kid,” he promises, and he sounds thrilled by it while JJ flinches. John B grunts in frustration, rocking the chair so badly he nearly falls.

The pliers dig beneath JJ nail bed, and JJ tenses. His broken hand hangs limply against his thigh, and his good finger convulse against the grip he can’t break.

“It doesn’t bleed as much as you’d think, though,” the man says. “So that’s something.”

And then he pulls. It’s not easy; he has to pull and he has to dig, and JJ takes a strangled breath as he bites back a scream. He nearly convulses as the nail starts to lift away. The blood wells into the damaged bed.

“Just a little more–” the man says.

This time, he yanks.

The nail is pulled clear, and JJ bucks so hard that the man nearly has to collapse on top of him. There’s a rush of air in John B’s lungs, but he’s not the one screaming. The sound JJ makes is desperate and guttural and broken.

The man holds up the bloody nail to John B with a grin while JJ sobs, held up by his hair behind him.

“One down,” he says with a satisfied smirk. He lets the bloody nail fall to the ground as he turns back to JJ. “Four more to go.”

-o-

It’s a horrible thing to watch.

By the time the man is done, JJ is slumped against the man holding him up. His entire body is trembling, and his hand is curled with the bloody nail beds dripping. His voice breaks on the third nail, leaving him hoarse and devastated for the rest of the process. By the time the last nail is pulled free, JJ is just this side of conscious.

The man drops him then, letting him crumple to the floor in a heap, and JJ sobs as he curls in on himself, seeking a reprieve he’s not going to get.

John B curses at them, still struggling as much as he can. “Why the hell are you doing this?” he demands. “This is what you’ll do for treasure? This is who you are?”

“History is written by the winners,” the first man says as he steps over JJ’s body. The second man retreats against the wall, cleaning the bloody pliers on his pants. “No one cares how you get there as long as you get there.”

“Bullshit,” John B says. “This is bullshit. This is wrong. This is wrong.”

“So, give it up, buddy,” he says with a shrug. “We don’t have to keep going.”

He nods back at JJ.

John B grits his teeth. “You don’t have limits. You won’t stop,” he says.

“Oh, and you have limits?” he asks with a bark of laughter. He points a finger at JJ, still sobbing on the ground. “Because I’m really not sure you do.”

John B twists his hands in vain, grimacing. “As soon as I tell you, you’ll kill us both.”

“You don’t know that,” the man counters.

But the diplomatic air is fake, and John B knows it. He knows it because JJ is raw and bloody and crying. He knows it because he sees the dead look in this man’s eyes, and he knows the difference between having nothing to lose and being willing to do anything.

It’s why his father pulled the trigger.

It’s why Singh gave up everything.

When the treasure comes first, you stop thinking about what you’re willing to lose. You only think about what you need to gain. The shift in perspective moves you from eager to insistent, motivated to unyielding.

It usually happens slowly. A gradual descent that you don’t see happening until the good in your hands is covered with blood.

John B remembers now.

It scares him that he almost forgot.

JJ shouldn’t have to bleed to remember.

These men are there already, though.

And John B does know it, he does.

They’ve already bathed this treasure in blood, after all. It’s heralded in screams. The lines are easier to cross the closer you are.

“Let him go,” John B says again. It’s still his only play, and he thinks he’ll do it. At this point, he doesn’t think it’s a bluff. The sight of his best friend’s blood has made him sober; he doesn’t care about what happens next. “I will tell you as soon as he’s safe.”

The man smiles, shaking his head. “No, he’s our insurance policy,” he says. “We need him alive long enough to verify what you tell us.”

“So you don’t kill us right away — just long enough to get your clue,” John B seethes. He pulls so hard. He jostles the entire chair. “That’s no reason to tell you shit.”

“Play nice and we’ll see,” the guy says. “I mean, what other options do you have? Does his life mean nothing to you?”

Screw him, John B thinks, the skin on his wrists tearing again as he twists as violently as he can. JJ is everything to him. He knows what he’s said to JJ. He knows how he’s acted with single minded focus. He knows how his shit has done recently.

But JJ is his best friend, his brother. On the ground, JJ has gone silent, but John B can see him still shaking. He’s curled up on his side, eyes squeezed shut, covered in sweat and blood.

Screw him.

To the end, he told JJ. He would see this through to the end.

He flashes defiant eyes back at the man.

“Let. Him. Go,” he says. Clearly and slowly and with finality. “I’m not bartering his life.”

This isn’t the answer he wants to hear, and the smooth, calm demeanor rubs thin as he stares John B down. “Then you’re letting him die,” he says, voice hard and low. “You may as well be pulling the trigger since we both know he’s here for you. He’s in this hunt for you.”

John B writhes, but it does no good. He can’t deny it. He wants to but he can’t.

The man sees it, too. He leans in closer, eyes flashing like flint. “We’re not that different, you and I.”

“Aren’t we?” John B asks sharply. “I haven’t kidnapped anyone lately.”

“But blood is on your hands,” he returns back, just as cutting. “You do it for the history and I do it for the thrill. You’re in it to preserve history, and I’m just here for a quick buck. Your moral equivocations don't change what we’ve done to get here. Nothing to lose, right? Everything to gain.”

“Moral equivocations?” John B asks, incredulous and terrified. “You kidnapped us. You’re torturing him. It’s not the same thing.”

“But we’re the same,” the man says, sneering at John B. “We’re both playing a game of ends and means. Sooner or later, you realize how much it’s cost you, and it’s too big of an investment to back out now. And regret? What the hell does that do? You can pay for your regrets when you get the gold, right?”

The game is tedious; this back and forth is hard to endure. For JJ, though. Shaking and breathing heavily on the floor. For JJ. “So you weren’t always a crazy asshole,” John B assumes glibly. As glibly as he can with his best friend’s life on the line. “Is that what you’re saying?”

Something triggers in him. Something goes dark; something goes hard. John B can be like his dad; he knows what makes people tick sometimes. He knows how to find out what they want and sell, sell, sell.

Or he just finally got lucky.

Throwing spaghetti at the wall and this is what sticks.

“No,” the man says sharply. “I fought for God and country, until they cut me loose and told me I wasn’t needed anymore. I saw all the treasure we found overseas, and I did the right thing every time. I turned it all in, and for what? To send it to corrupt governments? To release it to damn terrorists? It all went to waste, all of it. No one gives a shit about posterity. No one is in this game for the cultural significance. They’re not.”

“Some of us are,” John B argues. He insists. “It doesn’t have to be either/or. It doesn’t.”

“You’re a stupid kid,” the man says, shaking his head. “You won once and you think you can win every time. That’s not the real world, kid.”

“But neither is this,” John B says. He nods at the room, at the man with the blood on his hands. At JJ. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Sure, but I want to,” he says. “I want to prove that I can. I can do better than the assholes who gave me orders. I am my own man, and I can do this.”

“You’re your own man,” John B says. “Who kidnaps and tortures.”

“Who gets the job done,” he corrects tersely. He lifts his nose and stares John B down hard. “And what about you? You’re your own man, too. And you’re letting your best friend die.”

John B is getting a read on this asshole, it’s true.

The problem is the man has had a read on him from the start. He knows who John B is, and he understands the leverage that he has.

(John B has something to lose.)

“I’m not letting him die,” John B says quietly. Softly. He doesn’t want to look at JJ, who has gone quiet and still with his eyes closed. There’s some relief in it, that JJ doesn’t know how badly John B is bargaining for his life. “You’re going to kill him either way. You are.”

This time, the man sighs. He seems to understand the limits of both of them posturing. Maybe he knows he’s bluffed too many times, and maybe he sees that John B won’t buy it.

Maybe he knows it doesn’t matter.

“You know, maybe I will,” he says. He nods at his friend. “Or maybe he will. At this point, it’d be less messy than the game we’re playing now.”

John B bristles, chest puffing out painfully in JJ’s defense. “Then why the hell would I help you now? The longer I hold out, the longer he’s alive.”

The man shakes his head quickly. “But you have to think it through,” he says, like he’s offering advice. Not like he’s the asshole responsible for all the blood and pain. “There’s a difference right? Between a bullet in the head and days of torture The ending may be the same, but how we get there–”

John B tenses, jaw locking. He wants it to be defiance. In his gut, deep down, it feels like desperation. It gurgles like terror as it churns through him. “You’re lying.”

Across the room, the other man has put his plier away and taken out his pocket knife again. He plays with it like Cleo does, only – not. This son of bitch wants to use it.

On the floor, he can’t tell if JJ is unconscious or just – out of it. He knows how far into himself JJ can retreat; he knows how deep he goes when he needs to deal with pain. All the shit Luke put JJ through, though, and it’s never been this bad. It’s not fair; it seems impossible. That these two idiots make Luke Maybank look like a lightweight.

And the man doesn’t flinch. “I was special ops. My friend, though?” he says, nodding to his buddy. The second man looks pleased at this. “He helped with interrogations. He knows how to make it hurt. He’s taken apart terrorists, so this? Your buddy? Is nothing.”

John B tries not to tremble. When he swallows, he feels the fear bobbing in the back of his throat as his eyes burn. He doesn’t trust himself to speak.

The men can see right through him. “I’ll let him take your buddy apart,” he says softly. It’s soft in a deadly kind of way, gentle in the way that a threat you believe doesn’t have to be hard. When you mean it; when you back it up. JJ’s blood makes it real. “Then we’ll take you apart, piece by piece, until you’re begging me to take the treasure from you.”

It’s a terrifying thing to say, and John B does feel it, like a blow, like a blade of a knife, like a flame on the skin.

But in the fear is anger. And in the anger is – shit, what is it? A rational sliver of something not-quite called hope? John B senses a bluff – too big, too grandiose – and he can’t help it. He knows the stakes, but he calls anyway.

“Just do it, then,” he seethes.

And yeah. He never gets to call JJ the impulsive and reckless one again. Not after this.

But he’s all in now, so he puffs his chest out and strains his hands. He doesn’t look at JJ.

He doesn’t.

“You’re counting on one of us breaking, but it’s bullshit,” John B says. “You can see that, right? So you may as well cut through this shit and get to the end.”

It’s so stupid, and he knows it. He’s tied to a chair; JJ isn’t moving anymore. There may not be an ending to this he wants to know about. For all that has happened so far, he knows that burying JJ will kill him.

Thus is a bluff for both their lives.

The man steps back for a second, and he seems to let out a small breath. John B thinks maybe it’s work; maybe he’ll fold.

But the man steels his expression and shakes his head. “No, it’s taken me apart, and now you can know how it feels,” he says. “I know who I am, and I’m honest about what I’m risking. Are you?”

The man steps over to JJ and nudges him with his foot. JJ makes a low moan and lapses into stillness

“Are you really?” the man demands.

The confidence – misguided and reckless as it may have been – evaporates just that quickly. John B’s heart plummets to the floor as the man scoffs. Eyes locked on John B, he gets down, grabbing JJ roughly by the hair and yanking him up. JJ flails, limbs loose and body still flaccid as he’s dragged up and forced to his knees.

JJ shudders with a whimper, and as the man tugs his hair again, he opens his eyes. The man cranes JJ’s neck back to look him in the eyes. “Sorry, kiddo, no rest yet,” he says. “Your buddy wants to keep going.”

JJ shudders again, this time spitting blood at the man. It doesn’t make it far, spattering across JJ’s chin while the man chuckles dryly. “Okay, then,” he says, not bothered by the spray of blood on his hand. He looks to his friend, who is still slinking in the shadow, knife now fully cleaned. “Can you get what we need to take this to the next level?”

The man steps forward, hedging. “You mean–”

He nods. “Our friend here wants to skip to the end,” he says. “So let’s get this thing into second gear.”

The man looks all too pleased, ducking out of the room with a look of unabashed excitement. As he leaves, the first man comes around to give JJ a closer look. He squats down in front of JJ, pushing his hair back with a squint.

John B, still on the chair and tied down, can do nothing but tense. He resists the urge to speak; he’s worried he can make this worse.

Not that he knows what worse means.

“You doing okay?” the man asks JJ, and he taps JJ on the cheek – harder than necessary. “I kind of need you with it for this next bit, okay?”

JJ grunts, eyelids flutter as the man tugs his head back again, hyperextending his neck as he gives him a shake.

“Come on,” he cajoles, letting JJ’s head fall back down and taking him by the shoulders. “Having you pass out now would defeat the purpose.”

JJ makes a noise, something small in the back of his throat, but he doesn’t lift his head again and he makes no other movement.

The man looks disappointed. Annoyed, he takes JJ by the throat – and squeezes.

John B squawks, yanking at his ropes and nearly tipping the chair.

But the sound is lost as JJ squawks, too. He flails, coming to life in earnest, eyes wide and desperate as he chokes. The man squeezes hard enough to make JJ’s neck red, his eyes just starting to bulge when he lets go.

“There you are,” he says while JJ reels, struggling to catch his breath. He’s shaking, but he's fully conscious again. “That’s what we’re looking for.”

JJ is conscious, but only just. He looks more than a little dazed, and there’s no chance for him to get his bearings as the man drags JJ by the hair, yanking him to the side. JJ struggles to keep up, crawling on his knees haphazardly, the hand fisted in his hair keeping him from falling on his face.

This goes on several paces — as John B shouts meaningless invectives — before JJ somehow gets to his feet and stumbles blindly after their captor.

At the side of the room, the man lets JJ go, and the sudden lack of pressure makes JJ list. He catches himself on the wall, and John B sees the empty look on his face, a telltale sign that JJ is hanging to his consciousness by shreds.

The man, though, pays no heed to JJ’s blind gasping. Instead, he busies himself dragging the card table from the wall and positioning it in the middle of the room. Then, he grabs the chair, putting it behind the table, facing John B.

There’s no time to speculate why when the man heads back to JJ. JJ lifts his hands, as if to defend himself, but it does no good. The man shoves JJ back against the wall, and JJ cries out. His legs wobble but the man is quick to take him by the hair again. He wrenches JJ forward, and he shoves JJ gracelessly into the chair with far more force than necessary.

It’s so much that JJ nearly teeters out of it. His eyes have gone a little vacant again, and even though he’s not tied down, he makes no effort to get up.

No, JJ’s effort is entirely fixed on not passing out. Which, given what he’s been through, is no small task.

John B's hands are going numb from the pressure he’s exerting, which is bad. What’s worse is that it's totally in vain. He’s heard stories of how to get out of ropes, but he can’t remember it well enough now. And apparently desperation is a powerful motivator but not an overly good tool in escape.

Not that John B is thinking this through. Even if he gets out of his ropes, then what? How the hell is he going to overtake these two assholes? Especially with JJ mostly out of commission. And even then, where would he go? He doesn’t know where they are or how far he has to go for help.

That doesn’t stop him from pulling, though. Watching JJ suffer is a near impossibility. He can’t do it, he can’t—

He has no choice.

The ropes continue to cut off his circulation as the door opens and the second guy enters again. He’s carrying a bucket now — a large one. John B doesn’t know why, but he sees water slosh over the edges as he puts it down on the table in front of JJ.

JJ looks at it blankly. He’s equally dumbfounded, not to mention badly concussed by this point. He continues breathing, panting painful breaths through his open mouth, and the terror seems to be giving way to inevitability. He doesn’t know what’s coming, but he’s ready for it to be bad.

For JJ, that’s often how life is. His old man has primed him for this, to expect the worst. The whole damn island has reinforced it, telling JJ repeatedly he has no future. Convincing JJ otherwise isn’t easy. The fact that he’s got a steady relationship, a real job, and money in the bank account is huge.

And these assholes. They’ve beaten JJ right back down.

To the beaten teenager JJ had once been, standing on John B’s lawn telling him they had nothing to lose. It’s that JJ who stole Barry’s money. It’s that JJ that took the fall for Pope. It’s that JJ who nearly staged a prison break because what’s the point?

It’s that JJ who sits in the chair, frozen in place, watching as the second man comes back again with a bag of ice. He dumps it in the bucket, with its wide, open top, filling it so more water spills out, all over the table, dripping onto JJ as well.

It’s that JJ.

“What do you think, kid?” the first guy asks. “How long can you hold your breath?”

It’s that JJ who doesn’t even look at him. Doesn’t look at their captors, doesn’t look at John B. He sits, frozen in place, unable or unwilling to fight anymore.

The man smirks, looking pointedly at John B. “I think it’s time to find out.”

-o-

John B can’t think.

JJ is frozen in place, too shocked to move. He starts to shake his head as the big man slides up close behind him. He protests, a rush of please, please, no before the man grabs him by the hair and shoves him forward.

It hardly computes. They’ve been kidnapped, sure. John B is tied to a chair, okay. And fine, JJ has been tortured, bloody and beaten.

But this—

The man plunges JJ head first into the bucket, hard, fast, and sudden.

John B gapes, unable to think or move.

JJ, though, is galvanized. His panic is immediate, and beaten as he is, he bucks with surprising strength. It must be adrenaline, because he surges backward, pushing up with all his might.

The man holding him loses his grip, and JJ surfaces. He spits water, still flailing as the man curses. The first one looks annoyed, cuffing JJ hard with a backhand that sends him crashing back as his body goes limp.

John B can only watch in horror.

JJ would hit the ground, but the second guy recovers, catching JJ with a snarl. He drags JJ back up while JJ flops like a ragdoll, and this time when they shove his head under the water, JJ lacks the coordination to fight back.

His body convulses, hands coming up to the edge of the bucket. He pushes weakly, but his legs seem unable to support him this time, and the man adjusts his grip, locking in his stance to keep JJ’s weak struggles at bay, ensuring he stays fully submerged.

He’s drowning, John B realizes dumbly. They’re killing him.

John B bites back a scream, taking comfort in the white knuckles of JJ’s grip. His whole body is shaking — from the cold, the lack of oxygen — and the seconds are interminable before the man yanks JJ back and clear of the bucket.

JJ gasps, spluttering desperately as he takes a greedy, desperate breath.

John B remembers to breathe too, pulling air into his own aching lungs. The respite is too short, though, and JJ manages another small, whining breath, coughing up water before the man pushes him down again.

It’s a mess when JJ hits the water, splashing in all directions. The blood on JJ’s torso is smearing now, and large puddles are forming on the floor as JJ thrashes in total terror. His hands flail wide this time, struggling to find some other purchase and coming up with nothing.

“JJ!” John B yells, despite himself. He’s crying, he realizes belatedly. “Please — JJ—“

The grip is unrelenting, and JJ convulses violently, his entire body stuttering badly a split second before his arms start to slacken and—

He’s pulled up again.

JJ doesn’t gasp this time. Instead, he retches, spewing water from his lungs as he gags helplessly. It runs down his chin, and he vomits more before he finally manages a weak, shaky breath.

Tremors rack JJ, and John B feels the shaking run down his own spine too. JJ can’t even beg at this point, his still closed and face contorted, as John B weighs the options and comes up with nothing.

He can’t tell them anything or JJ is dead.

He can’t not tell them anything or JJ is dead.

Why the hell does every option end with JJ being dead?

The respite is shorter this time. Almost cruelly so. JJ is still hacking up cold water, barely managing another strangled breath before the shove him down again.

JJ bucks desperately, trying to push up with his feet. The more he pushes up, the harder they drive him down, and water sloshes over the edge, ice clattering on the floor as JJ’s panic intensifies. His hands grips against the edge of the bucket again, knuckles going white once more as he tries and fails to get relief.

“Let him go!” John B finally yells, when he can’t take it any longer. He doesn't remember pulling, but the rope has started to burn against his skin. He can barely feel it. “JJ!”

The men bear down though, using their leverage to submerge JJ to his shoulders. He’s losing ground, clearly, and then, just that fast, he’s losing consciousness. John B sees the tension in his hands go lax and they slip away from the bucket. His legs stop pushing and he sags forward, completely limp now.

As JJ stops fighting, John B struggles harder.

His posturing means nothing. The internal debate is moot. John B can think and fight and hold his ground and it means nothing if he watches JJ die.

“You’re killing him!” he screams, voice almost strangled with fear. “Stop!”

The man eases up, but JJ doesn’t respond. His hands drag on the tabletop now, and the only thing keeping him there is the constant pressure on the back of his neck, keeping him submerged.

The man seems to consider it for a second, like he thinks it’s possible JJ is faking it. But another beat passes with absolutely no movement from JJ, and he seems to concede what John B already knows.

JJ is unconscious.

Or worse.

Grunting, the oaf yanks JJ up by his hair, dragging him dripping wet out of the ice water.

JJ is lifeless now, face slack as the man cranes his head back to look at him. The other man leans forward, studying JJ with a look of equal disdain.

“Is he dead?” the second guy asks, giving JJ a little shake.

JJ doesn’t respond, hanging there lifelessly as water drips down his face.

Shit, John B thinks. He swallows hard, too numb to struggle now. If JJ is dead—

The first man reaches down, pressing his fingers to the pulse point on JJ’s neck. He waits for a second, then another. “Nah. Kid’s just out.”

The second guy jostles JJ hard. His limbs flop uselessly as the first man starts tapping his face.

“Wake up, kid,” he orders, slapping JJ across the cheek now. Hard enough to leave a red welt. Without a response, he takes JJ by the chin. “Wake. Up.”

It doesn’t work. John B squirms in his seat, not sure if he wants JJ to wake up or not. Seeing him unconscious is killing him. But the idea of waking JJ up for more is just as bad.

The second guy looks annoyed and he bends over JJ from behind, using one hand to pry open JJ’s eyelids.

The first guy shakes his head. “I think he’s out.”

“Nothing?” the second asks.

He steps away. “Nothing.”

With a muffled grunt of frustration, the man drags JJ’s limp body clean off the chair. JJ slumps, legs dragging on the ground while he’s held up helplessly by his hair.

With a jerk, he pulls JJ around the table. He pauses in front of John B, dangling JJ lifelessly in front of him before he throws him to the ground.

He falls there with a thud, meaty and thick, and stays crumpled on his side like a ragdoll. His face is turned away from John B, wet hair plastered to his head, and his limbs are tangled. He’s not moving; not even a little.

One of the guys prods JJ with his foot, pressing at his shoulder to turn him limply onto his back. He lays there, sprawled out, and the man presses him with his foot again, just to see. He smirks as JJ doesn’t respond – doesn’t even twitch.

“Still nothing?” the first asks.

The other shrugs. “I guess I went too hard.”

“Nah,” the first replies. “Little bitch just doesn’t have the stamina we counted on.”

For good measure, he kicks JJ again, the sound dull and hard as JJ remains oblivious.

John B can’t help himself. His helplessness is impossible to tolerate, and his body is tense, desperate to help JJ. “You sons of bitches,” he seethes, no matter how useless it is. The rage has to go somewhere, and the alternative is to accept it, to accept this — and John B can’t. He flails as hard as he can. “I’m going to kill you!”

He means it as much as he can, because he feels it, visceral and deep in his gut. He doesn’t care if they’ve got him tied up and locked down. He doesn’t care about the damn cages. There’s no way in hell he’s letting them do this – to JJ. He can’t let anyone else hurt JJ ever again.

He has the passion.

But he’s got none of the leverage.

The first guy shrugs. “Maybe we should just cut our losses with this one,” he says. He pulls out a gun, cocking it and aiming it at JJ’s prone form. “Killing him might be easier.”

John B’s stomach clenches and panic races through him. They’re calling his bluff now. After everything he’s seen them do to JJ, he has no confidence it’s just a ploy. They’re going to kill JJ sooner or later. They’re going to, and John B can’t sit here and watch. “No–”

The second one makes a face. “I think the other one might still care enough,” he says. “We’ll give him one more day.”

The first turns to John B, but he doesn’t put the gun away. “One more day, you hear that?” he says. “One more day before I put a bullet in his pretty little blonde head and make you see his brains splatter on the ground. You think on that, okay? You think about whether or not this treasure is worth his life.”

The words are caught in John B’s throat – protests, confessions, admissions, pleas – but none of it matters. JJ’s being dragged up off the ground. He’s limp as a ragdoll, and they drop him once. He thuds back hard, his body jolting. John B cries out again as they yank him up by the arms, carrying them between them by his wrists and ankles. His head drops back as they sling him along, leaving John B alone.

He screams, desperate and incoherent, as he tugs against his restraints. It’s useless, though, and he’s sobbing and angry by the time they come back for him.

They don’t knock him out this time, but John B is incoherent with rage and grief. He barely catches a glimpse of a dank, dark hallway before he’s dragged through another door and thrown back into his cell.

He hits the ground hard, his body screaming in protest and head spinning. The door to the cage slams shut, even as John B scrambles back to his feet to lunge at it.

He’s too late, and he grips the bars as the man retreats. The second man is gone, but the first stops at the doorway. “You still think I’m bluffing?” he asks. “You still want me to skip to the end?”

John B exhales, heavy and wet. “Please–”

“Begging won’t help you – and it sure as well won’t help him,” the man advises. “Tell me what I want to know. That’s the only play you have left if you want to help him at all.”

“But you’ll kill him–” John B croaks, fingers so tight around the bars that his knuckles ache.

“You have to decide what kind of man you are,” the guy says. “The kind who lets your best friend suffer. Or the kind who knows what the hell matters. I know who I am. What about you?”

The door closes and John B is left standing there, gripping at the bars.

While hope slips right through his fingers.

-o-

He cries.

He’s not proud of it or anything, but he’s been locked in a cage. JJ has been tortured and John B has no way of stopping it, not without getting them both killed.

The weight of it threatens to bury him.

It’s not fair, he reels. That he can overcome so much and still get put out. That he can achieve and succeed – and failure still stalks him. It’s like he’s still stuck at 16, with a missing father and DCS breathing down his neck. The gold had saved him then.

He’s not sure it will save him now.

And shit. It’s not fair.

He dips his head, muffling his sobs against the bars as he shakes them in futility.

He doesn't want to be here. He doesn’t want to do this. He’s just hunting treasure. It’s supposed to be fun.

Adventure; purpose. Something to do.

Not torture.

Not loss.

Not – this.

He looks up again, eyes strained from the dark and crying. He takes a shuddering breath and looks out across the room again. Beyond the bars to his own cage – to the one’s around JJ.

JJ is out cold again, but this time, he’s lost in the shadows. The room is darker now, the bare bulb not offering enough light to fill the space. The bastards have tossed JJ on the far end of the cage, and John B can see his figure but can’t make out anything more.

“JJ,” he says, trying not to let his voice sound as desperate as he feels. “JJ, you need to wake up. Can you hear me?”

It’s torture, all over again, and John B doesn’t think that lightly anymore. He’s seen JJ be brutalized now, and he’s felt every blow like it was his own.

But not being able to help JJ – to see him lying there alone – is just as bad.

JJ should never be alone, especially when he’s hurting. John B hates thinking about it, the number of times JJ probably curled up on his bed, bruised and bloodied at Luke’s hand. All JJ has ever wanted was someone to love him the way he should be loved, and shit. He can’t stand watching JJ suffer and not being able to help.

Except maybe he can help. Maybe if he just told them. Maybe he could spare JJ all of this.

Or maybe they’d be dead already, both of them.

John B can’t let himself be naive, not even when he desperately wishes he could. There are no easy outs. Sometimes, you have to do things the hard way.

“JJ,” he calls again, all but pressing himself against the bars. “JJ, please, wake up.”

From here, it’s impossible to tell just how bad it is. He knows it’s bad – he’d seen what JJ went through – but the aftermath – he doesn’t know. JJ’s breathing – he can see the rise and fall of his back – but there’s no other sign of movement in the black lump he identifies as his best friend. He’s just – lifeless.

He reaches his arm out, adjusting his position to reach farther – but it doesn’t matter. His fingers can grab the other bars, but JJ is still too far away. He yanks at the bars, giving a little yell, but they’re solid and hold fast and John B can’t do anything.

He pulls back, kicking at his own bars in frustration, feeling hot tears burn the back of his eyes. He curses, flailing again, and he makes enough racket to ring in his ears. His fist throb, but JJ doesn’t so much as flinch from his position on the far side of his cage.

He can’t do anything. He’s locked in this cage, and he can’t do anything.

The helplessness of it threatens to break him after all, and now that he’s alone – well and truly alone – he slumps down to the ground, back pressed against the bars. He draws his knees up to his chest and drops his head down, burying his face in his knees as the tears don’t stay in check any longer.

This is his fault.

This is all his fault.

Because they have something to lose, right?

They have everything to lose.

-o-

John B isn’t sure how much time passes. A minute. An hour.

It seems like forever and a split second all at once. He and JJ were just on the porch of the Chateau, weren’t they? But he’d been stuck in the cage, this dungeon, for a lifetime. Now JJ is hurt — badly — and John B is sobbing on the inside of the bars.

When JJ stirs, he comes back to himself just that fast. It grounds him; JJ needs him. For a minute. For an hour. For a damn lifetime.

“Hey,” he says, scrambling up and moving toward the edge of the bars again. He grips the metal in his hands, pressing himself against it anxiously as he watches JJ’s form. “JJ, you with me, buddy?”

In response, the JJ-sized lump on the floor shifts. There’s a moan – low and pained and uncomfortably familiar to John B after years of patching JJ up. But the whimper means JJ’s awake. John B needs that now.

“JJ, talk to me,” he says, and it’s less of an order than it is an exhortation. There’s a lot of begging going on these days, but between the two of them, it’s different. “JJ?”

In response, he hears it. The sound of a ragged inhalation, held taut for a moment. “John B?”

JJ’s voice is shaky. He sounds uncertain and weak and alive.

John B feels the rush of relief pour over him, so pressing that his head does light as he keeps himself up by gripping the bars. “Oh, thank God,” he says, exhaling hot and heavy as tears spring behind his eyes. He strains to see JJ, who is still obscured in shadow. “How are you?”

There’s a hesitation. He feels the weight of JJ’s silence, almost vibrating in his chest. He wants to ask again – he wants to scream it – but he forces himself to stay quiet and still, to give JJ a chance to answer.

Finally, after a long wait, he hears JJ take a breath, slow and grating. “I don’t–” he starts and seems to falter. “I don’t feel so good.”

It sounds like an understatement, but John B can’t pretend like it doesn’t carry weight.

Like, a lot of weight. JJ never admits his weakness. He’s seen JJ beat to hell and messed up – and he always insists he’s fine. When he’s had a run in with Luke, he’s fine. When Rafe corners him and outnumbers him, he’s fine. With black eyes, bloody noses, split lips – JJ’s fine.

The admission otherwise isn’t just telling.

It’s downright terrifying.

And John B still can’t see anything. JJ is nothing more than a lump in the shadows. He presses himself against the bars. “JJ, can you move closer to me?” he says. “Just so I can see you.”

He sees the dark figure stir. “I – where are you?”

JJ lifts his head for a moment, but John B sees him slump back to the ground almost just as fast. He’s clearly still confused – and badly so. He’s not sure what JJ remembers – or if having him move is even a good idea. But he needs to see JJ to know anything.

He just needs to see JJ.

“Look, we’re in a situation, bub,” he tries to explain. “They got us in cages, so I can’t reach you. You just need to move closer.”

The dark figure on the ground rolls onto its back, and he sees JJ’s chest rise and fall in the shadow. Fast and rapid. “I don’t – remember–”

He says it vaguely, the words dropping off.

John B shakes his head. “JJ, stay awake,” he says, letting his voice rise. “JJ, stay awake and move toward my voice. Can you do that? Can you move toward my voice?”

The heaving of JJ’s chest becomes even more pronounced. “John B?” he asks, voice lilting. He’s quieter now. “I don’t – I can’t–”

It’s too much. The frustration builds to impossible levels, and John B thrashes against the bars, howling in frustration. JJ is so close – JJ needs him – and he’s stuck here on the other side of the bars. “JJ, stay awake!” he all but yells now, and he knows it’s not fair. He knows it’s not right to scream at JJ when he’s this bad off, but he has to. He needs JJ to listen, more than anything. “JJ, come closer so I can see you!”

He waits, desperate, but JJ goes quiet – JJ goes still. So still that John B doesn’t – he doesn’t know–

“JJ,” he says, voice breaking now. “JJ, please!”

Across the room, John B hears something shift. The movement is subtle, but it’s impossible to miss. Then – a moan.

He gasps, holding his breath. “JJ?”

In response, there’s a sharp inhalation. And then – he sees the dark lump on the floor move, lifting up, and suddenly JJ is dragging himself across the floor.

Slowly. Painfully. Determinedly.

“Come on, JJ,” he cajoles. “You can do it. Come on.”

It takes longer than it should, and JJ is visibly shaking by the time he pulls himself out of the shadow. He still can’t see the extent of the damage, but JJ finally latches onto the bars. He pauses to breathe before he heaves himself up, dragging himself upright with the bars to support him as his head drops forward in obvious exhaustion.

“That’s it,” John B says, trying not to yell now. He tries to keep his voice even – encouraging. “Look at me, J. Look at me now.”

He doesn’t lift his head; he sits there, head against the bars, visibly struggling to breathe. “John B?” JJ asks, like he’s not sure where he is or what he’s doing.

Which, he probably doesn’t.

It terrifies John B, roils the fear deep in his gut. He has to force it down, swallow it back, and focus on JJ. “Good,” he coaches instead. “Good job, J.”

JJ is trembling as he lifts his head, tipping it to the side to look at John B. His face is still smeared with blood, and his nose is red and swollen and only one eye opens. He breathes wetly, with a horrible wheezing sound, and John B fights the urge to scream.

Instead, he presses against the bars, reaching as far as he can. “Can you get a little closer?” he asks. “I’m almost—“

JJ half falls forward, whimpering as he slumps with his back to the bars.

It’s still not close enough.

The desperation is running deep now. He feels it, a panic thrumming through him, and he’s not sure what to do, how to fix this. How to fix JJ.

“You got to come closer,” John B cajoles, pressing himself against the bars as much as he can. “JJ, just move closer. Can you do that? Move just a little.”

It doesn’t sound like a lot to ask it, but looking at JJ, he knows just what he’s asking. JJ is curled in on himself, bloody and broken. There’s no part of him that looks untouched, and honest to God, he has no idea how JJ is even conscious right now.

But JJ does it for him. He inches closer until he’s at the edge of the cage. He collapses against them, momentarily going limp, but now that he’s close enough, John B is quick to catch him. He tries to prop JJ up, but JJ’s not able to support himself, so John B helps to lay JJ down at the edge of the cage, body pressed as close as it can get.

John B doesn’t know what to do. He’s got JJ close to him now, close enough to touch – but what the hell is he going to do? JJ’s torso is covered with blood, bruises, and burns. Every breath looks painful with damaged ribs, and he can see that JJ is trembling.

Pain, cold – shock.

He forces himself to swallow, lifting his own shaky fingers to turn JJ’s face toward him. Even in the dim light, he can see just how bad JJ looks. His face is swollen almost completely on one side, and his lip is split and his nose broken. One eye won’t open, but when he taps JJ’s cheek, the other eye cracks open obediently, and John B can see that his pupils are sluggish and not quite able to focus right.

To call it bad is an understatement.

John B doesn’t know what else to call it.

JJ is hurt; JJ is hurt badly.

Shit, JJ could be dying at this point.

Just like that, his resolve doesn’t just falter. It falls to pieces. He’s been buying time, but for what? They’re in cages, and JJ isn’t going to survive another round of anything.

There’s nothing he can do. If he tells them what they want, maybe he can bargain for JJ’s life. It’s a long shot, but it’s the only shot.

He can’t let JJ suffer anymore. He can’t let JJ die.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he says, barely able to make his voice work. He reaches down, hesitating to touch JJ for fear of hurting him. But the idea of leaving JJ alone is even worse, so he presses his hand to JJ’s cheek, using the other to rest lightly on his chest, on top of the uneven, too-fast beat of his heart. “I’m going to fix this, J. I promise you, I’m going to fix this.”

JJ’s good eye widens, and he takes a staggered breath and swallows hard. “But — how?”

“I mean, I’ll just tell them,” he says. He pulls his hands back, gripping the bars with a tight jaw. “I can’t let them do this to you.”

It’s meant as a comfort, but JJ looks alarmed at the suggestion. “But — you can’t. The — treasure.”

It’s just — such a dumb thing to say.

But it’s what they’ve been saying all along. The contact now, though. It doesn’t make sense. John B is not his father. With JJ’s life on the line, he understands the difference.

“We’re already rich,” John B says, almost choking on the words. “We don’t need another treasure.”

“No,” JJ protests, almost desperately emphatic about it, as if he can’t fathom what John B is saying right now. It could be the pain, the blood loss, the concussion – or just JJ being so painfully JJ. “We can’t tell them.”

“I don’t give a shit about the treasure,” John B says again, as clearly and simply as he can. “JJ–”

JJ exhales heavily, slumping back as he shakes his head dejectedly. “But if you tell them – they’ll kill us. You – can’t.”

JJ had figured out before he had, but the implications of it are harder for John B to handle. JJ’s always had a low regard for his own safety, to the point that his attempts at self sacrifice almost don’t count. He can’t take JJ at his word when he knows JJ’s been trained his whole life to think he’s worthless.

And it’s not JJ’s call. That’s the rub, isn’t it? JJ doesn’t get a say in any of this.

JJ’s the leverage.

John B’s the mark.

They’re both expendable, eventually. But JJ’s worth will be spent before John B’s. If John B tells them now, JJ won’t be getting out of here.

It’s just – he’s not sure JJ’s getting out of here anyway.

He’s not sure either of them are getting out of here.

He swears, the weight of his own helplessness hitting him hard. His eyes are burning again as he runs his hand through JJ’s hair, keeping his face turned toward him so his one good eye can see him. “I screwed us,” he says. “This treasure screwed us. If I tell them, they’ll kill you. If I don’t tell them, they’ll kill you. I don’t know how to get you out of this.”

“I know,” JJ says, taking short, halting breaths. His lungs are starting to sound worse, and his eyes go vacant for a second as he struggles to bring them back into focus. “I’m screwed. But – you–”

“JJ, shut up,” John B says, and he’s crying now. He can feel the hot tears on his face and he can’t stop it. “JJ–”

“B–” JJ gasps, shaking his head weakly against John B’s touch. “You – gotta – escape.”

It’s not what he’s expecting. John B’s unable to anticipate any of it at this point, but the words leave John B at a loss. “Escape?” he repeats. He draws his brows together. “JJ, we’re in cages. How would we even start?”

To John B, it feels like a rhetorical question. Like he’s just trying to make a point.

But that’s when JJ’s planning is always at his finest. Give him an impossible situation, and he’ll always come up with something.

The stupider the better.

They give him shit about it – John B gives him shit about it. Because that’s how they end up running drugs and staging prison breaks.

But JJ never stops trying, right? He pushes and he pushes and he pushes, because JJ?

Doesn’t know how to quit.

John B gets it now.

He does.

JJ doesn’t even need a gun to his best friend’s head to realize that he’ll put all his cards on the table.

“I think–” JJ starts, trailing off for a second. His eyes wander, and John B worries he’s about to pass out again. But he looks back at John B. “I have an idea.”

He wants to laugh, actually. He’s so tired and he’s so worn. JJ’s so broken and yeah. JJ has an idea.

“Your ideas are shit, JJ,” he says thickly. “Always.”

It’s kind of awful that JJ takes that, like he’s expecting it. Like part of him believes it. “I know,” he says. He barely lifts one shoulder in the faintest approximation of a shrug. “But we don’t have a lot of options.”

JJ’s pragmatic, in the end. While the rest of them opine about what’s right and wrong, good and bad, possible and likely – JJ just understands that shit has to get done. He’s used to having nothing to work with, and the idea of failure is unusually palatable to JJ. If only because he’s been faced with it so many times.

And it’s really easy to call a plan shit.

When you haven’t offered up any of your own.

“Like what?” John B asks, because he’s desperate enough.

JJ takes a slow, ragged breath. It looks painful as the air moves his damaged rib cage. He shudders but collects himself with a little nod. “We just have to make a diversion.”

“A what?” John B asks, wrinkling his nose.

He regrets the depth of his incredulity as he sees JJ muster up his strength to prove him wrong. “We just need them to – open one cell,” he says. “We take them by surprise, get the key – and open the other cell. Then, it’s two on one.”

The simple logic is there.

But it’s missing a few logistical details.

Or, you know, all of them.

“But what kind of diversion?” John B asks, voice hitching as his emotion gets the better of him.

JJ sighs, slumping in exhaustion against the bars. His eyes are only half open by this point, but he presses on. “We play to our strengths right now.”

“Uh, we don’t have strengths,” John B reminds him. He nods around the cell and their pathetic existence. “You’re beat to hell, and I’m not much better off.”

“Exactly,” JJ says, perking up just a little. A hint of a smile pulls at his bruised face, but it’s hard to tell with how beaten JJ is. “I play dead. You call for help. They still need me alive, right? So, they’ll open the cell to check on me – and wham. I’ll take the dude out.”

JJ says it like that, like it’s some kind of obvious.

All John B can think is that it’s obviously bad.

There are so many things that can go wrong. They might both come in; they might not give a shit if JJ’s dead. They might use this chance to apply further leverage to John B.

Anything could go wrong.

“That’s a shitty idea,” John B says, shaking his head. He can’t fathom it; he doesn’t know how. “It’s not going to work.”

JJ blinks at him, frustratingly credulous. “It will work. Kie told me about it,” he says. “That’s how she and Rafe escaped Singh.”

This explanation doesn’t make John B feel much better. “Citing a plan with Rafe doesn’t exactly make me like it more.”

JJ takes a long, slow breath, clearly wincing through the pain. “But it worked.”

“Sure, maybe,” John B says. “But you’re in no condition–”

Even as John B says it, JJ is shaking his head. He takes a breath, slow and shaky, before he grabs the bars and starts to pull himself up. “No,” he croaks. “I can do it.”

The work it takes to get himself sitting up is far too much. But JJ sits there, clutching his midsection like he’s proved something.

John B shakes his head. “JJ, you can hardly breathe. Much less move.”

JJ winces, giving a tight nod as he tries to adjust to a more comfortable position – and fails. “That’ll help the whole – dying thing.”

“But the entire plan depends on you taking the guy out,” John B reminds him.

“You think I can’t take him?” JJ asks, clearly wounded at the prospect.

John B resists the urge to roll his eyes. JJ does have a tendency to get upset about the wrong things. It’s just the nature of JJ’s life that he finds the dumbest hills to die on. He suspects it’s JJ’s complete lack of control in most things, and it’s just a habit he’s never grown out of.

Which. Okay.

But John B can sort out JJ’s emotional barriers later. When they’re not locked in cages and doomed to death.

“These guys are ex-military,” John B says. “And you’re not exactly in fighting condition, dude.”

JJ’s brows furrow in response. Determination, maybe. Utter defiance, too. “I can do it,” he says – he insists. “I can make this work. Unless you think you can’t sell it.”

Oh, so that’s how JJ wants to play it. Flip the script, like John B is still some hormone-charged teenager who doesn’t want to be wrong.

He’s not, though.

He’s an adult with less hormones and more total terror, stuck with his best friend beat to hell and the oppressive fact that it’s kind of, sort of, totally his fault. For being too cocky. For getting in too deep. For not caring about the risk. For saying they had nothing to lose.

When they had everything to lose.

“Fine,” he says, letting out a sigh. He shakes his head because he can’t dwell on the doubts. “Fine, we’ll do it.”

JJ’s face brightens.

As much as it can, considering the damage done to it.

“Okay,” he says, pulling himself up a little more. “Let’s do this–”

John B reaches out, grabbing JJ one more time through the bars, waiting for his best friend to look at him. “Are you sure?”

He doesn’t mean to sound like he doubts. He doesn’t mean to hesitate.

It’s just – if something goes wrong.

John B will have no way of getting to JJ.

And JJ doesn’t have much room for error here.

There’s just so much that can go wrong.

Beyond the bars, JJ meets John B’s gaze with his good eye. He nods. “I’m sure.”

-o-

Being sure is a strange thing. It’s about being committed to the idea.

Even when you have no idea if success will follow.

He imagines some people do it differently. Some people are smarter, probably. More careful, at the very least. John B likes to think he’s gotten better about this in recent years, since the El Dorado money came in and he grew up and shit.

It’s like he’s 16 again. Young and stupid is only half of it. His back is against the wall. It’s not just about having nothing to lose.

It’s about having no other options.

As a teenager, it’d been DCS breathing down his neck and house bills stacking up.

Funny how quaint it seems now. He misses when the cages were more mental – and a little less physical.

But there’s no time to think about it now. If John B is getting JJ out of this cage, it’s time to act.

Across the room, in the other cage, JJ positions himself on the floor. He’s careful to position himself away from the entrance, back in the corner. Enough to lure the asshole inside the cage – and to give JJ the fastest and clearest path to escape.

The plan relies on that, after all. The plan relies on JJ – beat to hell and tortured – overpowering one of these assholes. If they mess that up – then it’s over. It’s entirely over.

Thinking about failure doesn’t get him anywhere.

JJ gives him one more look. His jaw is tight, but he nods. “Okay,” he whispers. “I’m ready.”

That’s great. John B’s not sure he’s ready.

He swallows hard anyway, watching as JJ closes his eyes and settles down. He takes a breath, gripping the bars.

And screams.

“Help! Please! Help me!”

He rattles the bars and makes a loud, choked noise. The tears aren’t hard to muster; he’s not sure how much of this is acting anymore.

“He’s not breathing!” he yells, letting his voice rise until it’s scraped raw against his throat. “Please!”

It seems to take a painful amount of time, and John B screams again before the door opens. He’s relieved that it’s just one guy – the second one. Burlier and meaner.

Stupider, John B hopes.

“Please!” he says, and he sobs again. “He won’t wake up! Something’s wrong!”

The man looks from John B, eyes wide as they settle on JJ’s crumpled form in the corner of the cage. There’s a split second of indecision before he acts.

A split second before John B realizes this plan might work after all.

“Shit,” the second guy says, moving to the bars on JJ’s cage. “What the hell happened?”

“He – started convulsing,” John B says, mustering up the first lie he can think of. “And then he was choking – and I – I think he’s not breathing. I think he’s dying–”

If it’s a stupid lie, he’s selling it well. He sounds desperate and breathless because that’s exactly what it is. The emotion is real, at least.

The man curses again. “Okay, okay,” he mutters, fumbling in his pockets for what John B presumes to be the key. He produces it, poking at the lock–

“Please!” John B screams now. “Save his life – and I’ll tell you what you want to know!”

It’s a nice touch. Just enough to add a cherry on top. The guy twists the key and the lock gives – and the door swings open.

John B’s breath catches.

He feels his body tense in anticipation. There’s nothing he can do but watch.

You’d think he’d be used to that by now.

The man approaches JJ, prodding him with his foot. JJ doesn’t move, stays limp, even as the man kicks him over onto his back. JJ’s arms flail wide, head rolling to the side, and John B worries suddenly that JJ has passed out for real.

But as the man leans over, frown creasing his face with his fingers stretched to press to JJ’s neck – JJ moves. Fast and sudden, he reaches up and grabs the man by the arm. He yanks him down – hard – sending him face first into the cement floor.

With speed that belies the torture he’s been through, JJ is up in an instant, using his foot to bash the man in the head. The man yelps, struggling to protect himself. And in his surprise, he’s not able to stop JJ when he reaches for the man’s waistband.

And successfully retrieves the gun.

It happens in a split second, almost faster than John B can clock. He gapes as he watches. JJ shaking on his feet. The man reaches for his side but is too slow, and he looks up at JJ with wide, angry eyes.

“You son of a bitch–” he seethes, and he lunges forward.

John B braces. Worried that JJ will go down.

Worried that the gun will go off.

But JJ spins it hard, slamming it across the man’s face, catching him across the temple and nose hard enough that the man goes instantly limp, falling back to the floor before he has a chance to surge.

The effort seems to take everything JJ has. And he collapses with the guy in a heap on the ground even though he hasn’t been hit.

“JJ!” John B tells, heart hammering. He knows JJ is weak, but their window of opportunity is limited here. JJ has to get him out. “JJ, the key—“

Pushing himself up on trembling arms, JJ stumbles. He blinks hard – clearly dazed – as he fumbles to get himself up.

“JJ, we need the key, the key–” John B says, heart hammering. He hates ordering JJ around in this state – but time is of the essence. If the other guy shows up–

JJ braces himself on the ground as he kneels over, groping half blind for the key. His coordination is entirely off, and he wavers unsteadily. John B worries he’s going to pass out when he pulls the key out of the man’s pocket. Heaving for air, he holds it up to John B, turning toward him and looking absolutely wrecked.

“Yes!” John B says, practically bouncing up and down as he holds the bars. “Bring it here, JJ. Bring it!”

JJ’s face contorts in obvious pain, but he doesn’t let up. He trips over his own feet, but drags himself forward. When he gets to the bars of John B’s cave, he has to pull himself up, holding onto the bars hard to stay upright. His fingers fumble with the keys, and John B slams his hand against the bars.

“Come on, come on,” he says. He reaches out. “Should I–?”

But JJ gets the key to the lock. He misses once, scraping against the metal opening. And on the second try he gets the key to slide in.

“That’s it!” John B says. “You got it–”

He’s so anxious about JJ getting the key that he doesn’t hear the other guy until he’s already in the room. His eyes widen in momentary terror.

“JJ,” he starts, but it’s too late. The man is too close and JJ is too injured. “JJ, look out–”

And the man rams into JJ, sending him face first into the bars. JJ lets out a terrible, pained noise, and John B yelps. The man follows up by grabbing JJ by the hair, yanking him back so hard that he loses his footing.

JJ flails, uncoordinated to the point where it’s impossible to tell if he’s fighting back or just trying not to fall. John B’s heart threatens to pound out of his chest. The key is still in the lock, though–

He has to unlock the cage – he has to get to JJ – he has to–

The man drags JJ up, shaking him hard. JJ lashes out, his foot connecting with the man’s leg – and he responds by backhanding JJ into the ground. Eyes blazing, the man turns to John B, whose sweating fingers can’t find purchase–

Before the man can advance, JJ grabs his leg and the man goes down. Not hard – but hard enough–

And the man spits vitriol, turning back to JJ, to finish the fight he started.

The fight isn’t much of a fight. Even in good condition, JJ wouldn’t be much match for these assholes. They’re trained military men with ample experience in killing and hand-to-hand combat. JJ is scrappy, and he’s picked more than his share of fights, but yeah. He’s not got the weight; he’s not got the killer instinct.

And he’s also been beat to hell already.

Which is to say, it’s not a fight at all. By the time John B opens his lock, the man has JJ on the ground. He’s on top of him, raining his fists down on JJ’s body and face. JJ’s hands have slipped away – he’s not defending himself. He’s bloody and still and–

John B stops thinking.

He acts.

Because he’s not tied down now. And he’s sure as hell not in a cage.

This bastard – this asshole – can’t hurt JJ anymore. Not if John B has anything to say about it.

It’s not a well thought out offensive, but John B doesn’t give a shit. He crashes into the man, tackling him off JJ and sending them both to the ground. The man hits first, and they roll. He gets the upper ground, curling his own fingers into fists as he punches once, twice–

The man surges, though. He bucks hard and dislodges John B. He’s on his feet faster than John B can keep up, and John B’s not fast enough to avoid a strong kick to his gut.

Gasping and dazed, John B struggles to get his bearings. He staggers back to avoid the next blow and gets to his feet–

Just in time to see the man reaching for his gun.

Panic sparks in his chest, and John B lunges again. The man loses the gun as it clatters to the ground, and John B’s weight takes them both down once more. He fares even worse this time, hitting his back hard. The man slams him with a fist that has him seeing stars, and he grabs John B by the hair and slams his head down again, hard into the concrete.

For a second, everything goes black. His ears start to ring, and his body feels numb. He needs to get up, he needs to move, he needs to–

He blinks, and he sees the man going for the gun.

He inhales and pushes himself up. Nausea floods over him, and everything goes white. His breath catches and he staggers.

When his vision clears, the man has the gun. He’s turning it on him.

And John B thinks – shit. This is it. He’s too slow, too weak, too – everything.

“You little bastard,” the man seethes, steadying his aim. “All you had to do was tell me.”

This is the way it ends, then. This is it.

But before the shot comes, there’s a flash of movement.

It’s–

JJ?

Uncoordinated and graceless, JJ lunges between John B and the man. John B gets to his feet, trying to stop him, but there’s no point. JJ hits the man with the full force of his body weight, and they both go down.

As the gun goes off.

John B yelps, adrenaline bringing him back to bear. He crosses over to them in an instant, right as JJ rolls off the man. He makes eye contact with John B.

“B?” he asks. “You ‘kay?”

John B nods. “JJ – are you–”

JJ nods back. “He – the gun–”

John B looks at the man, blinking back to awareness. The gun is nowhere to be seen, and John B has the upper hand now, thanks to JJ. Without thinking, he slams his foot on the man’s head. Once and twice – and three times until the man goes still, eyes closed and mouth open, and John B finally remembers how to breathe.

The man is out cold. Over in JJ’s cell, the other man is out cold, too.

They’re out of the cages; there’s nothing holding them back now.

“We did it,” he says, laughing in disbelief. “We actually did it.”

JJ blinks at him, grinning back as he pulls himself slowly and painfully into a sitting position. “We did it?”

“Yeah, but we got to move,” John B says. “Before they wake up—“

He steps forward, crossing the distance to JJ. He pulls JJ’s arm around his shoulder to steady him, and JJ hisses in pain. John B curls a hand around his waist as JJ lists, hauling him upright.

“Come on,” he says, moving them to the door. “Let’s get out of here.”

If JJ is going to protest, John B leaves no time for it. JJ is too breathless anyway, and his head looks forward as his legs threaten to give way. John B grunts, though, and JJ keeps his legs moving forward. Head still down, he’s trusting John B to lead here.

This seems like a bad idea. John B and his leadership have had less than desirable outcomes here. But he’s not going to stop how, not when they’re so close.

Not when JJ needs him.

Not when JJ trusts him.

He knows what that means now. In painful, graphic clarity.

He gets them to the door, bracing as much of JJ’s weight as he can. His hand is slippery with sweat as he tries the handle, and he flushes with relief as it opens easily. It’s awkward, keeping it open as he drags JJ through, but he gets it done. He sees the bodies of their captors still in the cages as the door swings shut. They haven’t moved, but John B doesn’t know.

He can’t—

JJ stumbles, and John B fumbles to catch him. “Hey, easy,” he says, adjusting his grip on JJ and getting them into the hallway. It’s as dark and sank as he remembers. Clearly, these assailed hadn’t been springing for nice accommodations.

Or, you know, electricity. Torture implements must have exhausted the budget.

“Okay,” he says, trying to get his bearings now. Trying to get his wits. An escape plan involves escape, and John B has a ways to go on that yet. He steals a glance at JJ, eyes downcast and mouth open as he pants, and feels the panic stir in his gut again. “We’re almost there. Okay? We’re almost there.”

He’s not sure if this is a lie. It seems like a moot point. Either they make it or they don’t. And John B isn’t entertaining the other option.

“John B,” JJ says, halting and breathless. He leans into John B a little more, his weight starting to list to the side.

John B adjusts his grip, trying to keep JJ upright as he hauls them both forward another few feet, trying the next door. “Yeah, I’m working on it,” he mutters, feeling his frustration mount as the door leads to another closet.

He flicks his gaze down the hall, settling on the door at the end. His instincts say that’s probably the exit, given its position and the window on it. It looks different than the others. This is a basement; the exit has to be somewhere.

“John B,” JJ says again, fingers gripping weakly at the front of John B’s shirt as he drags him forward again. “I–”

John B is just short of the door – just close enough to see the flash of stairs through the window – when JJ falls.

It’s probably not unexpected – JJ has been tortured, after all – but John B is so focused on escape that he doesn’t see it coming. That’s a thing, right? Another way John B is just like his dad. You get so focused on the endgame that you forget to worry about the here and now. That’s how you abandon your kid for treasure.

That’s how you let your best friend be beaten right in front of you.

That’s how.

Startling, John B barely manages to catch JJ’s weight as he goes down. JJ is all limbs, and John B hisses a curse as he tries to maneuver him. It doesn’t quite work, and they both go down, John B on his ass and JJ cradled in his arms.

“Shit, JJ,” John B says, shifting himself to try to get back up. JJ slumps against him, though, eyes fluttering without fully opening. John B reaches up, tipping JJ’s face toward him. “Don’t check out yet, buddy. We have to get out of here–”

JJ mumbles something, but the words slur together unintelligibly. His chest hitches dramatically, and the sliver of his blue eyes can’t quite focus, even when John B pats his cheek again.

“JJ,” he says, giving him a little shake. He looks down the length of JJ’s body – the bruises and the burns and the cuts and the blood. “What the–”

It’s not just a little blood.

It’s a lot of blood.

It’s too much blood.

He rolls JJ slightly to the side to get a better look, and that’s when he sees it. The swath of red coating JJ’s shorts. It’s soaking down his leg, all the way to his sock and shoe. His stomach goes hard and cold as he looks back up the length of JJ’s body, fingers grazing over the bloody area on JJ’s side, beneath his arm, to the side of his chest–

A bullet hole.

“JJ,” he says, and his entire body feels like it’s going numb now. His ears ring as he tries to make sense of it. “But how–”

The tussle with the gun. JJ had thrown himself between. The sound of the gunshot.

He shakes his head, denial welling up in him. “JJ, no,” he breathes. His fingers are bloody as he reaches back up to JJ’s face and taps his cheek. “No, no, no. JJ. JJ–”

Somehow, JJ blinks awake. His eyes are dull as he pulls in hair through his open mouth. “Sorry,” he slurs badly now. “‘m sorry–”

He presses his hand to the bullet hole and all JJ does is shudder. The hot, thick blood wells up through his fingers almost immediately, and his own heart stutters in his chest. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

JJ’s gaze is slipping again, even as John B jostles him, trying to bring him back around. JJ tips his head forehead, resting it against John B’s arm as his eyes start to close. “Did we – get the – gold?”

John B curses loudly. “JJ – we’re not – who cares,” he says, voice starting to pitch. “JJ–”

But JJ slumps again, eyes closing this time. This time, when John B shakes him, he doesn’t rouse, and when he taps JJ’s face, there’s no response. He’s out — he’s —

Breathing. John B can feel the grating breaths JJ is taking, and he can see the frantic way JJ’s chest rises and falls. He’s alive, though. He’s alive.

He looks up, down the hall. He needs to get JJ out. Now more than ever. He’s scared, yeah, but JJ is bleeding out, and John B knows his priorities.

Better than ever.

“Okay,” he says, gritting his teeth. He grunts, adjusting his grip on JJ and getting his feet beneath his. He knows he’s supposed to keep pressure on the wound, but getting out is the priority. The sooner he does that, the sooner he can get JJ help. His hand on a bullet hole isn’t going to do much anyway. JJ needs a hospital now. “Let’s get up—“

He’s talking to JJ, even if it’s clear JJ can’t hear him right now. He’s not so much looking for a response as he is just — shit, what is he doing? Trying to keep himself going, probably.

The first step feels unsteady, but John B doesn’t think about it. He doesn’t think about anything. Not the asshole who did this. Not the blood from JJ’s side. Not the fact that he had no idea where he is or how he’s going to get help.

He has to get out.

He has to get JJ out.

Out of the cages. Out of the room.

Out of the basement and out of this building.

By the time he makes it to the door at the end of the hall, he’s breathing heavily and drenched in sweat — and blood. He swallows back nausea as he curses as JJ says against him. He just barely keeps his grip as he reaches for the handle.

It opens.

Oh, thank God.

The relief is momentarily blinding as it swings open to a stairwell. He doesn’t know where the stairs lead, but as long as it’s not back to those cages, John B figures it’s his best option.

“See?” he says, as if JJ can hear him. “We’re almost there. Just a little more.”

Pulling JJ up the first step is a near disaster that has John B cursing, barely bracing himself. JJ flops forward limply, and John B does what he can not to drop him.

It works but it’s not sustainable, so John B shifts JJ so his back is to John B’s chest. Then, he hauls him up the next step backward, breathing heavily into the top of JJ’s mussed blonde hair. JJ’s deadweight is heavy and unwieldy, and John B is dizzy with it all. Lightheaded, nauseous – how long has he been here?

How long has JJ–?

He doesn’t think about it. He focuses on the steps, one at a time. JJ’s bare feet thump up each on. At the landing, John B pauses with a sob, adjusting his grip as JJ’s entire body is slick with blood.

“Come on,” he says, panting the words now. “We have to get out, JJ. We have to get out.”

It feels like torture all over again. Step after step, dragging JJ with him.

He wants to break now. He wants to give in. He wants to.

But he can’t.

There’s no mercy. There’s no relief. Quitting now means JJ dies here. He bleeds out in this stupid building. For nothing. JJ dies for nothing.

JJ finally has something to live for.

God help him, John B won’t let him die for nothing.

He’s light headed by the time he gets JJ up the stairs, and the blood is leaving smear marks all over the stairs, garish even in the dim lighting. John B wants to cry, but there’s no time for it. JJ is limp as he manhandles him up, half dropping him before he manages to get JJ up and over his shoulder to finish the escape.

The door at the top of the stairs isn’t locked, and John B lets them out into a wider space. Tall ceilings, boarded windows. It has the look and feel of an abandoned warehouse, with front-facing office space on the far end. Whatever it is, the place is clearly abandoned. There’s just enough ambient lighting to see his way around – and he sees a door at the far end.

And he moves to it.

Where, he doesn’t know.

He just knows – not here.

Anywhere but here.

JJ’s weight is heavy on his back, and John B can feel the blood as it soaks through his own shirt. His grip on JJ feels tenuous as he tightens his fingers and quickens his pace. Away from the men. Away from the cages. Away from this place–

At the door, he fumbles with the handle. His own hands are coated with blood now – JJ’s blood. He swallows, feeling sick, as he finally finds purchase, and the door swings open and John B stumbles into the night with JJ on his back.

It’s a rush. The night sky; the fresh air. For a moment, his senses are completely overwhelmed, and everything is impossible to parse out.

It’s just – the area doesn’t look familiar.

But it also doesn’t look unfamiliar. John B gets the distinct impression they’re still on the island. More than that, this place looks and feels like the Cut. Just – not a part he knows well. Or at all. He can’t think it through.

And whatever. It doesn’t matter. Wherever the hell he is, John B knows he needs to get out, he needs to get JJ out, and he needs to get them out now.

With no clear sense of direction, John B starts moving again, tightening his grip around JJ. He moves away from the warehouse – and starts down a line of warehouses. He peeks through the dark structures to the space beyond – and sees a road.

With street lights.

Street lights mean activity.

That means the road gets some usage.

Which means it could get usage tonight.

He cuts through the first chance he gets, huffing as JJ’s weight wears him down through the shadows and over the garbage collected around the outskirts of the building. These warehouses look abandoned, but it’s hard to tell in the dark.

There’s no one here now, is all that really matters. He could break into something and hope to find a working phone, but the road seems like his best bet – like JJ’s best bet.

His heart is pounding, and it’s hard to tell if it’s blood or sweat soaking his body by this point. He looks back, wondering if the assholes are awake yet. He’s pretty sure there’s no surviving a round two. He tries not to consider if JJ’s going to survive round one.

With the street in view, John B picks up his pace. His back aches from carrying JJ, but he refuses to stop. When he stumbles on the road, he looks up and down it, searching for some sense of direction, some sign. Does he know where he is? Has he been here before?

One way, there is a long stretch of warehouses and factories. The other way, the road bends and turns into darkness. Factories and warehouses aren’t going to help JJ, and the idea of staying out in the open seems shitty. So John B turns and heads toward the curve.

“We’re going to get help, JJ,” he says, wishing for some kind of response as JJ’s dead weight threatens to drag him down. “We just have to keep going. Just a little farther.”

It may or may not be the truth – and JJ may or may not be able to hear him.

JJ may or may not be alive.

If he’s bled out–

If the torture’s too much–

If John B isn’t fast enough–

Denial is a powerful motivator; the strongest for John B. His refusal to accept his dad’s death had won out in the end; he’d found his old man. He can do it again; he can do it now.

JJ’s not going to die. These bastards aren’t going to win. Torture, kidnapping, torture: John B’s not going to let them take JJ. He won’t give up, he won’t give in. He won’t, he won’t, he won’t.

He makes it to the turn, breathing so fast that his head feels funny. He’s relieved to see that there are more traffic lights here – and, in the distance – a neighborhood. People.

He makes it a little way up, when headlights flash in the distance. He’s processing shit slower than he should, so the car is almost on him before he realizes what it is – and he stands there, dumb as shit in the headlights, as it screeches to a halt in front of him.

It’s a car.

It’s a person.

John B gasps and realizes belatedly.

It’s help.

The door opens, and a figure steps out. “What the hell are you doing!” the lady demands. She steps out around the door, shaking her head at him. “You can’t be out in the middle of the street in the pitch black–”

She steps around the door and stops.

“Help,” John B says finally. It’s an exhale; it’s practically a prayer. When he blinks, there are tears, and his throat starts to constrict. “Please–”

She steps closer, the door still open and her engine running. “What the hell–”

He doesn’t have time to explain. He doesn’t have the energy. JJ doesn’t have the time or energy. “Please,” he says instead. He’s crying and he can’t stop himself. “Please, help him–”

Her breathing clearly tightens, and John B watches as her disposition shifts from anger and confusion – to fear. “Are you okay?” she asks, and she takes a tentative step forward now, the glare from her headlights illuminating the scene. “What the–”

She stops again, face going white. No doubt, she’s seen the blood now.

“Please,” John B says, and he’s losing his balance. He’s losing his grip. He’s losing–

The woman looks startled and badly so. For a second, John B worries she’s going to cut and run but she comes toward him instead, moving faster now. “What the hell happened?” she asks, fumbling in her purse for her phone. “Is he—?”

The relief is a surge of adrenaline his body can’t process. Everything starts to give out, and his limbs are starting to fail. JJ lists on his grasp, and his own knees are giving out.

“Just — easy,” the woman says, reaching out. She braces JJ, helping to ease him to the ground as John B collapses. She cradles JJ’s head until it’s resting safely against the pavement. “What happened?”

It’s impossible to say. They’ve been kidnapped. Tortured.

“Shot,” John B says, even as his voice threatens to give out. “He’s been shot.”

She looks down, over the mess covering JJ, and she visibly swallows, eyes lingering on the wound. “Okay,” she says tightly. She’s still holding her phone, going a little pale. “Can you put pressure? Something for the blood—“

She doesn’t have to say more. She hands him a sweatshirt from somewhere and he balls it up, pressing it against JJ’s side. His world narrows again, suddenly and violently, and John B can’t stop it.

Because JJ doesn’t respond.

Under the touch, he makes no movement.

He’s still.

He’s pale.

John B doesn’t know if he’s breathing. JJ or himself.

Somewhere, he hears the woman calling 911. She sounds far away, though. Like John B is drifting.

And the blood keeps coming.

The world starts slowing down, but the blood doesn’t stop. It soaks the shirt; it’s starting to collect on the ground. It’s all over JJ, smeared up and down his side. It’s on John B’s hands.

He can hear her talking to the 911 operator. He can hear her asking for help, saying someone’s been shot, please help – I don’t know what to do, he’s bleeding.

But he’s fixed on JJ. The rise and fall of his chest. The beat of his heart. The air as it moves through his open mouth.

Don’t give up, John B thinks. Don’t give up, don’t give up, don’t give up.

Life is torture, after all. For JJ, life has been torture.

So, don’t give up.

They’ve made it this far together.

Nothing to lose.

They have to make it further.

“Please,” John B says, and he’s begging now. He’ll beg anyone who will listen, anyone at all. “Please, JJ. Please hold on.”

Next to him, he hears the woman. “Hey, kid,” she says, and she gives him a shake. “What’s your name? What’s your name?”

Because he knows who he is.

And he knows what he’s willing to risk.

“John B,” he says hollowly. “I’m John B Routledge.”

She looks at him, brow furrowed. He looks back for the first time.

“My friend is JJ Maybank,” he says. “We were kidnapped. Tell the cops that. We were kidnapped.”

She blinks, like she’s not sure she understands. She looks at John B; she looks at JJ.

Then, she nods. “He says he’s John B – Routledge, or something? His friend is JJ – I don’t remember,” she says. “He’s saying they’ve been kidnapped. No – I don’t. That’s what he said – John B – JJ – Yes. You need to hurry.”

He can’t let up; he won’t. He can’t feel his arms, his hands as he presses down, and his world starts to narrow to JJ, JJ, JJ.

The woman is talking to him; she’s screaming into the phone.

JJ’s heart is beating, his blood is flowing.

Somewhere, the men are lying in their cages.

John B doesn’t feel like he’s been set free just yet.

He feels captive to it all, captive to fate. Captive to this.

JJ.

He sees the lights before he hears the sirens. Which, seems wrong when he thinks about it. His mind is shutting down a little; he’s not thinking right. It’s like the world is out of focus, like it’s slipped out of synch and John B can’t put it back together.

There’s the sound of car doors closing. And voices. The woman screams something.

John B blinks, eyes still locked on JJ.

He’s not thinking at all.

As JJ’s heart slows, as his breathing starts grating, John B slows, too. Every heartbeat feels laborious. It pounds and pounds–

And.

“Oh, shit! It’s them!” a voice cuts into his thoughts, closer than he thinks it should be. The woman is gone now, and there’s a cop there. It’s Shoupe. He’s yelling into his walkie talkie. “We’ve found them! I need more units! We found them!”

John B can’t put it together. The pieces are all there – the flashing lights, the approaching sirens, that look on Shoupe’s face. But JJ–

He looks down again.

The world coalesces, coming back into focus with a sharpness that is almost too much. He can hear the sirens now; he can hear the cops. He can hear the woman telling them what she knows, and she sees the lights dance across the pavement. There are at least two cruisers here already, and he can hear more in the distance.

Shoupe is there, the actual damn sheriff, on his knees on the other side of JJ, looking John B full in the face.

John B did it. He got them out. He got help for JJ.

But JJ has gone colorless, like the blood’s been drained right out of it. Like John B has more of it on his hands than JJ does on his body.

Like JJ could be–

“John B,” Shoupe is saying. And his hand touches his arm.

When John B startles, Shoupe flinches and pulls back.

He wet his lips and takes a measured breath. “John B, what happened?”

That question. That question is hard.

He thinks about the men on the porch. The cage. JJ on his knees. The blood.

“I’m here to help you, son,” Shoupe says, slower now. His eyes are trained on him. “But you have to talk to me. What happened to you and JJ?”

JJ–

He looks back at his best friend, and he feels something unfurl in his chest. Shoupe’s here. Help is here. No one is going to hurt JJ anymore. JJ’s going to get help.

“John B–”

He looks up again. “Shoupe,” he says, almost surprised that his voice still works. He swallows with effort. “JJ’s been shot. Please. He needs help. He’s been shot.”

Shoupe nods, looking down at JJ for what seems like the first time. By now, JJ is too spent to notice, and Shoupe tries nudging John B’s hands out of the way. Too look at the wound, to apply first aid – whatever. John B doesn’t move.

“Ambulance should be here any second,” he says, and he wisely gives up on moving John B’s hands. He reaches up, fingers pressed to JJ’s neck instead. He’s quiet for a moment, as if checking. He wets his lips and pulls his hand back. “What the hell happened? We’ve had a BOLO out since this morning, when your friends reported you two missing. They’ve been freaking out, but we didn’t have anything to go with–”

And they’re treasure hunting idiots. Two poor kids from the Cut with nothing. Disappearing for days at a time is a thing; you don’t always send in the calvary.

John B would like to blame Shoupe. He’d like to blame the cops, anyone, everyone.

But it’s JJ’s blood on his hands. His hands, and only his.

“John B,” Shoupe says again, startling him back to attention. “You want me to help?”

John B looks at him, and then down again. His arms are shaking as he holds pressure on JJ’s wound, and JJ still isn’t moving. “No,” he says. He shakes his head and blinks away tears. “He needs–”

“The ambulance is coming,” Shoupe assures him. “Any second.”

He nods vaguely, looking around at the scene. More cops have arrived. Is the whole damn sheriff’s department here? The area is bathed in red and blue flashing lights, and he wonders if the men back at the place are alive or dead. If they’ve escaped or if they’re coming for them.

What does it matter?

What could they take now that they haven’t taken already?

“John B,” Shoupe says again, and he blinks hard to get his focus back. “Who did this? Who did this, John B?”

He feels his breath catch, and he wants to cry. He grits his teeth together hard and shakes his head. He can answer these questions. He can. “Two assholes, I don’t know,” he says, grinding out the words as best he can. He looks at JJ, face pale and turned toward the pavement. “They kidnapped us.”

He has to say more; he’s supposed to say more.

But he doesn’t know. He can’t – all of it is a blur, a flash, a haze. Blood and pain and JJ’s screams.

With a ragged inhalation, he wrinkles his nose. “They tortured him,” he says, and JJ’s blood is still warm and wet against his fingers. “They tortured him to get me to talk.”

“The treasure?” Shoupe asks.

He looks up, surprised.

“Your friends told me,” he replies, almost sounding sorry. “That’s not a crime, son. Hunting treasure.”

Sympathy doesn’t help, though. Understanding doesn’t make it better.

It’s worse, even.

Because John B doesn’t deserve it. Shit, he doesn’t want it.

Shoupe reaches out, hand on his shoulder again. The touch is soft, but John B flinches anyway. “Hey,” he says gently. “We’re going to help you. We’re going to help JJ.”

There isn’t a lot of trust built up between the Pogues and law enforcement. Things are better these days, sure. But better is relative. John B spent most of his formative years hiding from them; JJ even more so. These are the assholes who wanted to write his dad off as dead and who still haven’t arrested Rafe Cameron.

But Shoupe tries, and John B knows it. He knows, when it matters, he can trust him.

He just doesn’t know how right now.

He looks at JJ and he still can’t get his mind to work right. He wishes JJ would scream and cry again. He would hear JJ’s pain just to know he’s alive. It’s better than this. The blood on his hands is thick, hot, and impossible to ignore while JJ goes pale and still.

Paler. Stiller.

“They tortured him,” he says again, and he knows he’s repeating himself, but he’s not sure what else to do. He can’t think about anything else. The knife and the lighter and the water – and – “Shoupe, they actually tortured him.”

Something twitches in Shoupe’s face, like he’s not sure what to make of that, but he nods tersely, glancing around. “You were near here? How far did you walk?”

John B shakes his head, looking back at JJ instead. “Not far,” he says, and it occurs to him how woozy he feels himself. He’s losing track of things; he’s lost track of too many things. “I don’t know, though. I just – don’t know.”

Shoupe gives him a tight smile, but he’s quick to look over his shoulder with a shout – words John B can’t be bothered to process – and the sound around him intensifies. This only makes his focus narrow back to JJ.

“They’re here to help, John B,” Shoupe says. “They’re here to help JJ.”

Only then does John B realize that the medics are here. They’re standing, looking anxious and expectant.

“Let them help,” Shoupe says, and it sounds like he’s begging now. “Let them help JJ.”

Giving in is easier than it should be.

For JJ, giving in is so, so easy.

He eases back, and the medics rush forward. One of them gets out a fresh bandage, pressing it down hard over the blood-soaked wound. The other is rapidly assessing JJ’s vitals, taking his pulse and getting out the monitors.

He can’t think. He can’t–

“John B,” Shoupe says, a hand on his shoulder pulling him back.

He shakes his head, unable to speak. He watches as the medics hook JJ up to an IV, checking up and down his body. One of them looks up at him, almost like she knows what he let JJ suffer. The other leans over JJ, shining a light in his eyes and calling his name.

JJ doesn’t respond. He doesn’t twitch; he doesn’t flicker.

And JJ is 10 years old again, bleeding on John B’s doorstep. It’s no big deal; don’t tell anyone. Don’t tell.

He’s 13, and he’s passed out in his bedroom because he won’t wake up, he can’t wake up.

He’s 15 and Big John is gone and JJ stays the night and promises not to leave. Like, whatever you need, bro. Whatever you need.

Lock it down, shut it in. If they cage the emotions, then maybe they’re not real.

When you let it go–

When you open the lock–

When you give in–

“John B,” Shoupe says again, and his hand is firm on his shoulder. “You need to let them look at you.”

He looks at Shoupe, as if he’s surprised to see him there. Behind him, another set of medics is standing, looking at him with concern.

He shakes his head, eyes going back to JJ. The medics have him on a backboard now; they’re lifting him.

“You need to be looked at, son,” Shoupe says, holding him in place. “John B.”

He looks at the man, and realizes belatedly that he’s crying again. “But JJ–”

“Is going to the hospital,” Shoupe tells him. “And that’s exactly where you need to go.”

He wants to fight. He wants to hold out.

But for what – and why.

He’s got nothing left to give.

That’s not it, though.

He’s got nothing left to protect.

He looks at JJ again. They’ve put an oxygen mask over his face. The IV is dripping into his arm, and the large bandage on his side is starting to turn red.

“John B,” Shoupe says again. “It’s time to let go. It’s time to let go.”

And JJ is loaded into the ambulance, the doors slammed shut behind him.

Everything to lose.

Nothing to lose.

He closes his eyes, nods his head, and finally gives in.

-o-

JJ’s safe, is the thing.

JJ’s safe, they’re taking care of JJ. No one can hurt him now. JJ’s safe.

So John B doesn’t care what happens now. The adrenaline seems to leave him entirely, and his fight all but evaporates.

Without JJ there, there’s nothing to motivate him. Without JJ’s life in the balance, none of it seems to matter. Shoupe keeps asking him questions, but John B won’t answer him now. The new medics pepper him with inquiries, but John B barely acknowledges them. They poke him, take his vitals, and shine a light in his eyes.

They don’t get it; it doesn’t matter.

JJ’s the leverage.

Without that – nothing matters.

-o-

Shoupe looks worried, and the medics are quiet as they load him up into an ambulance. Shoupe stays with him for as long as he can, swallowing hard.

“We’re going to figure this out, son,” he says, like he means it. Like it’s some kind of promise. “We’ll find who did this. We’ll make it right.”

John B doesn’t know what to say; there’s nothing to say.

Shoupe says, patting him on the arm. “They’re taking good care of you,” he says. And then, he adds, “They’re taking good care of JJ, too.”

At that, he looks at the man.

Shoupe smiles. “You hang on, son,” he says, climbing out of the way while the medic gets in the back of the ambulance. “Just hold on.”

-o-

It’s a blur, then. The lights in the ambulance, the steady voice of the medic.

John B lays there and thinks it seems funny.

The many ways you can find yourself trapped and strapped down. For good reasons, for bad reasons. As if escape is some physical thing.

Torture can be used to help you see what matters.

That’s not John B’s fault.

It is his fault, however, that it took that much to make him see it when it had been right in front of his face all this time.

“We’re almost there,” the medic says, as if this is some reassurance.

Maybe it is; John B doesn’t know for sure.

He just knows he’s going after JJ.

He’s going to always go after JJ.

-o-

In the ER, the doctors are a little more insistent than the medics. The lights are even brighter here, and when they ask questions, they seem to need answers. He answers some of them. Yes, he was hit on the head. Yes, he blacked out. Yes, his head hurts, he’s dizzy, he’s lots of things.

No, he doesn’t need pain medication.

No, please, he’s fine.

They don’t understand interrogation very well. They’re not using the right leverage.

“How’s JJ?” he asks finally, when he can’t answer another question. He looks from nurse to nurse, doctor to doctor. “Is JJ here?”

Because at least Shoupe had understood that. Shit, even those assholes had understood.

“Your friend is being treated,” one of the nurses says, and she smiles as if this is reassuring to him. “He’s getting the best care possible.”

But John B shakes his head. “But he was shot,” he says, and it feels like a protest. “They tortured him–”

The doctor steps into view, and he smiles, too. “If you let me help you, I’ll have someone go check, okay?” he says, and he nods as if John B has already agreed. “Does that sound okay?”

He kind of hates the guy, but he’s not wrong. He’s found the leverage, too, then. And John B is in no position to hold out.

He nods. “Do whatever you want,” he says, because he doesn’t care. He exhales and grits his teeth against another swell of nausea as it racks his body. “Just find out about JJ.”

-o-

John B answers their questions. They get him an ultrasound and a few other fancy sounding tests before taking some X-rays and frowning over the results. Someone checks his eyes again, asking the same round of questions about his symptoms, before a nurse gently asks if he wants some pain medications.

“No,” he says. “Have you found out about JJ?”

The nurse looks nervously over at the doctor, who sighs. He steps closer. “Your friend was badly injured, just like you said,” he says. “Given the amount of blood he lost, they quickly transfused him and took him up to surgery to remove the bullet.”

It’s an answer, at least.

He tries to find solace in that.

All the questions being asked over the last few days, and answers are few and far between.

John B feels small again, smaller than ever. At least with the shit heads back in the cages, he’d had something to offer. He’d had a reason to hold out.

Here, he’s got nothing, and he knows it.

Somehow, he’s more helpless than ever, and surrender is the only option. As if he’s been fighting all his life in vain.

But maybe not in vain. Maybe he’s just fighting the wrong battles. If he thinks back, sometimes it seems that way. How did this all start? Not with JJ’s shit, no matter how much he tries to deflect. JJ’s made bad choices – for sure – but this started with John B.

He’s never had to apologize, though. Because he made it work in the end. He found the treasure. He made them all rich.

That’s not the point, though, is it?

They gave him support. They made him a family.

He gets it now, which one is more important.

The doctor pats him on the shoulder. “Come on,” he says. “We need to get you up to CT.”

John B lays down without a protest as they unlock the wheels of his gurney.

Because he gets it now.

-o-

Really, it doesn’t matter what John B wants. He’s held out long enough, in some ways, so holding out longer seems futile. JJ has already been compromised, so he’s not sure what the point is.

The medical team is gentle, at least. They ask a lot of questions, sure, and they don’t take his shitty answers for what they are. But they’re kind and they smile and they tell him how good he’s doing as they test him and poke him and prod him. He thinks Shoupe has probably told everyone that this is a special case. Kidnapping. Torture.

His best friend.

He closes his eyes and lays back. In the flurry, they clean and bandage his wrists, taking X-rays and getting him a head CT before stitching up his head. When they’re about done patching him up, Sarah comes into the room.

It looks like she’s been crying.

It looks like she’s trying not to.

The moment she sees him, sitting there on the edge of the exam bed, however, she falls apart.

“John B,” she says, catching on a sob. She runs over to him, wrapping her arms around him. “I was so scared. John B–”

She’s crying, and she’s kissing him, and John B can’t hardly breathe for it all. He reaches up, though, and hugs her back, and she’s finally able to calm down.

She’s still sniffling when she pulls away, and she reaches up to brush his hair out of his face. “Are you all right?” she asks, brushing against the fresh bandages. “They said you had a concussion. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he says, because it seems true. If only by a matter of comparison. He knows what not all right looks like, after all.

She doesn’t look remotely convinced. “We’ve been so worried,” she says. “Ever since you and JJ disappeared. We tried to find you – but there were just no leads. And then Shoupe said you’d been kidnapped and that JJ–”

She cuts off and gulps. Her eyes fill with tears again.

“--that JJ was hurt,” she continues after a beat, finding the best words she could. “And you–”

It hurts still. Not his own wounds – he can barely feel those. Painkillers, maybe. Adrenaline. Shock.

But JJ.

“Have you heard anything?” he asks. “About JJ?”

She closes her mouth and shakes her head. “Not yet,” she says. “Kie and the others – they’re in the waiting room. We’ll know as soon as there’s news. He’s in surgery. That’s all they’ve told us.”

It’s all they’ve told him. John B knows more than that, though. He knows about the massive blood loss and the torture and how lifeless JJ had looked when the ambulance took him.

“Hey,” she says, pulling him back into himself. “I’m just so glad you’re okay.”

He doesn’t feel okay, but he nods for her sake and attempts to smile. “They kidnapped us,” he says. “I didn’t have a chance – I couldn’t–”

She nods along and doesn’t make him finish. “We figured out that much. There were signs of a struggle all over the front porch of the Chateau,” she says. She has to pause and swallow, as if she’s gathering her strength to keep going. “Pope found some tire tracks on the lawn, but Shoupe said there wasn’t enough evidence to start an investigation.”

“Why’d you go to Shoupe?” John B asks.

Her expression is plain. “We’re not criminals, John B. We’re all respected members of the community.”

“But what we’re doing–”

“Isn’t illegal,” Sarah tells him. “Treasure hunting is a little crazy, sure. But we’re legit. Shoupe wanted to help. But without evidence–”

There was nothing he could do.

John B had been forced to watch JJ suffer.

The others had been forced to wonder.

There are many forms of torture, and he feels his heart clench. He reaches out for her and takes her hand. “I’m sorry.”

She brings her other hand to cup his, giving him a quizzical look. “You didn’t do this,” she says. “We all knew we were being followed. We should have been more careful.”

“I insisted on going forward,” he says. “I said it was no big deal.”

“John B, you couldn’t know–”

“But I should have,” he says. His fingers twitch, and Sarah’s grasp tightens to soothe him.

“We’re all in, John B,” she says, and her voice is firm. It’s careful and sure and John B hates it so damn much when he hears it. “This is what we do. The treasure matters–”

“But we matter more,” he says, and he needs to say it. He needs to keep saying it and he’ll say it until he understands it. Until it’s real, until it’s undeniable. Until everyone knows what his priorities are, until he’s just not his father’s son at all.

Sarah watches him, and she’s perfect. She’s his girl; she’s his wife. And she knows him, the good and the bad, the beautiful and the ugly. She nods, lifting one hand up to his cheek before sitting down next to him and drawing him close.

“I could live without the gold,” she murmurs against him. “But I could never live without you.”

He’s safe, then. He’s safe with her, in this hospital, in her arms. He’s safe.

It’s a comfort he’s not sure he deserves, a comfort he hates that he needs so badly.

Because JJ has no comfort.

JJ has no reprieve.

And John B’s not tied up, he’s not in a cage – and there’s still not a damn thing he can do about it.

-o-

The thing about hospitals is that they take forever. They’re expensive – which sucks. And they’re bureaucratic nightmares – which is a headache, even when you don’t have a concussion. But it’s like once they get you, they don’t let you go, and because you’re the one hurt and injured, there's nothing you can do about it but trust them.

If John B weren’t so exhausted, he might just walk out.

But he’s pretty sure he is that exhausted.

He also knows he’s not going anywhere. He can walk out of her – maybe.

JJ can’t.

As long as JJ’s here, John B’s not going anywhere.

Still. Waiting for the nurse to talk to the doctor to talk to the nurse to clear him – takes much longer than he should. John B has a mild concussion, eight stitches on his forehead, and bruises and contusion. But mostly he’s fine.

As fine as one can be after being kidnapped and seeing your best friend tortured and shot. John B doesn’t talk about that to the nurse, though. The last thing he needs is a psych hold on top of everything else.

Sarah waits with him, at least. She has her phone and is in constant communication with the others in the waiting room. John B asks her repeatedly for updates on JJ. Either she really doesn’t know anything, or she’s lying to him about it. He’s too tired to figure out which.

It seems to take forever for the doctor to finally clear him, and even then the lady seems reluctant to let him go. She keeps asking about his head, if he has double vision, and she explains the symptoms of a concussion in such detail that it feels like he’s got another concussion just from listening to them.

But John B nods, lies about his pain levels, and gladly signs the paperwork while Sarah anxiously collects the bag of his things. He’s not sure why it matters. His dirty clothes aren’t really worth much, and the assholes had ditched his phone and his wallet somewhere long before they got to the cages. Sarah has provided him with a fresh outfit – something she probably bought at the gift shop – and John B accepts a prescription for painkillers he won’t fill and an appointment card to deal with the stitches later.

Sarah thanks the doctor for him, and they’re on their way.

He doesn’t have to ask, and Sarah leads him to the waiting room. He’s been so wrapped up in himself that he hasn’t thought about it much – what his friends were experiencing. He knows what it’s like to be left behind. When his old man vanished without a trace, he’d lived it for long enough. It’s a torture in and of itself, not knowing what happened, wondering if you’d see them again.

It’s not something he’d wish on anyone.

This has been hell on all of them. Pain doesn’t have to be a contest; suffering isn’t demonstrably definitive. Sometimes bad is bad.

He knows he looks it.

They look it, too.

Pope is a ball of nervous energy. Even from a distance, John B can see that he’s vibrating, the way he does when he can’t make his mind turn off. This is clearly a problem he can’t fix, and it’s driving him crazy. Pope is a specific type of problem solver. When he can’t reason his way out of something, it tends to make him crazy.

There’s no way to reason their way out of this.

Not with JJ still in surgery for a treasure hunt.

JJ might still die. And for what? Gold they don’t need? Notoriety they already have? An adventure that doesn’t mean anything?

Next to Pope, Cleo is faring better, but only because she’s got a better poker face. She’s seen her share of loss in life; she’s had more tough breaks than any of them – except maybe JJ – could even imagine. She knows how to take shit, and she takes it well. But it makes her quiet. She sits still next to Pope, a hand on his knee while he bounces it. Pope needs to move, but Cleo needs to anchor herself.

For whatever comes next.

When they look at John B, it’s hard. He feels guilty and responsible and it’s hard to meet their gaze.

But when he looks at Kie–

Well, he just about falls apart.

It’s hard to explain, sometimes. Kiara is his friend; JJ is his friend. Kiara and JJ together are something. It’s no small miracle that they’re together. JJ has had such a messed up life that the idea of him in a committed adult relationship is a stretch. John B would have his doubts with anyone else – but he knows Kiara loves him. He knows Kiara would do anything for him, and shit. He knows how much JJ loves Kiara.

Now, his stupid treasure hunt isn’t just affecting JJ.

It’s affecting all of them, especially Kiara.

That’s something to lose.

When he was bargaining for JJ’s life, he was bargaining for Kie’s life, too. And he feels like such a selfish bastard that he’s standing there and JJ’s not.

The fact that Kiara gets up and comes to him, wrapping him in a hug the instant she sees him only makes it worse.

“Thank God,” she says, pressing close to him. “We’ve been so worried.”

The fact that she’s worried about John B should help, probably – but somehow it just feels worse.

Because John B is fine. They barely touched John B. JJ had paid for every ounce of his resistance, and he’d paid for it in the worst possible ways.

And John B let it happen.

The right reasons, the wrong reasons. It doesn’t matter, really. What matters is that he watched JJ suffer. What matters is that it’s his fault.

What matters is that he’d give anything for it to be him.

Kiara seems reluctant to let him go, but only slackens her grip when she realizes John B isn’t hugging her back. Sarah is still lingering behind him, quiet. Pope and Cleo are up out of their chairs, hovering so close that John B doesn’t know what to do.

“We knew right away something was wrong,” Pope says. “We tried to convince the cops–”

“And when they couldn’t help, we followed our own leads,” Cleo says.

“We didn’t stop,” Pope continues for her, almost at a breathless pace. “We didn’t give up.”

“But you were gone,” Kiara says, and her voice breaks as she says it. “You were just gone.”

It’s its own kind of grief. Raw and real and John B doesn’t know what to do with that. He wants to reassure them, but he has no words. Because he’s standing here.

And JJ–

“Have you heard anything?” he asks, unable to stop himself. He knows it’s not fair, but it’s all that he can think about. “Have we heard anything new about JJ?”

The mood turns just like that. It had been somber before, sure. But the quiet takes a distraught edge. The tenuous composure between them threatens to shatter. Pope has to look away, and Cleo takes his hand. Sarah audibly stifles a sob.

It’s Kiara who keeps her head up, purses her lips. “He’s in critical condition,” she says softly. “He just got out of surgery. They’re moving him up to the ICU.”

It’s not like John B doesn’t know what she’s saying. But he’s tired, he’s concussed – and he’s still in shock as he grapples with the reality he doesn’t know how to face. It hardly even computes, how the last 24 hours can seem like the only reality he’s ever known and like it never happened at all.

“He’s going to be okay?” he ends up asking, not knowing what else to say. Not being able to say anything else.

Because that’s what matters.

That’s the only thing that matters right now.

Kiara almost flinches at it. Pope and Cleo won’t look at him at all, and Sarah puts a gentle hand on the small of his back.

John B swallows, feeling desperation rise in his throat anyway. “He’s going to be okay, right?”

Because he got them out of there. He got them out of the cages, away from the torture. He got JJ out.

“They don’t know,” Kiara says, and her voice is just barely composed as she willfully holds her expression. “Like I said – he’s in critical condition.”

John B knows what she said, but he doesn’t know how to make sense of it. He doesn’t know.

Pope looks up finally. “The next 48 hours are really important,” he says, as if this clarifies anything. As if it helps – nothing helps. “And I mean. It’s JJ.”

It hangs there, that proclamation. The explanation they all want to mean something.

Kiara hesitates another second, her eyes sweeping up and down him as if assessing his condition. She seems unable to stop herself from asking, “What happened anyway? They told us a little–”

But they weren’t there. No one was.

You could find the cages. You could find the blood stains on the floor. You could find the half-empty bucket of ice water.

And you still wouldn’t know for sure what happened.

You’d never understand it.

It’s hard to talk about. He’s evaded Shoupe. He’s barely talked to the medics and the doctors. Even Sarah has gotten sparse answers.

But this is Kiara.

JJ loves Kiara, and Kiara loves JJ. If his oversight has cost JJ anything, then he owes it to Kiara to tell her the truth. “They used JJ to try to get me to talk,” he says, and his voice is hoarse. “They made me watch while they tortured him so I’d tell them where the artifact was.”

Kiara’s face is blank as he tells her. He can feel Sarah flinch. Cleo closes her eyes and Pope shakes his head, face contorted. “So you couldn’t tell them,” he concludes immediately. “The second they knew, they’d kill you both.”

“I didn’t want to–” he starts, and he’s not sure what to say. He’s not sure of anything. The right and wrong don’t mean as much as they used to, and the ambiguity is hard to reconcile. Certainty is fleeting. Fortitude has left him. “--I didn’t know what else to do.”

The admission is as much as he has.

It’s not enough.

Not enough to save him from his guilt.

Not enough to save him from their pity.

Not enough to save JJ at all.

The grief is blinding him, and he feels himself go lightheaded. He takes a gasping breath and feels Sarah steady him. He forces air in and out and tries to breathe. When his eyes are working again, he looks at Kie and says the only thing he can say, the only thing left to say when it’s all done. “I’m sorry. Kiara, I’m so, so sorry.”

“John B, why would you apologize?” she asks, and she sounds incredulous. “Those bastards–”

“But I started this,” he says. “My treasure hunt. And I sat there while they beat him and cut him and–”

Pope and Cleo are up now, too. They’re all close, ready to comfort him. But he doesn’t want it. He can’t have it.

“This is my fault,” he says. “It’s my shit.”

Kiara shakes her head. “It’s our shit, John B,” she says. “It always has been. We’re all in or we’re not. That’s how it works. We all know that.”

She’s certain. And next to her, Pope and Cleo are, too. Sarah next to him.

JJ on his knees in front of John B, nodding his head.

They all know it.

They’re all willing to pay the price.

But John B’s not sure he can live with that.

He’s not sure how to live without it either, is the problem.

“But–” he starts.

He doesn’t get to finish. He doesn’t know what he’d say anyway.

“Not buts,” Kiara says, and she says the only thing that makes a difference. “JJ would never blame you. So neither will I.”

Because John B’s not sure how to take absolution.

But he’ll deny JJ nothing.

Not even forgiveness.

Especially not forgiveness.

-o-

They just barely get settled when the nurse comes out to see them again. JJ’s settled in a room, apparently. They can see him – but one at a time. The ICU is a controlled ward, and JJ’s badly injured. His condition isn’t quite stable. They want to be sure; they want to be safe.

There’s not much conversation about it. Pope and Cleo and Sarah all stay back. John B looks at Kiara just as sure he looks at her.

“It should be you,” John B says.

She shakes her head with a tired snort. “Are you kidding? It should be you.”

“I was already there,’ he says, and his voice wavers. It threatens to break entirely, and he just barely keeps himself composed. “It has to be you.”

She sees it, the way he holds himself together. She knows it matters, so she nods. “Okay,” she says. “But you’re next.”

It’s funny, as he watches her go. The way promises feel like threats sometimes.

The way relief feels like torture.

The way hope feels further away than ever.

-o-

Time doesn’t have much meaning for John B right now. Since being kidnapped, it’s been nearly impossible to keep track of. People tell him it's been nearly two days since they were taken, but that doesn’t mean anything.

Time in the waiting room isn’t any better. It’s a different form of torture, is all.

Except now there’s no outlet. There’s nothing he can surrender.

Everything he has is already teetering on the brink. What happens next is fully beyond his control.

Pope, Cleo, and Sarah do what they can for him. Pope tries to talk about it, and Cleo repeatedly makes logical points about how none of this was their fault. Sarah is steady and calm, however. All the times he’s let her down, and she’s there unfailingly for him. She holds his hand, runs her fingers through his hair, to remind him he’s not alone.

To be comfortable. To be safe.

It only means something if JJ has it, too.

John B’s been looking for treasure all these years.

He’s pretty sure JJ – and the rest of them – have been looking for something different.

-o-

Kiara doesn’t spend long in JJ’s room. When he sees her come back, his heart plummets and the blood drains from his head. He has to brace himself as he gets up, and Sarah supports him as he crosses the distance toward Kie.

“What’s wrong?” he asks breathlessly. “Is JJ–”

She reaches out, taking him by the arm. “He’s fine. Still – unconscious. Critical. But he’s fine.”

He blinks rapidly, trying to parse that.

Kiara continues, “I just thought you needed some time with him.”

“But–” he starts to protest.

Kiara nods, though. “Please,” she says. “John B. Spend some time with him. You need him as much as he needs you.”

A thousand protests flit through his mind. They sit heavy in the back of his throat, but he can’t bring himself to speak them. She’s right, of course. She’s obviously right.

Today, John B’s just weak enough to admit it.

“He’s your boyfriend,” John B says, and it’s his last line of defense. Because it’s true. It’s true and it matters. He knows it matters to Kiara, and he knows how much it matters to JJ. How hard he tries. How much he wants it. It’s true.

Kiara sighs. It’s not exasperation; it feels more like resignation. “And? He’s your brother, right?”

She’s – well. She’s right, isn’t she? They don’t always put it into words, but that is what it is. Ever since he met JJ in third grade, they’ve been inseparable. JJ can be difficult and moody and annoying and stupid – and there’s no one John B trusts more.

As kids, JJ had been a permanent fixture at the Chateau. He’d gone on fishing trips with Big John, and he’d been there for every birthday, every Christmas, every summer break. It’s easy to get into shit with JJ because he’s JJ. He’s the constant presence in John B’s life, the one he’s never had to doubt, the one he’s taken for granted.

When Big John had disappeared and Luke had away from sobriety yet again, all they’d had was each other. Two kids. Best friends.

Brothers.

“Go,” she says tiredly. “Just – take your time. I’ll be right outside, okay?”

He can’t argue; or maybe he just won’t. The last time he saw JJ, he’d been bleeding out on the cement. And he can’t get it all out of his head – JJ on the floor of the cell, JJ on his knees in front of John B shaking his head.

Don’t do it.

And he hadn’t. John B hadn’t.

He’s not sure how to forgive himself.

-o-

The walk to JJ’s room isn’t long, but John B’s steps feel heavy. He thinks he’s going to be dizzy again, but it’s hard to tell what’s his concussion and what’s emotion. And what’s just pure exhaustion and total fear.

As he steps into JJ’s room, it becomes a moot point. It’s not about forgiveness. Shit, it’s just about acceptance. It’s about facing it, owning it, and hoping like hell you get a second chance.

Because John B can be stupid, right? He can put his emotions into cages and pretend like he can control them. He can pretend like his life is neat and orderly, kept under lock and key.

Love isn’t about keeping things in. Love is about letting things loose. It’s throwing away the key and saying screw it to whatever happens next.

That’s the difference, in the end. The two assholes who took them were together because they both wanted the gold.

John B and JJ and the rest of the Pogues? Went after the gold because they wanted to be together.

Those assholes had wanted leverage.

All John B had needed was motivation.

Because he loves JJ. He would do anything for JJ, just like JJ would do anything for him.

He wants it to mean something. He wants that to be their saving grace. He wants that to be the difference between success and failure, life and death.

Standing there, though, breath short as he trembles at the edge of JJ’s hospital bed, he’s not sure about that. He’s not sure about anything.

Because JJ looks just as captive as he had before. Buried under the medical equipment, he’s hooked up to tubes and monitors. There’s an IV drip, and electrodes on his chest. The heart monitor keeps the beat of JJ’s heart while he lays there, eyes closed and body still. He’s half-covered with a sheet, arms arranged limply at his sides. And the tube down his throat is helping him breathe.

They’re still torturing JJ.

That fact that it’s to save his life hardly makes it better. John B wants to tap out, wants to give in, but it doesn’t matter now. He has to hold on, now more than ever.

For JJ.

“Shit,” he says finally, moving around to the side of JJ’s bed. His self control wavers, but JJ’s still and unmoving so he keeps himself together. “Getting you out of there was supposed to be better.”

He’s not sure if he’s joking or not. Either way, the words fall hard in the silence, and there’s no response from JJ as the machines keep him breathing.

But freedom isn’t about bars on a cage or locks on a door. It’s not about ropes on your wrist or a gun to your head.

Freedom is something you can find for yourself. You have to claim it when it matters.

He reaches down, fingers hesitating over JJ’s. His fingers are battered and bruised and broken, but he takes them up anyway.

“I won’t give in,” he promises.

He watches as JJ breathes, watches as his chest rises and falls. Watches as he fights to survive.

“So you don’t either,” he says. He gives JJ’s hand a gentle squeeze and swallows back his tears. “So you don’t either.”

-o-

John B doesn’t want to leave, that much is sure. But he can’t bring himself to stay.

What right does he have, after all? He’s the reason JJ’s in there. He’s the reason JJ’s fighting for his life.

No one is talking about blame, and he knows they won’t. That’s fine; it doesn’t matter. The blame is real enough, roiling in John B’s gut with every breath JJ takes in that hospital bed.

JJ doesn’t need him.

He needs Pope’s smarts.

He needs Cleo’s fight.

He needs Sarah’s optimism.

He needs Kie’s love.

He doesn’t need John B and his nonstop question for treasure.

Out in the hall, Kiara is still waiting. She looks surprised to see him. “You done already?”

He tries to smile, for her sake. “You should be in there.”

“So should you–” she starts.

But John B makes a face. “He needs you.”

She looks like she wants to argue – at least part of her. But part of her wants to concede the point. Her face falls a little bit, and she reaches out and hugs him. Firm and tight, as she whispers in his ear, “He needs you, too.”

He has to close his eyes; he’s not going to cry. Not here; not with Kie. He’s just not.

He pulls back, keeping his breath taut in his chest. “Just tell him not to give up,” he says. “JJ will do anything for you.”

She nods, blinking back a few tears. She leans forward and presses a kiss to John B’s cheek. “He’d do anything for all of us,” he says. “He’s a Pogue.”

“Yeah,” John B says, wishing it could be that easy. “The best of us, for sure.”

She nods in agreement, turning to JJ’s room and disappearing inside. He watches her go, wishing he could follow her.

Knowing that he can’t.

It aches. The absence and the distance. The unknown of it all. He wants to hold JJ, to touch JJ, to watch him breathe.

But that’s something he should have thought about before.

Before the treasure came first.

Before any of this shit had happened.

Sighing, he rubs absently at his aching head. The stitches are starting to itch, and he wonders if those painkillers the nurses kept offering might be useful right now. No matter; he starts trudging back to the waiting room. He just rounds the corner and sees the Pogues huddled together.

When Shoupe steps into view.

It’s clear he’s been waiting.

It’s also clear that he’s not taking no for an answer right now.

As if John B hasn’t been tortured enough tonight.

“I know this isn’t a good time,” Shoupe starts.

John B actually laughs as he paces away and then turns back. It pulls his stitches, but he doesn’t care. “It’s really not.”

“But I broke all sorts of protocol not coming to collect your statement earlier,” he says, and John B’s not sure why, but he believes the man. “So I just need to clear up a few things, okay?”

There’s nothing he can say to that, is there? Where’s he going to go? What fight is he going to put up now?

John B’s given in; John B’s surrendered.

He’ll give Shoupe anything he asks for.

When John B says nothing, Shoupe takes the silence for what it is. He posits his next question carefully. “The men who took you,” he says. “Do you know who they were?”

It feels like he does. He’s known them for no more than 12 hours, but the terrible familiarity is hard to explain. They’re strangers, but he’s shared intimacy with them he doesn’t give to nearly anything else. They took something from him — something from JJ — and that’s a vulnerability that brands those assholes in his mind.

But that’s not what is being asked, and John B knows it. “No,” he says, because he’s learned the value of the truth. “Treasure hunters. But I’d never talked to them before. They didn’t tell us who they were.”

And they’d been the ones asking the questions, not doling out answers.

“So, you’d never met them,” Shoupe clarifies.

It’s funny. This isn’t an interrogation.

There’s no pressure, no torture.

But John B still feels it, in the pit of his gut. The need to get this right.

It’d been for JJ before.

It’s for JJ now.

“They’d been scoping us out,” he says. “We’d seen them around. Lurking and shit.”

Shoupe gets out his little notebook and pen, jotting down a note while his brow wrinkles thoughtfully. “How do you know it was them?”

“I can see, Shoupe,” he says flatly. He shakes his head, because he’s not pissed, though. “They had a truck. A Ford, I think. Some piece of shit. It was red with out of town plates.”

Shoupe continues to scrawl his notes. “And you didn’t report it?”

It’s not so much an accusation, and John B knows it. All the same, the question makes him grunt. “Why the hell would I report it?

Shoupe looks up, and seems to understand the answer to his own question. There’s little love lost between the Pogues and law enforcement. John B can’t forget, after all, that they wrote his dad off for dead and that they put him on trial for murder. He knows Shoupe tries – he does – but he also knows that trying doesn’t always mean much.

Shoupe, to his credit, seems to know it, too. “So, tell me about the attack,” he says instead. “You were kidnapped?”

It seems like forever ago. It’s just been two days. He has to remind himself to breathe before he can answer. “Yeah,” he says, because there’s nothing to hide here. “They came at us on the porch of the Chateau.”

“Did they say anything?” Shoupe asks.

John B grunts. “No. They knocked us the hell out, and we woke up in cages.”

Shoupe nods, but his face is terse. “We found the location where you were being held. It was an old warehouse facility,” he explains, and he grimaces a little. “Best we can tell, those cages in the basement were intended for valuable goods as they were being prepped for transport.”

That explains the cages.

But it doesn’t really explain anything.

He shakes his head wearily, shifting his weight from one foot to another. His head is aching again, and things are starting to feel just a little gauzy around the edges. He glances back to the waiting area, where the rest of his friends are still congregated, talking quietly amongst themselves. The absence of Kiara and JJ is still glaring. It’s enough to ground him; justice matters, and he knows that better than anyone.

“Well, they put us in them,” John B confirms with a sigh. He looks back at the sheriff, shaking his head. “Then, they took us out and beat the shit out of JJ so I’d give up the artifact.”

Shoupe pauses as he writes, giving John B a scrupulous look. “When you say, beat the shit–”

He’ll say it. There’s no way to say it but to say it. “Torture,” he says. “I told you, Shoupe. They tortured JJ.”

The conviction in John B’s voice is impossible to argue against. The claim is ostentatious, and he knows it. But his absolute resolution is the only evidence that Shoupe really needs.

He’s seen the cages. He’s seen JJ’s injuries.

But the horror in John B’s face is irrefutable.

Shoupe clearly doesn’t want to – for both their sakes, no doubt – but he still asks. “And you–?”

The question cuts, and John B feels his defenses flare. “Didn’t talk,” he says, because he wouldn’t. For JJ’s sake, there’s no way. “I mean, if I told them what they wanted, they’d kill us for sure. Watching JJ get hurt is bad – but seeing him die? There’s no way in hell.”

Shoupe’s pen hesitates over the paper as his jaw tightens. He nods a little, as if to get himself back on track. “So, how did you get out, then?”

Shit. As if John B wants to relive it.

He has to breathe. He has to keep breathing. He has to face this; he just does. “It was JJ’s idea,” he says. His lips pull up into a rueful grin. “The best ones always are.”

Shoupe snorts. It’s a laugh, as best he can right now. “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”

John B’s smile fades, though, and he recounts the details. “He played dead and got them to open the cage. From there, he overpowered the guy and got me the key,” he says. He continues the rest, quiet and sober, glossing over the harder details of how JJ had put himself on the line to get them out. “We were able to take the last one together.”

Shoupe is scribbling notes again. “And when did JJ get shot?”

It feels like he’s been punched in the gut as the air leaves his chest. He has to remind himself this isn’t an interrogation. Shoupe wants to help him; he wants to help JJ.

“During the fight,” he says, feeling a little numb now. Recounting it is painfully easy, as if JJ’s not still in critical condition because of it. “The second guy pulled a gun. JJ jumped on him.”

Shoupe has the decency to not make him finish. He jots down a few notes anyway. “And then you ran?”

“I got JJ the hell out and didn’t look back,” he says. Then, he hesitates. “Are they–”

Shoupe looks up, a little surprised by the question. “Not dead,” he says quickly. “They’re being treated here, same as JJ. But with police escorts at every turn. They’re not going anywhere.”

“Oh,” John B says, and he’s not sure if he’s surprised, relieved – or what.

Shoupe adds with a nod of his head, “You two did a number on them. They were still out cold when we got there. Taking them into custody was easy.”

He knows Shoupe doesn’t mean anything by it, but John B can’t help it. It’s been too much, too long, too hard. “There was nothing easy about any of it, Shoupe.”

He draws himself in and sobers a little. Then, he inclines his head to concede the point – and move past it. “Did they tell you anything else?” he asks instead. “About who they were and what they wanted?”

John B sighs. Going back to that is hard – but Shoupe needs the clues just as much as John B does. For JJ, he’ll give them up now. He has to be willing to give up anything. “Treasure hunters, like I said,” he says. “They talked about being ex-military. Pretty sure they got in too deep and couldn’t accept failure.”

“Yeah, well,” Shoupe says, scrawling a few notes. “I’ve been around you and your friends enough to know that some people will do anything for treasure.”

He could feel his face burn. Shoupe isn’t accusing him of anything, but he should be. John B is one of them. “It’s easy to forget what matters. Even my dad–”

Shoupe looks at him, eyes widening in surprise. “John B, you don’t have to–”

“I might, though,” he says, his throat starting to constrict in earnest. His eyes are burning and he shakes his head. “I nearly watched JJ die. And all I could think about was how stupid it was.”

Shoupe sighs a bit. “You’re a good person, kid. You’re not like those assholes.”

“I still got him kidnapped,” he says, because he wants culpability. Everyone is so set on absolving him, but the guilt is eating him away inside. He needs the blame. He does. “They tortured him because of me.”

“But it’s still on them,” Shoupe says, a little firm now as he holds John B’s eyes. “You aren’t to blame for their crimes. You’re just not.”

“But if I’d given them what they wanted–”

The question he wants to ask is broken, and Shoupe doesn’t let him finish.

“You said it. If you gave them what they wanted, JJ would be dead. You, too, probably,” he says. “I’ve already started to unravel the trail these guys have left behind, and it’s not pretty. It looks like they already murdered someone on the mainland.”

He swallows, suppressing a shudder. “An antiques dealer, right?”

Shoupe nods. “You knew about it?”

“They said something,” he says, exhaling heavily.

“There are signs of torture there, too,” Shoupe informs him quietly. “And then they executed him.”

John B’s stomach feels like it’s in a knot. “He gave us the clue,” he says. “Broke the hunt wide open. It’s what these two were after.”

“Well, apparently the dealer had a moral crisis when he realized who these two were,” he says. “He decided he couldn’t trust them when he learned what they were willing to do.”

He frowns a little. “Which was?” he asks.

It’s silly, maybe. He knows they kidnapped them and tortured JJ. So it’s not like he doesn’t know.

But the question stands.

Shoupe takes a little breath and settles himself a bit. “They’re connected to a string of increasingly violent and destructive crimes over the last few months,” he says. “They literally burned an antique shop to the ground last month when they didn’t get what they wanted. I have a feeling when we unwind their trail a little more, we’re going to find more. Once you cross a line, you can’t come back.”

It’s not surprising.

Because John B met those guys.

Because John B’s seen it his entire life.

With his dad.

With Ward Cameron.

With Limbrey.

With Singh.

But not like him.

It’s a choice he’s making.

Not like him.

“Anyway,” Shoupe says, collecting a little breath as he puts his notebook and pen away. “I will have more questions. I’ll probably need you to put it in writing and finalize a timeline. And I’m going to have to talk to JJ.”

The idea of more questions is exhausting – but John B feels resigned to it at this point. Still, he shakes his head. “JJ’s pretty messed up, Shoupe.”

Shoupe’s face softens. “When he wakes up, I mean,” he says gently. “Because I know JJ. He’s going to wake up.”

John B isn’t sure why it bothers him. The blind faith in JJ is reassuring, if anything. To know that JJ has so many people behind him now – is good.

He just feels like he was the first to see it all those years ago.

And the last to remember it today.

“Look,” Shoupe says, nodding at John B with some resolution. “I’m going to figure this out. I’m going to take care of the details, and you won’t have to worry about them again.”

If not them, then someone else. That’s the nature of the game with treasure hunting, and John B knows it. He knows it because he saw his dad murder two people and dump their bodies in the water.

John B knows more than he wants to.

And he’s still playing this like it’s a game.

“Anyway,” Shoupe says, and he hesitates before patting John B awkwardly on the shoulder. “I’m sorry this happened.”

All he can do is shake his head. “You didn’t do this, Shoupe.”

“Yeah, and neither did you,” Shopue says without missing a beat. “Remember that.”

“It just sort of feels like I did,” John B has to admit.

“Yeah, well, it’ll get better” Shoupe says with a final bob of his head. “It’ll feel better when JJ wakes up.”

He nods back as Shoupe goes, clinging to the hope that he just has to hold out a little longer.

He just has to stay strong a little longer now.

-o-

With Shoupe gone, John B joins the others in the ICU waiting room. There’s no discussion about it; no questions. They all stay the night. Kiara spends most of it with JJ, but they all take turns. Cleo is resolved, like she’s ready for the fight. Sarah is quiet, but she’s always been stronger than she looks, and John B knows he doesn’t deserve her. Pope takes it hard, and every time he sees JJ, he comes back red-eyed and sniffling.

JJ’s condition remains unchanged throughout the night. He doesn’t get better; he doesn’t get worse.

Like he’s still holding on.

Like for all of them, he’ll never let go.

Like JJ always would.

-o-

By the morning, they’re all dragging. They murmur amongst themselves, and during rounds Kiara says they’re going to have to take breaks. She says she’ll go down with Cleo to get some breakfast if Pope can stay with JJ until she gets back.

John B starts to volunteer, but Sarah shakes her head. “You need to go home.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he protests.

“John B, you’re concussed,” she says flatly. “I know you’re worried about JJ – we’re all worried about JJ – but you were also kidnapped. So you need to go home and rest.”

He gapes at her, but when he turns to the others for support, it’s clear they’ve already made up their minds.

“Please,” Sarah says softly, taking his hand. “Don’t fight us on this.”

He should; he wants to.

He’s just not sure he can.

Not anymore.

Not with them.

“But JJ–” he starts, and it’s his only defense.

“Isn’t alone,” Kiara promises.

“We won’t let him give up,” Pope says, steady as anything.

“We won’t let him let go,” Cleo says, just as sure.

This is how they found the treasure. Not by virtue, not by strength. Not by smarts or planning or ingenuity. Lots of treasure hunters have all that – and more.

They did it by sticking together.

By remembering what matters.

They did it as a family.

With that, there’s nothing to fight. There’s nothing to resist.

There’s just endless reasons to give in.

-o-

Sarah buys him food first, but he hardly tastes it. She makes sure he eats it, every last bite, and then sends him to the shower. He sort of feels like he could just pass out, but he’s not about to fight her on it.

The shower feels good, is the thing. The water is hot and heavy, and it washes away the dirt and blood and grime and shit. It’s like the last two days are running off into the drain, circling down until they’re gone.

He wishes it could be that easy. He wishes he could wash it away and get out of this shower like nothing happened.

The memories can’t be washed away, though. He still remembers the look on JJ’s face when he realized what was going on. He still remembers JJ’s screams, and the way his body had gone limp in the water. He can still feel JJ’s weight on his shoulders, his blood on his fingers.

John B would beg fate, if it would matter.

He stands there in the shower, when the water runs clean, because he knows it doesn’t.

-o-

He’s barely out of the shower, reaching for the towel, when Sarah comes in. They’re not super private about this shit, so it’s not that weird, but the look on her face.

Pale. Wide eyes.

“John B,” she breathes.

He stands there, dripping wet. “JJ?”

“We need to go to the hospital,” she says breathlessly. “We need to go now.”

Everything seizes. His whole body seems to tense up, and his brain goes completely blank. He can’t think, he can’t speak, he can’t–

“No!” she says quickly, as if trying to correct a mistake. She shakes her head rapidly. “It’s not – no. JJ’s fine.”

He’s able to inhale, but the oxygen only partially unfreezes him from his panic. “But you said–”

“He’s awake,” Sarah says, picking up the towel from where he dropped it and handing it to him. “JJ’s awake.”

Another breath, and more oxygen floods his brain. He’s still gaping, though. “He’s awake?”

Sarah nods earnestly. “And he’s asking for you.”

She looks like she might cry, but she laughs a little instead.

“Kiara says he’s asking for you a lot,” she explains. “Almost can’t calm him down.”

The breaths are still coming, and he thinks this is real as goosebumps spread across his skin. “So, he’s okay?”

Sarah shrugs, not sure what else to do. “He’s JJ.”

Because yeah. That more or less explains it.

“Come on,” she says, grabbing her purse from the counter. “I can get you there in ten minutes.”

-o-

John B doesn’t really dry off, and he puts on the clothes Sarah has laid out for him. He’s still sopping, hair dripping everywhere as they climb into the car. His phone is still missing, but Sarah’s sits in the middle console while it blows up.

She can’t check it while she drives. “It’s good news,” she assures him anyway. “It’s been good news all morning. I swear.”

It’s not that he doesn’t believe her; it’s that he doesn’t believe anything. Reality seems strangely disconnected for him, like he’s not quite sure he’s a part of it anymore. That’s part of the reason he wants to see JJ – why he needs to see JJ. He needs JJ to be okay to put the pieces back in place, to make the world make sense again.

Sarah makes good time, but John B feels like it’s all taken forever. He barely waits for her to park before he’s out of the car, and she’s jogging to keep up with him as he barrels his way inside. He gets into the main lobby before he realizes he doesn’t remember where he’s going, and Sarah catches up with him breathlessly and directs him to the ICU.

It’s all vaguely familiar to him, but it still seems surreal. It all feels like a dream – a nightmare – until Kiara meets them in the hall and greets him with a hug.

John B can feel her relief. It practically radiates through her, and he feels it flutter across his own chest. “He’s okay?” he asks. “JJ’s okay?”

Kiara pulls back, and it’s only then that John B can see that she’s been crying. She sniffles a little, wiping her eyes as she nods. She’s smiling. “He’s awake. Breathing on his own; talking. Being a smartass.”

Those are answers, but John B needs the bottom line here. “And he’s okay?”

Kiara actually laughs at that, a wet and tired sound. “He’s JJ,” she tells him. “He’s okay.”

There’s a part of him that thinks it’s impossible. He saw JJ yesterday. He saw him fighting for his life, and he saw JJ get tortured. He saw every hit, every cut, every burn. He saw him drown, and he saw him bleed.

But there’s another part of him, a stronger part, that knows it has to be that way. He’s known JJ for so long. Most of JJ’s life has been torture, but he’s still here. He’s still okay.

He’s still JJ.

“He wants to see you,” Kiara says, reaching out and squeezing his hand. “He needs to see you.”

She doesn’t need to say it again; she probably doesn’t need to say it at all.

That is why the torture worked, by the way. It’s why those bastards had an easy time using JJ to get to John B. Yeah, their dedication to one another is a weakness.

But it’s also a strength. It’s why they were able to escape. It’s why they’re still here.

It’s why.

“Thanks, Kie,” John B says, because it’s all he can say.

As he goes in to see his best friend.

-o-

It doesn’t get easier, walking into your best friend’s ICU room. In truth, John B is poised for disappointment after the last two days. He can’t help it if he’s still expecting the worst.

After all, he knows that the things he likes to count on don’t always pan out. He can’t count on money or notoriety. He can’t count on experience or know-how.

None of the rest matters anyway. What matters is this. Here.

Friends.

Family.

At first glance, JJ is markedly better than yesterday. He’s propped up in the bed, and it’s clear that he’s breathing on his own now. His eyes are closed, but he’s resting this time.

Yeah, John B knows the difference.

Between okay.

And okay.

Kiara’s relief is palpable now. John B feels it, releasing the tension in his chest. JJ’s okay, JJ’s okay, JJ’s okay.

He makes it to the edge of the bed and gapes.

From the bed, JJ finally stirs.

Weak as he is – pale and unable to sit upright – his face positively lights up for John B. It’s both the best and the worst thing John B has ever seen. JJ loves him that much that, even semi-conscious, he’s happy to see him. But also, JJ loves him that much, when all of this is ostensibly John B’s fault.

As if he didn’t feel guilty enough as it was.

“B!” JJ croaks, voice no more than a scratch. He’s been told before that the breathing tube can be a bitch, and JJ clearly lacks the strength to even clear his throat right now, given that he looks like he should still be unconscious. “You’re here!”

John B feels his cheeks burn and he has to blink hard as he sits down next to JJ’s bed. “Of course I’m here,” he says. “Just waiting for you.”

JJ’s coherent in the sense that he knows where he is and what happened.

However, he’s soft around the edges of his awareness. Whatever drugs he’s on have him hazy and vague, and he’s quick to smile and desperate for touch. He reaches out to John B the minute he sits down, looking for the physical contact he normally schools himself to keep in check.

He takes JJ by the hand, holding his fingers tightly to help him settle, and forces himself to smile for JJ’s sake.

It works, a little. JJ breathes out, and John B can see the nervous tension release from his body. “Thank God,” he says, sounding genuinely exhausted. “I was so worried, man.”

John B doesn’t know whether he wants to laugh or cry. He settles for raising his eyebrows quizzically at JJ. “You were the one who got tortured,” he reminds him. “And shot.”

JJ’s look back at him is wide and credulous and far too sincere. He looks like he’s 12 somehow, and everything inside of John B hurts. “But they kidnapped you,” he says. “And I’m sorry, man. What you had to watch, dude. It’s not right.”

He sits forward now, moving one hand from JJ’s fingers to rest on his arm. “JJ, man, it’s not what I had to watch. You had to go through it.”

“Nah, I’m fine,” JJ says, which is a very JJ thing to say. It’s likely that the drugs he’s on is making him loopy, but that’s not the gist of it. JJ always says he’s fine precisely when he isn’t. “You didn’t crack, did you? You didn’t tell them shit?”

He wants to scream a little. “JJ, none of that matters.”

JJ tenses again, sitting up a little as if in protest. “But the treasure–”

John B is quick to stop him, pressing him back down gently. “JJ, shit,” he says, glancing anxiously at the monitors as JJ’s heart rate spikes. This isn’t the conversation he wants to have, but he can’t stand to see JJ in distress. Like, even at all. “I didn’t tell them shit, okay? I didn’t tell them shit.”

This seems to be what JJ needs to hear, and he allows himself to be settled back on the pillows, relaxing once more as the monitors start to beep a little more evenly. John B feels his own heart pounding on his chest but wills himself not to show it. Still, when he tries to smile, his face feels all funny and his throat is tight.

He sits back, feeling stiff in the chair as he watches JJ.

He can’t do this. He can’t sit here and make jokes and small talk. He can’t.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts, because it’s been weighing on him the entire time. Ever since he first woke up in those cages, it’s been the overwhelming, pressing thought. He’s sorry.

For putting JJ in danger.

For not caring that JJ was in danger.

For saying he had nothing to lose.

John B is just so, so sorry that it hurts. It threatens to cripple him. He’s physically sick to his stomach, and he may start crying despite himself right here, right now.

JJ, though, just looks confused. His blonde hair is messy and tousled, and his face is bruised and mottled. But shit, his eyes are big and blue and all John B can do is try not to die while his best friend looks at him like that.

JJ’s not mad.

JJ’s not mad at all.

He’s just – confused? Determined? Worried?

That makes it worse. John B could take vitriol. He could relish in the blame. It would make absolution seem earned.

But JJ’s loyalty? Now?

Could really just undo him.

“You didn’t hit me or rip my fingernails out,” JJ says, a little plaintively. He tips his head to the side as he considers it. “Pretty sure you didn’t pull the trigger either.”

JJ is missing the point. How the hell is JJ lying there, recently out of surgery, busted to hell, and missing the point. “JJ, this is still my fault.”

JJ’s brow furrows and shit. He looks even younger than he did before. He tries not to think of JJ in the cage, shivering and limp on the ground. He tries not to think of JJ screaming as they ripped out his nails, JJ gasping for air, JJ biting back the screams as they flayed him open. He tries not to think about JJ outside the Chateau when they were sixteen and he said he didn’t care who was trying to kill him.

“Don’t be dumb,” JJ says, voice still airy like it takes work for him to speak.

John B is shaking his head already. “This is my shit. My shit got us kidnapped. My shit got you tortured. Shit, JJ. My shit nearly got you killed.”

He’s being clear; he’s being honest. JJ just seems unable to understand it. If it were just the drugs – okay. But it’s not. John B knows it’s not.

JJ is like that. JJ holds grudges, sure. Against Kooks. Against cops. Against people he doesn’t know or trust or like.

But his friends? His family?

He forgives in a way that shouldn’t be possible. So easily, so completely. You never have to earn it. You don’t even have to ask for it. No one understands unconditional love like someone who is so desperate for it that it hurts.

“Your shit, my shit – what’s it matter?” JJ asks, as if he hasn’t been raked across the coals countless times for his mistakes, even when he extends grace to them constantly. JJ looks at him earnestly. “We do it all together, right?”

It’s too easy. Which doesn’t work, because none of this is easy. JJ’s been through hell – actual hell – and he’s the one offering comfort here. John B shakes his head. His eyes are burning, and his chest aches. “JJ, it wasn’t worth it,” he says. “The hunt – the treasure – the adventure – whatever the hell I’m chasing. It’s not worth you. You need to know that.”

As plaintive as he’s being, JJ seems unable to grasp it. The drugs, sure. But that’s just JJ.

No concept of his own value.

Not even a clue.

“Pretty sure your math sucks, Bree,” he says, the words still slurring a little as his voice has yet to recover its solidity.

He shakes his head. He won’t let himself cry, not when JJ’s keeping it together. If JJ can do this, John B has to. “No, my math is finally making sense,” he says. “About damn time.”

JJ takes a moment with that one, studying John B with as much focus as he can muster. It only seems to half work, and he cocks his head to the side quizzically as the pieces of the puzzle fail to compute. “I’m okay. Right?”

“Yes,” John B says. “But barely. And no thanks to me.”

“But I remember,” JJ protests. “You carried me out.”

“Yes,” John B retorts. “Because I got you kidnapped. I sat there while you were torture. You got shot breaking me out of a cage. Me, JJ. It’s all because of me.”

The emotion comes out all in a rush, and JJ stares at him blankly for a moment. John B feels his heart pounding in his chest, and he doesn’t know how to make it right. He doesn’t know how to do any of this.

Sighing, he works his jaw and looks away. He blinks a few times – hard – and scrubs his hand through his hair before he’s able to take a breath and look back at his best friend.

“I don’t know, man,” JJ says finally. “Nothing to lose, something to lose. It doesn’t mean shit. We’re still going for it, right?”

It’s just — a lot. Everything John B thought he knew is tenuous suddenly, and he’s not sure how to reckon with it all. Losing gold is one thing. Getting cheated out of a treasure is hard.

But he’s watched too many people bleed. He can try to deflect things. Sarah was shot by her own family. His father risked it all for good and paid the price.

JJ, though? This incident?

He can’t blame anyone else. He has to acknowledge the choices he’s made and how the fallout has affected the people he loves most.

“Well, maybe we shouldn’t,” he says stiffly.

JJ lays there, bruised and weak, and he looks like he has no idea what John B is talking about. “You go. I go. That’s how it’s always been. No matter how rich we get, that’s how it always will be.”

John B breathes out, heavy and hot as he runs a hand through his hair. He doesn’t necessarily want to talk about this, but he has to. He sat there and watched JJ get tortured without a word. This torture, seeing JJ recover, isn’t one he can endure.

He won’t.

Not for his sake – and not for JJ’s.

“I know – and that’s the problem,” he says, because he needs to say it. He needs JJ to understand it, maybe. “I got you in this mess. You were tortured and shot.”

JJ scoffs, and it’s a dry, humorless sound. “Yeah,” he says, shifting uncomfortably on the hospital bed with a wince. “I remember that bit, but thanks for the reminder.”

John B sighs. JJ is willfully missing the point. He’s deflecting, as only JJ can – and only JJ will. “I won’t let it happen again,” he says. He shakes his head, matter of fact. “I’m giving up the artifact. We’ll just – donate it now. Be done with it all.”

On the bed, JJ’s weak and pale. He’s only just woken up after being seriously injured and surviving major injury. Just yesterday, he’d been holed up on life support.

But the look on his face. Well, shit. He looks surprised that John B feels his heart break a little for doing it to him.

“What?”

It’s all coming out in a rush now. All his doubts, all his regrets. He’s not his dad; he’s not. When he has a second chance, he’s going to use it right. He is. “I’m done,” he says. “This treasure hunting shit. I’m done.”

The surprise is bad.

Now JJ just looks gutted. “You can’t be serious,” he says, gaping a little.

“JJ, you almost died—“

“I know!” he exclaims, with as much force as he can muster considering his condition. “I went through all that for nothing?”

He makes it sound so simple. Like some kind of equivocation.

Like John B hasn’t been torturing himself over it for the last two days.

“So, treasure makes it worthwhile?” he asks, and he doesn’t hold back his skepticism. “JJ, you were tortured. They literally tortured you.”

Because he wants JJ to understand. He needs JJ to understand.

Except lying there, on that hospital bed, John B realizes that JJ wants him to understand, too. He’s weak and pale and barely conscious and far, far too sure. “You make it worthwhile. We make it worthwhile,” he says, and his inflection makes it impossible to ignore. “I’m not going into shit blind, John B. I know the risks, and I’m taking them, same as you.”

“JJ, you told me your reservations, and I dismissed them–”

But JJ is adamant as he shakes his head. “Because I agreed with you. This is how we roll. You said it. Who cares who’s trying to kill us?”

He hates it. He hates every word of it, and he hates himself for saying it. For being young and stupid and for taking it all for granted.

For taking JJ for granted. “I care,” he says, swallowing hard. “I care very much.”

But JJ just looks at him like he doesn’t get it. Like he can’t possibly get it.

Because JJ cares, too.

Not about gold or treasure.

About family.

About a place to belong.

For that, he’d follow John B everywhere.

That’s the kind of loyalty you can’t buy. You never deserve it.

But shit. You have to be careful with it. You have to appreciate it.

You have to fight for it.

You have to protect it.

John B struggles with that, but JJ, still high and strung out in a hospital bed, seems unduly certain. “I don’t regret any of it,” he says. His eyes are too clear and his voice is too steady. “I’d do all of it again in a heartbeat.”

The fact that JJ means it doesn’t make it better.

It doesn’t make it easier.

The tightness in his throat builds, and when he blinks, his eyes are burning. “JJ.”

“I’m not bullshiting,” JJ says, like it’s a vow.

“You’re still high on good hospital drugs,” John B tries to deflect. “When that shit wears off—“

“Nothing will change,” JJ says. “I mean. We have something to lose, right?”

All he can do is nod because he doesn’t trust his voice.

“So, like, we have something to fight for, too,” JJ says, sounding far too reasonable for a guy who has just been tortured and shot. “Those assholes didn’t have that, and that’s why we made it out and they didn’t.”

It’s just — JJ isn’t wrong.

But admitting the point is just so hard.

Because this never should have happened. He hates to think it could happen again. He can think of a million mistakes. He can think of all the things he should have, could have done.

It’s easy to accept risks until they’re realized. Potential dangers are never as scary as the real ones. You can’t have the biggest rewards without the biggest risks.

And is it worth it?

Is it?

He looks at JJ and doesn’t know. “Do you really mean that?”

JJ doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t hesitate. “I know.”

John B feels himself break a little. “They tortured you, man. They actually tortured you.”

“I’ve been a punching bag all my life for a lot less,” JJ reasons. “So this? For a cause I care about? For a person I care about? Is nothing.”

It’s not that JJ doesn’t mean it. He does, that just – somehow is worse. That JJ has no regrets and all John B can muster up is regret. Now that he can, he has to say it. He just does. “I’m sorry.”

JJ looks at him, like he’s actually confused. Lying there, bandaged and bruised and confused. “Why? I’m not.”

John B grits his teeth, frustrating flaring. It’s impossible to be this protective of JJ – and to be this annoyed with him all at the same time. He’s a bastard, is what he is. He’s annoying and reckless and stupid – and so completely loyal that it literally drives him crazy.

He’d be infuriating as a best friend, he really would be.

If he weren’t the best kind of friend John B was ever going to have.

“JJ, please,” he says, because he’s not above begging. He’s just not, not after this. His eyes are burning again and it’s all he can do to keep it in check while his cheeks turn hot. “Just let me apologize.”

JJ can read the tone of his voice – and even as messed up and strung out on hospital shit as he is, he can see it in John B’s face. That’s how it is between them; so much they don’t need to say.

But just because they don’t need to say those things, doesn’t mean they shouldn’t.

At least, sometimes.

At least, this time.

JJ talks shit, but he’s the softest of them all when you get right down to it. JJ, at his heart, just wants to be loved, and he’d do anything for the people he calls family. John B’s not sure how he made it through JJ’s torture without breaking.

Because John B is here begging, and JJ gives in without hesitation. “Fine,” he says, as if he’s conceding something. He wets his split lip and tips his battered head to the side. “You can make it up to me with a bigger share of the treasure.”

He says it so simple, so straightforward, that it takes John B a second to catch up. He’s had a long few days, okay? And he’s not been resting with the good hospital drugs, so he needs a little leeway here. “Wait,” he says, blinking dumbly at his best friend. “What?”

A lot of shit has taken him by surprise over the last few days. He honestly saw none of it coming. Kidnapping and torture and gunshot wounds–

And what? Brotherly blackmail? Of the most emotional nature?

JJ sees his opening. The bastard, flat on his ass and drugged to the gills, takes it. “Oh, and now you balk,” he teases ruthlessly.

John B is still reeling emotionally, so the humor is hard to keep up with. He scoffs, not sure if he’s pissed or relieved. Or just both. “You want more treasure?”

“I was tortured and shot to protect it,” JJ reminds him, because torture can break the body, yeah. But it can’t make JJ Maybank less of an asshole apparently.

“You’re already playing that card?” John B asks. “You’re still in a hospital bed.”

JJ nods sagely, though the effect is diminished by the extensive bruising that makes him look more like a corpse than someone who knew their shit. “Best time to play it, bro,” JJ rasps with more vigor than should be possible for someone who had nearly died less than 24 hours ago. “If I’m going to get my ass kicked, then I want it to pay off.”

And John B knows what he’s doing. He knows JJ too well, see. This joking and deflection isn’t about the cash. It’s about easing John B’s guilt. If JJ focuses on the cash, then they don’t have to talk about the part where John B almost let JJ die.

If they bicker about gold, then they don’t have to admit just how much they have to lose.

And how terrified they are to lose it.

They came close this time. Too close.

Treasure isn’t worth their friendship.

But fighting together, searching together, being together — that’s all it’s ever been about.

So John B takes the distraction.

Because JJ is alive and well enough to give it.

“You do remember the part where I did all the work to find the treasure,” John B says, giving JJ a pointed look.

JJ huffs, settling deeper against the bed. “Let them put your name in the damn museum, then,” JJ says, and he sounds tired even as he smirks. “Give me the cash.”

John B snorts. “You’re kidding.”

“Tortured and shot, John B,” he says plainly. “I don’t even have fingernails anymore, remember? And do we need to look at how many stitches they used to sew me back up? Or the fact that my ass is hanging out of a gown and I can’t feel anything because of these drugs, man. What are these drugs?”

John B is quick to relent. JJ is joking, but he’s not. That litany is real, and so is the exhaustion setting in on JJ’s face again. He’s fighting to stay awake for John B’s sake, and that’s bullshit.

JJ has done enough for John B.

Just. Enough.

“Okay, okay,” he says, but he’s softer now, as he sits forward and reaches out. His hand rests gently on JJ’s arm, mindful of the bandages and bruises. “We can debate your share later. I know how you feel about reparations.”

“Dude,” JJ says, a little sleepier now. Given his injuries and the amount of medication he was on, it’s probably surprising JJ has made it his long. He blinks, a little slower. When he speaks, the words are a little slurred. “I’m messing with you. I don't need shit.”

“No,” John B is quick to say, and he flexes his fingers around JJ’s arm, just to keep him with him a little longer. “You can have my share.”

JJ snorts, and he rolls his eyes to the ceiling before looking tiredly back at John B. “Oh, great. So more people will want to torture me and shoot me. Nice of you.”

John B drops his jaw. “JJ—“

But JJ smacks his lips together. “I see how it is.”

John B sits back, letting go of JJ’s arm as he continues to sink back sleepily. “Well, we have to find it first.”

JJ’s eyes close and he murmurs, “Mm, I forgot about that.”

John B resists the urge to rouse him, lowering in voice instead. “You usually do forget about the actual work.

JJ opens his eyes, but they’re half lidded now. “Well, I can help now,” he says. He raises his eyebrows lightly, pulling at the cuts and bruises. “Nothing better to do until I get better.”

The offer is genuine, but that’s the problem. JJ needs to rest. JJ needs to heal. JJ needs time and space and love and everything.

So John B gets up, positioning himself above JJ. There are no bars between them now, so he reaches down, bracing him gently by the shoulders until he relaxes. “Tortured and shot, J,” he reminds him gently. “So maybe you focus on getting better first.”

The suggestion is almost too much, and it’s not hard to see how JJ wants to give in. He starts to flag, almost despite himself, as his eyelids droop with even more weight and his limbs stare to slacken in earnest. “Nothing to lose, right?”

“Everything to lose,” John B reminds him.

JJ lets his eyes fall shut, and it takes him a long moment to open them again. “I don’t care who's trying to kill us,” JJ mumbles as the drugs win out again.

John B freezes a little as the guilt rolls over him.

But JJ smiles, eyes fluttering to look at him. “Because I’d do anything for you.”

That’s what it is, in the end.

Not the treasure. Not the gold.

Just each other.

Always each other.

“Yeah, buddy,” John B soothes, lifting his hand to smooth it through JJ’s hair as his eyes slip shut and stay that way. It’s the lesson his father never learned. It’s the kind of thing men like Singh can’t fathom. It’s the shut those two assholes traded for something far, far less. “I’d do anything for you, too.”

And that, more than treasure and gold, more than fame and notoriety, is worth everything.