Chapter Text
Dylan wakes to the smell of fish and an awful pounding in his head.
Consciousness slides back to him in slow increments. He feels dizzy and disoriented, and there’s a dampness at the base of his skull—he must’ve taken a blow to the head. His shoulders ache something fierce; most likely, he realizes belatedly, because his arms are currently chained together around the back of a chair. His ankles are bound to the chair legs as well, everything clamped too tightly for even the barest movement. On a good day, it’s the kind of thing he could get out of in his sleep. This is evidently not a good day.
He tries to open his eyes and barely suppresses a moan; it’s dim wherever he is, but even the low light sends pain shooting up behind his brow. At the muffled sound, something near him shifts.
There’s a hoarse, awfully familiar voice. “Dylan?”
Awareness shoots through him immediately. Dylan opens his eyes, headache be damned, and tries to crane his stiff neck far enough to look over his shoulder. “ Jack?”
“Dylan, jesus, thank god you’re awake.” Jack, it seems, is chained to another chair, back-to-back with him. He sounds alright, but that doesn’t do much to quell the panic currently building in Dylan’s chest. “I thought they gave you brain damage, or some shit. Holy fuck. You okay?”
He’s rambling a little, out of character for the Jack who’s normally a quietly witty smooth-talker. Dylan hopes it’s nerves and not something else, like an injury or a drug. The gravity of the situation is slowly dawning on him. “I’m alright,” he says, though talking makes his ears ring. “Got me pretty good on the head, that’s all.” He glances around and regrets it when his vision swims. “Sitrep?”
“We’re by the docks, I think,” Jack reports dutifully. That explains the fish smell. “No clue who got us, though. I came to a while ago, and I haven’t seen them since. They must’ve grabbed us just outside the bar—it’s kind of a blur.”
The bar—a seedy little dive where he took Jack to cool off after a fight between Daniel and Merritt had gotten out of hand. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time: raised voices and slammed doors always made their youngest member get antsy, and he thought maybe getting out of the apartment would help take the edge off. Now it just seems stupid and reckless.
“The locks on these things?” Dylan rattles the chains.
“Finger-print scanners. Not something I can pick. I’ve been trying to get out, but it’s—they stripped my tools, and everything.”
There’s an edge of guilt to his voice. Dylan makes a mental note to deal with Jack’s endless desperation to be useful later. Right now they have slightly bigger problems.
He tries to work past the spinning of his head to take stock of the situation. Him and Jack were taken; the rest of the Horseman are nowhere to be seen. Whoever grabbed them made quick work of both of them, something that isn’t easy to do, and so is clearly either extremely skilled or exceptionally well-connected—or, judging by the finger-print locks, potentially both. Suspect number one is currently rotting in a cell, but he wouldn’t put it past Bradley to swing something like this anyway. He can’t tell how long it’s been since the bar. The nearest body of water is at least an hour and a half from where they were holed up, but if the pit of hunger in his stomach and the dim morning light streaming through the warehouse windows is anything to go by, it’s been longer than that.
“You hurt anywhere?” he asks Jack, and the miniscule pause before Jack answers makes Dylan nearly crawl out of his skin.
“Not too bad. I think my right arm might be dislocated?”
Dylan can tell he’s being honest, which is good, although he seems to be in more pain than he’s letting on. And if his dominant arm is hurt it puts a bit of a damper on potential escape plans.
Getting out of the chains is priority number one, though. Him and Jack have no tools to speak of—their attackers might’ve missed the lockpick hidden in the sole of his shoe, but it won’t be much help to him now, what with the lock being a scanner and his shoe being presently unreachable. There’s no way the chains would have the kind of weaknesses he could exploit, not if these guys are as careful as they seem. If he can get enough leverage he could maybe manipulate the joint links, but it’s a long shot.
“Tell me you’ve got a brilliant plan,” Jack says, clearly trying for humor and landing closer to desperation.
Dylan opens his mouth to say something inevitably disappointing, but he shuts it just as quickly when the warehouse doors slide open.
Light stabs at his eyes. When he manages to blink past the spots, he’s staring at four guys who are armed to the teeth, all flanking a man in a perfectly-tailored white suit.
He’s young, which is the first thing Dylan notices. Around Daniel’s age, or a little younger. He has tanned skin and a crop of sandy-blonde hair and is wearing a pair of aviators, all of which would give him the appearance of a lifeguard or a camp counselor if not for his clearly very expensive clothing. Not altogether that intimidating, except for the fact that Dylan has no idea who the hell he is.
“God, it reeks in here,” the man says. He glances around the warehouse and makes a show of waving a hand in front of his face. “I know the docks are good for secrecy and whatever, but I really can’t stand the smell.”
Dylan can practically feel the tension radiating from Jack. The kid is waiting to follow his lead.
“Who are you?” Dylan demands. “What do you want?”
“Yeah, yeah, we’re getting there.” The man approaches their chairs, flanked on either side by gunmen, until he’s just a few feet in front of Dylan. “Man, no one ever wants to make small talk anymore, it’s so annoying.”
“Skip the bullshit, would you?”
“Well, you’re not exactly in a position to make demands, are you, Agent Rhodes?” He tilts his head, smiling amicably. “Or do you prefer Agent Shrike?”
Dylan sets his jaw, trying not to let his apprehension show on his face. It’s not a good sign that this guy knows who he really is, although it narrows the suspect pool considerably. “You’re with Bradley, I’m guessing? Have you told him to stick it up his ass recently?”
The guy barks a laugh, flashing a set of movie-star perfect teeth. “Me, working with Thaddeus? That’s a joke. Nah, I’m what they like to call an independent party.”
That throws Dylan for a loop. He scans the man’s face, but there’s no tell to suggest he’s lying, especially since Dylan can’t see his eyes. Which puts them back at square one on knowing who he is, and what he wants.
“I’ll save you the trouble of working it out,” the guy says, like he can read Dylan’s mind—something tells Dylan he could go to bat with Merritt, which is another tally in the bad category—“I’m Ezra. Cunningham. An alias, obviously, but I’m sure you of all people understand.”
Behind him, Jack pipes up in a deadpan, “And you brought us here because…?”
Ezra smirks and circles to the other side of the chairs. Panic flares briefly in Dylan’s chest; in the edge of his periphery he can see Ezra leaning over the kid, hands braced on either arm of the chair.
“Would you look at that babyface?” Ezra says, and Dylan can’t see his face but he can hear the grin in his voice, “Hard to believe you were dead not too long ago. Well, let me be the first to say, Jack—welcome back to the land of the living.”
“Cut to the chase, Cunningham,” Dylan snaps, trying to divert attention from Jack and back onto him. He needs to keep this guy away from the kid for as long as he can. “What do you want?”
Ezra pushes away from Jack’s chair and rounds on Dylan. He cracks his knuckles, silver watch glinting on his wrist. “The Eye,” he says, with the air of someone about to launch into a good old-fashioned villain monologue, “has been a fucking thorn in my side for years. I mean, cops, I can get away from. But do you know how hard it is to run a trafficking ring with magicians breathing down your neck?”
Dylan remembers it, suddenly, a file he’d only gotten a glimpse of—a former mentalist who’d ditched the game and turned straight to the worst kind of crime. Disgust rears its head, and Jack, clearly, is on the same page: “So you’re a sick bastard,” he snarls, “good to know.”
Dylan doesn’t disagree, but he wants to beg the kid not to goad him. There’s a lot about Ezra that Dylan can’t read, but his power complex may as well be lit in neon.
Ezra just smiles, though. “Haven’t you taught the kid any manners, Agent? Or do you just go over card tricks?”
Dylan doesn’t bother dignifying that with a response, and Ezra gives a bored roll of his eyes. “ So, obviously, you both are here to help me learn a little more about our favorite clandestine organization. We can start with the location of their headquarters.” He waves his hands, “I think the stakes are pretty clear, right? You tell me what you know, or I kill you?”
“You’re gonna kill us anyway,” Jack says flatly.
“Well, probably, but if you play along it’ll be over a lot quicker.”
Dylan grinds his teeth. They’ve got no information to tell, but Ezra likely won’t take that for an answer. He’s been trying to work the chains, but with the way they’re bound he can hardly move his hands at all. The incessant pounding behind his eyes isn’t helping matters. He wishes he had a plan . Their best odds are staying alive until the other Horsemen can get here, and as much faith as Dylan has in his team, he’s not the biggest fan of those odds.
“The Eye,” he says, keeping his voice a careful neutral, so neither Ezra nor Jack can pick up on his rising worry, “is a very secretive organization. We couldn’t help you even if we wanted to.”
“Right, sure,” Ezra snorts, “the famous Dylan Shrike has been taking orders from a ghost, is that what you expect me to believe?”
“It’s the truth. We don’t know anything about them.”
“Do you really want to do this, Agent?”
“I’m sorry, Ezra.” Dylan stares him right in the face. “You picked the wrong guys to kidnap.”
Ezra digs his tongue into his cheek. Even without seeing his eyes, Dylan can feel the rage rolling off of him. “Alright,” he says, at last, and turns to his men, “start with the kid.”
Dylan’s blood goes cold. “No,” he tries, “No, hey, wait—”
One of the guys starts towards Jack’s chair. He scans his fingerprint, and then the lock clicks and the chains fall and Jack is on his feet, already moving, throwing a well-aimed punch that sends the guy sprawling, bucking out of one goon’s hold and knocking another over at the same, and for a moment it seems he’s getting out of this, and Dylan dares to hope, and then—
Sharp clicks fill the air. Jack freezes. There are three assault rifles trained on him, but the gun he’s staring at is the one Ezra has pressed to Dylan’s temple. The room stills. No one breathes.
“Okay,” Jack says, putting his hands up, “Okay, fine—”
The butt of a gun smacks him hard across the face, and Jack crumples.
Dylan makes an aborted noise of protest. Jack, no longer fighting, is dragged by his arms until he’s right in front of Dylan and pushed down to his knees. Blood dots the corner of his mouth, but his eyes blaze.
“Don’t do this,” Dylan says, staring right at the guy with a gun to his head. He can see his own reflection in the stupid sunglasses, the desperation written all over his face. He’s not one to beg, but if there’s ever been a time— “C’mon, please. You can do whatever the hell you want to me. He’s just a kid.”
Ezra smirks at him. “So you’ll tell us where the Eye’s HQ is?”
“I already told you, I don’t know —”
A gunman grabs a fistful of Jack’s hair, wrenching his head back and exposing the soft column of his throat. Behind them, another guy is strapping on brass knuckles. Jack’s Adam's apple bobs with a swallow. “Dylan,” he says, managing a smile, “It’s fine. I’ll be fine.”
“It’s not fucking fine ,” Dylan spits. Jack only just turned twenty-two last month; he’s just a fucking kid . “Just do it to me, hit me, leave him the fuck alone— ”
The first blow lands, and it rattles Dylan up to his teeth.
The second one splits Jack’s cheek. Blood speckles the warehouse floor, but Jack barely makes a sound. Dylan knows the kid is tough, tougher than he should’ve ever had to be, hardened by a shitty family and an unforgiving city and years of having no one but himself. But that only makes it worse. Dylan is supposed to be here to protect him, to make sure nothing can hurt him like that again. And in the moment where it matters most, he’s completely fucking helpless.
Another hit lands. Another. His chest, his stomach, his face. They keep coming. Again and again. Jack is still fiercely silent but flagging now, his teeth bloodstained. His breath comes out in wheezes.
“Okay,” Dylan tries, as Jack spits out more blood, “that’s enough, c’mon . Please. Let him go.”
“Oh, I think Jackie here can handle a lot more than that, right?” Ezra leans over to pat Jack on the cheek. Jack glares daggers at him through one swelling eye. “Unless, of course, you’ve got something you want to tell me?”
Dylan scrambles. He doesn’t know the truth. If he did, he’s pretty sure he would’ve told them anything they wanted to hear by now. Maybe that’s why the Eye hadn’t told him to begin with. He’d die before he gave them up, but if it came down to Jack’s life he’d fold like a house of cards. Maybe it’s a weakness; Dylan doesn’t care. The Eye can take care of itself. The Horsemen are his .
“Don’t do it,” Jack says, meeting Dylan’s gaze, his eyes still bright with determination. “I can take it.”
“Jack—“
A hit straight across his face knocks him to the floor.
Jack, lying on his side, curls up as the kicks start flying, his hands linked over his head. They land everywhere, his back, his stomach, his already-dislocated shoulder. They’re wearing steel-toed-fucking-boots. He hears something crack. They’re going to kill him, less than a yard away from where Dylan is sitting.
He can’t let that happen. He has to think, no matter how hard his head is spinning. He’s a fucking magician, he’s an FBI agent, he’s smart, he’s good, this should be easy. Why the fuck can’t he think?
The blows keep landing. Jack is tiny, dwarfed by the men looming over him, the boots that keep meeting their mark. Maybe if he can fake something—if he can make it convincing enough—fucking misdirection, right? Anything that’ll make them stop—
“You win! You fucking win,” he bursts out, as though he means it, as though he’s panicked and desperate, which he is , “It’s in Chicago. Underground, below Union Station. Just—just stop, please.”
Ezra holds up a hand, and abruptly the awful sounds cease. Jack, shaking on the floor, lifts his head out from under his arms. He looks—jesus christ. He looks like shit. “Dylan,” he croaks. A blood vessel has burst in his eye, shooting red through the white of it. His nose streams blood down his face. “What the hell are you doing ?”
It hadn’t occurred to Dylan that the kid wouldn’t know if he was telling the truth. The Horsemen aren’t yet fully clear on what he does and doesn’t know about the Eye. He’s knocked off-kilter by the realization that Jack might’ve thought, even for a second, that Dylan would let them hurt him if it meant keeping the Eye’s secrets. The thought makes him nauseous, but he can’t set the record straight now.
Dylan keeps his eyes on Ezra, whose expression is indecipherable behind the sunglasses. It’s a good enough lie. Dylan himself had believed it for a while; there’s an old tunnel system that he had thought could be a lead years and years ago, when the Eye was just a legend to him, before he had gone on a daring mission to check it out and found nothing but rats and spiders. But Chicago is well-connected in the magic scene. The Eye has a lot of resources there. It’s within the realm of possibility.
Ezra cocks his head. Dylan schools his expression to neutral, tamps down his tells. Prays to whoever is listening that Ezra will believe him.
Then—
“Magicians and Feds, man,” Ezra says, shaking his head, laughing, “they’re all such fucking liars.” He glances at one of his men. “Get the crowbar, would you?”
Dylan’s stomach bottoms out. “What? No—wait— no—”
Ezra wags a finger at him, still grinning, as if they’re both in on some sick joke. “You really had me going there, for a second. Under Union Station. Wouldn’t that be a neat trick?” He whistles, long and low, while his lackey rifles through the duffel bag near the chairs and produces a length of black metal. “I get you’re desperate, Agent Rhodes, but I really don’t like liars.”
Ezra twirls the crowbar in his hands as he advances on Jack, who’s been dragged back up to his knees. The kid’s jaw is set—resigned. Determined to bear it.
“Wait,” Dylan says again, breathless, panic clawing at his throat, fear and guilt all roiling together, “look, I’m sorry, I don’t know anything else—I work for the Eye, but they only ever contact me, okay? I don’t know how to find them, I swear to god, I’m telling the truth this time, please—don’t do this, if you’re gonna hurt someone, hurt me —”
Ezra rears his arm back. Dylan can’t watch, but looking away feels like cowardice, like betrayal. He meets Jack’s eyes instead, and the earnestness in them is almost too much to bear.
The crowbar swings. Jack doesn’t flinch. The crack of it landing echoes through the whole room.
Time starts to slip away. Dylan’s not sure how long it’s been: minutes, maybe hours. He’s lost count of the blows. His voice is hoarse from shouting. Jack drifts in and out of consciousness, curled in a broken heap on the ground.
The crowbar scrapes against the floor, and Ezra leans back on it, admiring his handiwork. There’s a spot of blood on the lapel of his jacket from where Jack had spat on him, stark and clear against the white. That little defiance had earned the kid a hit so hard that Dylan had heard his ribs crack. The scream still rings in his ears.
“I’m impressed,” Ezra says mildly, like he’s commenting on the goddamn weather. “Honestly, I mean that. I didn’t expect either of you to last this long.”
“Fuck you,” Dylan bites out. He can’t tear his gaze away from Jack, who is twitching, who looks like something that’s crawled out of the grave. The kid’s chest rises and falls unsteadily, labored breathing punctuating the air.
Ezra just smiles at him and lets the crowbar clatter to the ground, striding back over to Jack. Dylan strains against his bonds, “Don’t—don’t touch him—leave him alone—“
Ezra toes Jack onto his back with one careless foot. Dylan catches sight of his face—slack, a mess of blood and bruises, and his chest aches so hard he thinks it might burst. “Shame, about that pretty face. He doesn’t look so good now,” Ezra tuts, kneeling down beside Jack’s head, cupping his chin in one hand. “He’s not breathing great, either—you think he might have a collapsed lung, or something?”
Dylan’s heart stutters. Jack needs medical attention, needs it soon. He looks like death, and the extent of the damage is undoubtedly so much worse than what Dylan can see. “Ezra,” he manages, his eyes still on the kid, the brave, smart kid who cares so much despite his posturing and has never stopped trying to prove himself, even now, “listen, please, you can keep me, just let him go, I’m begging you—”
“Begging?” Ezra raises an eyebrow at him. Smiles, sick and slow. “And here I was starting to think you didn’t really care about the kid.” He cocks his head. “All I need is one little location. His life isn’t worth that much to you?”
“I told you,” Dylan chokes out, “I don’t know. The Eye is—everything about it is a secret, even from me, I swear—”
Ezra hums. “Maybe,” he says, rising to his feet, looming over Jack’s prone form, “You need a little more motivation.” He lifts his boot and pushes it down on Jack’s throat. Jack’s eyes fly open, startled into consciousness. His pupils blow wide. He scrabbles weakly at Ezra’s leg, but can’t find purchase.
Dylan thrashes in the chair. “No, no—stop it—”
“Or maybe,” Ezra applies more pressure, and it punches out an awful sound, a hoarse, desperate gasp, “it’s just fun to watch you squirm.”
Jack writhes underneath him. The fear that seizes Dylan is suffocating, all-consuming—he thinks, ridiculously, of that day last year on the bridge, how for just a moment he had been gripped by the sudden, inescapable worry that everything had gone horribly wrong, that it was Jack’s body burning in the car and not the cadaver, that he had sent this kid to his death; that fucking tarot card, which Jack now bears like a curse—
“Ezra, stop, please!”
The boot lifts, just as Jack’s eyes start rolling back in his head. The wheezing breath that comes after is the greatest relief Dylan’s ever known.
Ezra takes a step back, watching him, leering, while Jack shudders through coughs on the ground. He’s trembling; his lips are blue.
“You do care about him, don’t you?” Ezra tilts his head at Dylan. “Or is it just that he’s a Horseman, and you need him?”
Dylan won’t give him this, won’t tell him what the Horsemen are to one another; the poker games, the long nights of planning devolving into laughter, the dinners Merritt scrapes together in their shitty safehouse kitchens. Those are theirs. “Jack,” he says instead, not even sure the kid is awake enough to hear it, but trying all the same, “don’t listen to him.”
Ezra scoffs a laugh. He gives a wave of his hand, and two of his men haul Jack up to his knees again. The kid sways, his head lolls. He blinks, languid and slow, looking nowhere. Drifting.
“It makes you wonder,” Ezra says, running a hand through Jack’s hair, the sick fuck, “what would he be worth to you if he couldn’t hold a card? Would you still want your magician without any tricks?”
Ezra nods, and one of the guys grabs Jack’s right hand, splaying his fingers out, while another holds the rest of him still.
Jack goes white, eyes suddenly huge. The realization of what’s about to happen slams alertness back into him.
“Dylan,” he gasps out, the high note of fear in his voice finally splintering through the brave face. He bucks against the hands holding him down, looking, all at once, not like a Horseman, but like a scared, desperate kid. “ Dylan—“
His pinky snaps. Jack screams.
Ezra keeps petting his fucking hair. “Wow, that must’ve hurt,” he says, with exaggerated, feigned concern. “Hang in there, okay kid? Still got nine more to go.”
The chains rattle. “You bastard,” Dylan spits, raging, fucking murderous, “You fucking bastard, I’m going to kill you. ”
Ezra shrugs one shoulder, and the guy breaks both Jack’s ring and middle fingers in one deft motion.
Jack hasn’t cried, not once that Dylan’s seen in the whole time he’s known him, not through all their arguments and Daniel’s abrasiveness and everyone’s slipping faith. Not when Merritt had had to coax him out of a panic attack a few months ago. Not even when they were beating the shit out of him earlier. But he’s crying now, his shoulders shaking with it, silent tears cutting through the blood and grime on his face.
Ezra drags his fingers over Jack’s scalp in a mockery of a loving gesture. It makes Dylan sick, to know that this is going to set back months of progress for Jack, who was just starting to slip into fond touches and casual displays of affection, who before the Horsemen had never been touched with kindness in his whole life—
Ezra leans in close, so his mouth is just next to Jack’s ear. “You think he’s gonna want you after this?” he says, a hair above a whisper. “You’ll be useless to the Eye, and to him. He won’t give a shit about you anymore. None of them will.”
Snap. Jack’s pointer finger breaks; Dylan sees the white flash of bone. Jack sobs.
“Don’t listen to him,” Dylan says desperately. Jack’s eyes are screwed shut, the tear tracks still glistening on his face. “Jack, he’s lying, that’s bullshit—it’s gonna be okay—you’re gonna be fine—“
“Oh, don’t delude him, Agent Rhodes,” Ezra says, as they shatter his thumb. The sound the kid makes is going to echo in Dylan’s nightmares for the rest of his life. “We’re going to kill him, nice and slow, and we’re going to make you watch.”
Jack is pale—pain, panic, blood loss. He shivers, and Dylan is suddenly, terribly afraid that he’ll go into shock.
“Jack,” Dylan swallows, licks his lips; his stomach is turning, he’s going to be sick, “Jack, just look at me. I’m right here. Eyes on me, okay?”
He’s trying to sound reassuring, but his voice wavers. Jack blinks slowly, hazy with agony, and looks up at him. His pupils are blown wide. The red in his sclera is startling. And still he’s gazing at Dylan with the moon-eyes he always does, with trust, with faith, like Dylan is something worthy of that and not the screw-up that he is.
“I’m sorry,” Dylan manages. He doesn’t know when he started crying, but his voice catches on it. “I’m so sorry, kid.”
Jack shakes his head minutely. Blood dribbles from the corner of his mouth. “Not,” he wheezes, slurring, swaying, “your fault.”
“That is so touching.” Ezra sets both his hands on Jack’s shoulders, digging his fingers in. Jack’s expression twists with pain. “I mean, really. I’m getting emotional.”
When Dylan gets out of this, he’s going to make this guy beg to be put out of his misery. He’s going to destroy everyone in this whole fucking room, and he’s going to enjoy every goddamn second of it.
Ezra leans down to loop a hand around Jack’s wrist. His fingers dangle limply, already dark with bruising, falling at odd angles. Ezra holds Jack’s hand up to the light and tuts. “You won’t be throwing cards anytime soon, huh?” he says lightly, and Jack blanches. “But, y’know, just to be sure.”
He twists Jack’s wrist, hard. Something snaps, and then he keeps twisting, until Jack is screaming, until Dylan is shouting right along with him, until he’s sure he can hear the bones grinding together. Dylan swears, yells threats and curses, promises to kill Ezra in a hundred thousand different ways. Ezra smiles and finally, finally, lets Jack go.
Jack pitches forward, just barely manages to catch himself with his good hand before his face hits the floor, and vomits.
It’s speckled with blood. Dylan can’t think of the internal damage. He watches as Jack collapses back onto his side, struggling for breath, little rasping gasps of air whistling on their way in. He feels sick. He feels like every hurt they’ve levied on Jack has hit him twice as hard. He feels stupid and weak and helpless like he hasn’t felt in years, not since he was twelve and watching his father disappear beneath the water and not come back up again.
“Please,” he tries, for what feels like the thousandth time, and he knows it’s useless, but what else is he supposed to do? He can’t do this. He can’t watch Jack die like this. “Please, I’m begging you, he needs a hospital, look at him, he’s just a fucking kid—“
“What do you think, boys?” Ezra says to his goons, looking down at Jack with a sneer, “Should we go for the other hand?”
“No—no— you bastard, you fuckers, I’ll fucking kill you all—”
“Dylan,” Jack mumbles as they reach for his left hand, hoarse and warbled, barely sounding like a person. His eyes are unfocused, but he tries to look at Dylan all the same. “S’okay. I’m okay.”
Dylan almost laughs hysterically at the notion that Jack is trying to comfort him, but it bubbles up as a sob. “ Jack.”
Jack gives him a bloodstained, wavering smile. “M’fine,” he breathes. “It’s okay.”
Ezra grins as he rears back to snap his left index finger. And in the very same moment, the world plunges into darkness.
Everything moves in disjointed bursts. The thick, sudden blanket of smoke is familiar, something Dylan knows well, a trick he’s pulled a hundred times. Sounds shatter the air: flash paper, gunfire, everyone shouting at once. He tries to follow what’s happening, but it all goes so fast. His head spins. He holds his breath. He prays.
Then Henley is in front of him, the red shock of her hair bursting through the black. She’s pulling a handsaw out of a duffel bag, hacking at the chains. It takes him a moment to realize her mouth is moving; she’s saying something to him.
He hears her voice as though from underwater. “—are you hurt? Dylan—”
“Jack,” he says, breathless, feeling like he’s just run a marathon even though all he’s done is sit on this stupid chair, “Jack, Henley, where’s Jack—”
He can’t make out her answer. The chains fall away and he rockets to his feet, then lurches, seeing stars; fuck head wounds, fuck this, he has to get to Jack—
He stumbles blindly forward. Henley steadies him by the arm, and some of the smoke begins to clear; shapes take form out of the haze: the crumpled bodies of the goons; Daniel looming over a twitching Ezra, dealing blows with a tire iron like some kind of vigilante; and finally Merritt, on the floor, cradling Jack’s limp form in his lap.
Dylan surges towards them, knees skidding against polished concrete. Jack’s head lolls in Merritt’s arms, every shallow breath rattling in his chest. He’s horribly, alarmingly still. He’s never looked so small.
“Jesus fucking christ, Dylan,” Merritt breathes, almost reverent. “What did they do to him?”
Dylan swallows back the taste of bile. “ Jack,” he says, reaching out a hand to cup the kid’s cheek and wanting to sob when even barely conscious, he flinches away. Purple bruises bloom like flowers across his face. His clavicle juts out unnaturally; Dylan can tell it's shattered from here. His knee is askew; his ribs must be broken; his throat is turning black and blue. Dylan can’t bring himself to look at his hand.
“He needs a hospital,” Henley says, next to them, the steadiness of her voice belied by the way her gloved hands shudder as they pass over Jack’s body. “He needs one now.”
“He’s legally dead,” Daniel argues from where he’s gone still above Ezra’s prone form. His chest heaves; the tire iron glints with blood. The formerly pristine white suit is stained red, and Dylan would take the time to relish in it if he could; as it is, his world has narrowed down to the kid struggling for breath in front of him.
“He’s going to be actually dead if we don’t do something,” Merritt snaps back. He’s taken off his porkpie hat and has it crumpled in one hand. Somehow this seems a greater show of vulnerability than anything else.
Dylan realizes too late that the other three are looking at him, waiting for him to tell them what to do. He doesn’t know how to express that he has no fucking clue, that he’s already failed Jack beyond remedy, that they should never put their faith in him again, not after this. He’d done nothing to deserve the kid’s hero worship in the first place and he stupidly, selfishly leaned into it anyway, caught up in the adoration, the blind, enduring trust. How many times can Dylan let him down?
Jack coughs weakly and scarlet freckles his chin. His eyelids flutter. Henley squeezes his unbroken hand, “Stay with us, Jack.”
"Dylan,” Merritt says, halfway to a plea.
In his eyes, unsaid—he needs you. Dylan’s head spins. He swallows.
“Get me a phone.”
Henley is already pushing one into his hands. Dylan’s fingers fumble as they dial, but he’d know the number in his sleep. Pick up, pick up.
“Who are you calling?” Daniel demands. Dylan doesn’t bother with an answer, just shoves the receiver to his ear.
“Allô?” The voice on the other end of the line, accented in French: a godsend, an angel, a lifeline.
“Alma,” Dylan breathes, equal parts desperation and relief, “We need your help.”