Page 67 of Set Fire to This Cardhouse

They don’t deserve to be accidental targets.

Slowly, Toby raises his hands. Mike is eerily silent.

***

They put him into a van with tinted windows at the back—fuck film, as Matt calls it when Haley isn’t around. Toby tries to focus on the positives.

Unfortunately, he’s running rather low on those given he’s in the back of a van on the way to fuck knows where, the vehicle swerving through what appears to be city traffic. His hand and feet are tied, he’s outnumbered four to one—and that’s not even counting the driver.

At least Toby got the data out. And he miraculously didn’t lose his communication set: while they did pat him down for weapons, the tiny device in his ear was too small to be noticed by guards trained for muscle, not brains. This means that in theory, Toby still has a link to Mike. In practice, it has either been cut or Mike has muted his line.

Neither are particularly pleasant thoughts.

More pleasant than Ken’s smile, though. “You have my badge. And my voice and print of my hand. How?”

“Oh?” Toby affects a surprised expression, shifting nearer to a sharp edge he spots on the metal rear doors. The rope binding him is thick, but the faint shadow of a plan is better than none at all. “That’s funny. Strange coincidence, that. I was only looking for the restroom, but see, I have this deficiency, and it means that I always get confused when I’m in a building for the first time. Actually, here’s a funny story, because when I was a kid—”

“Shut up.” Ken slaps Toby across the face with the back of his hand. What a bitch move, really. It doesn’t hurt that much, but it’s enough to make Toby review his assessment of just how outnumbered he is—surely not so outnumbered that he couldn’t do serious damage to Ken’s pretty face because God, Toby would love to, he really would.

He’s smarter than that.

“You work with that man,” Ken says. He wouldn’t look quite so pretty with blood dripping down his nose. “Arthur Dent, you work with him. Men don’t run from me usually, so you work with him. Is he your partner?”

Mike... didn’t stay? It’s the last thing that should matter right now, but somehow, it still does.

“Arthur Dent?” Toby gives a hollow laugh and twists just a little closer to the doors. “I don’t personally know any literature characters, sorry. Certainly don’t work with them.”

“Very funny.” Ken narrows his eyes.

Toby beams at him. “Thank you.”

He notices Ken’s hand signal and rolls away just as one of the guards makes a grab for him. Managing to twist his body around, Toby kicks straight for the guy’s stomach. The man doubles over in pain, but any further movement on Toby’s part is hindered by the rope. Also, there’s one of him and four of them, and all three musclemen have guns.

Predictably, it doesn’t take long until Toby is on his stomach, his cheek pressed against the dirty floor with the considerable weight of steroid-inflated muscle bearing down on him. He tastes blood, and if he’s lucky, one of his ribs is merely bruised, not broken.

“Not so funny now, no?” Ken leans forward with a sick smile, and a moment later, Toby feels the cold press of metal against his hand—not the sharp edge of a knife, but the rounded handle of some tool. Toby tries to twist away, but there’s nowhere he can go while tied up and held down by two guys roughly twice his size.

Ow. Jesus fucking Christ. The pain is blinding for a moment, searing up his arm to center in his chest and squeeze around his lungs until his vision is slightly skewed.

What a bloodsucking, cocksure excuse of a human being, fuck. Toby bites down on a groan because he won’t give Ken the fucking satisfaction, but dammit, he was fond of that fingernail, he was; kind of attached to it, in fact. He blinks and inhales roughly, feels blood seeping into the back of his shirt, turning the fabric wet. Someone’s been watching too many fucking supervillain movies.

“Now.” Ken bends over him, his smile a grimace. “Who you work for?”

“I’m sorry,” Toby tells him.

Ken narrows his eyes.

“You clearly didn’t get enough love as a child. There’s therapy for that sort of thing.”

That’s when all hell breaks loose.

A violent crash. The van shudders, skids over to the side until it hits what must be a wall. The impact gives Toby a chance to throw his body forward, rolling over and over until he blindly grabs the gun out of a nameless guard’s waistband, his tied hands severely impairing his ability to aim straight. Somehow, twisted uncomfortably to make out the man behind him, he gets off a clean shot. It rings loud over the squealing brakes of other cars, of metal meeting metal.

Quickly, Toby wriggles away and manages to shoot a second guard before the man can bring his gun up. The third guard seems to have taken a bad knock to the head, only just beginning to stir as Toby evades Ken’s grasp and props his body up against one of the doors. He’s about to try for a shot when the doors behind him open. Stripped of his support, he tumbles backwards.

Mike catches him.

“Hey.” Mike’s mouth is very close to the shell of Toby’s ear, his front pressed to Toby’s back. One of Mike’s arms is tight around Toby’s waist. “You found a gun.”

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