Title - Trust
Author - Obsessed1
Rating - PG
Summary - John and his brother are kidnapped by the Trust and have to escape.
Beta - Thank you to Kristen999 who had to put up with switching my commas and my full stops, for saying, "Why the hell have you done this?" and just generally being a source of inspiration when i was stuck and going, "What now?"A/N; This story is complete, however i'm going to post it in parts so it gives me time to edit any mistakes i've missed along the way.
The black van pulled up close to the rear of the warehouse and the door slid open. Five men piled out, while the driver took the opportunity to light up a cigarette. As the prisoner was jostled out of the van, cloth bag over his head, he turned and spoke to the driver's reflection in the side mirrors. "Everything go to plan?"
Smoke drifted out of the window. "As much as it could have. There was another guy with him, tried to give us the jump. I dealt with him."
"Good," he said. "The money will be in your accounts by the morning."
He approached his prisoner. He was dressed casual but smart, arms pulled behind his back, head bobbing as he tried to speak through an obviously gagged mouth.
"Bring him inside." He couldn't help but smile. "Let's make the Colonel more comfortable."
The van drove off, tyres screeching into the night, as they entered the warehouse. It was dark and cool inside, the walls unfinished breeze block and the floors plain concrete. There was nothing remarkable about the place. Nothing at all. That was the point.
The Colonel was dumped into a chair in the middle of the room and he angled the light carefully to get a better view as he removed the sack cloth. It only took a minute for him to realize the grave error and he turned to his men, angry, frustrated, already regretting his decision to hire outside help.
"Well done," he said, with a put upon sigh. "You got the wrong man!"
His men looked confused and one stepped forward to throw him a leather jacket. "But he had this."
He examined the jacket closely. It was black and made of leather. He dug into the pockets and found a sparse wallet with a few dollars, a receipt for a rental car and a credit card with the name; Mr. J Sheppard.
He turned back to the man on the chair, whose eyes were wide with panic and then back to his men. "This isn't John Sheppard. This is his jacket but this is…." he paused and reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Was he wearing the jacket?"
"Was he wearing the damn jacket?"
"He was holding it," one of the men admitted.
The man on the chair was squirming against his restraints, cheeks red with the exertion. He removed the gag and pulled a wet string of saliva with it.
"Who are you?"
The man before him looked confused and the light in his eye had him blinking repeatedly. He seemed too shocked to speak.
"I asked you a question now kindly answer."
"I'm……" the man paused and licked his lips. "What do you want with John?"
He bunched the jacket in his hands tightly, frustration warring with curiosity. "You know John Sheppard?"
The man swallowed thickly in a way that suggested he was trying not to be sick. This man wasn't military; that much was apparent. In fact, his reactions were distinctly civilian.
"Yeah," the man told them all, squinting to see their faces. "I'm his brother."
There were people, strangers, surrounding him, asking if he was okay. John tried to get his foggy mind to co-operate and provide him with an explanation for his current situation. He wasn't off-world. He remembered that much.
He'd requested leave to help his brother settle their father's estate. They'd had a meeting with the executor of the will at his offices downtown.
That's where he was now.
Except, he was lying in the middle of the sidewalk with a lot of people standing over him.
"What's……." he stopped abruptly when a spike of pain forced out any rational thought.
The woman crouched beside him gently squeezed his shoulder, "It's okay. Don't try to move. There's an ambulance on its way."
"An ambulance?" John tried to move and found his efforts hampered by other helpful strangers who wanted to keep him immobile.
He stared up at the black sky and watched as a few droplets of rain zoomed towards him. His head ached in time to his progressively quickening heartbeat.
"What happened?" he tried to lift his hand but the woman took it in hers, thinking he was reaching out for comfort.
"You've been injured."
He tried to move again but the pain in his head caused the edges of his vision to grey.
Another guy appeared in his field of vision with a cell phone to his ear. "Ambulance is on its way."
Sheppard finally managed to free his hand when the woman, presumably this man's wife, reached up to push the hair out of her eyes, and touched his head. The left side of his face was wet and sticky and before he looked at his fingers, John knew they would be coated with blood.
"You were shot," the woman provided weakly, her face had paled. "The man responsible just drove off with your friend. We've called the police."
Shot? Shot in the head? And he wasn't dead? John thought.
He was still trying to process the news when he focused on what she had just said. His friend? Rodney? Ronon? No, no, he was downtown at the reading of the will. Rodney and Ronon were on Atlantis. That meant that his brother had been abducted and driven away.
"I have to….." he licked his lips again weakly and tried to get up. "I have to get to him……."
"Just concentrate on being still."
They'd come out of the office arguing because his father had apportioned half of his estate to John. He'd told Dave that he didn't want it. His brother had switched from anger, to feelings of betrayal, then utter disbelief at the ungratefulness that John apparently showed for saying he didn't have desire to accept the inheritance.
The simple fact was that John had no need for the money and wanted to prove that he hadn't come back for the funeral to get his share. If anything his brother deserved it. Dave had been keeping his fathers business afloat for years after John had suddenly left to pursue his career in the Air Force.
As harsh words were exchanged, John had started to walk away. He flat out refused to argue again. But then, his brother called him back, waving his jacket in the air.
"Aren't you forgetting something?" he'd shouted and sounded exactly like their father in the process.
The next minute a black, unmarked van, was pulling up and five men were clambering out.
He had instinctively reached for a 9.mil that wasn't there and settled for jumping one of the men from behind to pummel him. His brother in the meantime had been accosted and pushed into the van. He was thrown to the ground, kicked in the side a few times, and when he managed to get up, managed to get to the black van's window, he was staring down the business end of a weapon and suddenly hearing the familiar cadence of a berretta firing.
The sounds of sirens had him returning back to the, lying on the floor having been shot in the head, portion of his evening.
"I need to make a call," he said, feeling surreally detached from the situation.
Both the man and woman looked down at him as if he were insane.
"You're hurt…." the woman provided dumbly.
"I'm fine," he told her and made another attempt to move.
"He must be in shock," he heard the man say as the ambulance doors were opening.
Two paramedics rushed to help him and his protests were lost in the bustle of activity around him. A few seconds later and the darkness claimed him.