Title: Dangerous Territory

Rating: T rated for now, eventually M.

Summary: Brennan and Booth's investigation finds them kidnapped and in hot water across the border.

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters – no infringement intended whatsoever.

A/N: This fic may be at times quite dark. Violence and sex will feature, so please keep checking the rating on this fic – it will eventually change to M. Please review and let me know what you think! Any MA rated chapters will be uploaded to my website that is accessible through my profile. Thank you!


Prologue

He touches her cheek with the sharpened tip of the knife, pressing just hard enough that she can feel the prickly sting as the metal digs into her skin. Jerking her head away, Temperance Brennan glares fiercely at the hooded man who stands oppressively above her. His makeshift uniforms stinks of dried blood, sweat and the jungle – the sour mixture infiltrates her senses and her stomach gives a violent lurch.

"A feisty one," the man says in heavily accented English. "I like that." Pocketing the knife, his large dark hand flies out and clasps her jaw – tight and vicelike. Her lip feels swollen against the tip of her tongue and tastes vaguely metallic. Pressing his face close to hers, breathing stale nicotine over her, he sneers, clearly pleased with himself. "Lets see how feisty you are when I'm done with you." Her head snaps sideways as the back of his hand strikes her cheekbone. Face on fire, Brennan swallows an anguished cry, refusing to acknowledge the onslaught of assaults she has experienced at the hands of the group.

Her ankles are bound by thick, rough cotton and her arms tied firmly behind the chair; a heavy, metal chair that was bolted to the floor and designed, she could only assume, for torture tactics. This is part of the job, she reminds herself firmly despite the rising fear in her gut. Getting kidnapped by drug barons was not part of her job however, regardless of how many times she inwardly chants the same mantra it never changed the fact. Her job was what it had always been; to identify the remains of murder victims.

A trickle of sweat rolls down her neck and she tries to inhale a breath into her lungs without attracting the guard's attention. Her lungs feel heavy – the oppressive jungle air heavy with moisture. Inside the tent the heat is suffocating despite the sun's rapid retreat to the west. He marches backward and forward like an irritated cat, prowling and sneering. Brennan watches him, knowing that he might and probably will, turn on her again soon. He fishes a cigarette from his shirt pocket and strikes a match. Her nose wrinkles as the sulphur creeps up her nostrils, followed by the pungent tobacco scent.

Her back aches, kept rigid for far too long. She wishes she could wriggle and relieve the pressure on her spine but any movement, however slight, will bring the hulking guard's attention back to her in an instant. She remains still, praying that her statue-like posture might render her near invisible. Her breathing is shallow and her heartbeat slow despite the intense feeling of dread that hangs over her.

She was separated from Booth several hours ago – before the midday. Two large men had dragged him from the tent, still unconscious. She glances at the ground where a pool of his blood has dried in the heat. She could still hear the resounding crack of his skull as they'd rammed the butt of an AK-47 into his head. Her breath hitches at the memory of his body slumping forward and them marching in to drag him away. When she'd been to Guatemala, Brennan had been independent and alone and now, she is alone again and twice as afraid. Without Booth, there is only certain death ahead.

Special Agents Katrina Banks and Joel French were dead. They'd disappeared months ago, stripped of anything that could identify them, Banks and French had been dumped in the jungle to rot and remind unidentified. When Brennan and Booth had been called on, the pair were scattered bones that had been mauled by fierce, wild animals. Their skulls remained within feet of each other – two neat bullet holes between the eyes. Definitely murdered.

Brennan touches her tongue to her lower lip again, suppressing a wince as the wound begins to sting. Her face burns and a bruise begins to form below her eye. Banks and French had got too close, their undercover routine as two entomologists blown out of the water as the drug cartels closed in. Booth believed their files had been seized and the evidence of their work damning. The pair never stood a chance.

Neither do we, she thinks. The guard turns to face her again, his face still hidden beneath the cotton hood he wears. She is perplexed at how he hasn't sweltered in the oppressive jungle heat. His teeth flash, slightly yellowed. Instinct tells her that this man's intentions are not limited to interrogation. His fists enclose his genitals and he repositions himself, watching her features cloud in fear. His laughter is nasty, filled with loathing and malice.

"You should be afraid," he tells her in Spanish.


A/N: Just a short prologue to get the story started. Remember that reviews feed my muse! Thank you for reading, guys.