Page 41 of All Saints Day
Though we’d had difficulty finding out whohad originally owned the property, this much was clear; half of the facility is housing for the out of town higher-ups and hosting luxurious clandestine conferences for the Windmill, and the other half is dedicated to imprisonment, torture, information extraction, and disposal of problematic witnesses—be they government agents, freelancers, or even former Windmill employees.
Of course, there is also the matter of Frank.
Even with using Compton as our key to enter the Windmill’s forbidden realm, there is no guarantee that we won't encounter Frank in our attempts to free Louise.
If everything goes to plan, we will be able to get in, get Louise and get out before the Windmill are any the wiser. Once they discover we’ve snatched Louise from under their noses, we will have a new problem. We’ll start our lives on the run; staying away from Compton and out of the Windmill’s reach, but we’ve decided to cross that bridge when we come to it.
As long as we have Louise, we will find a way.
When everyone is ready, Q helps bring Compton out from under anesthesia. To give us the rest of what we need.
“Where the fuck am I? Who the hell are you?” Compton groans as he comes to, squinting up at Q from his place slumped over the back bench seat of the panel van in the same clothes he'd left work in.
“Oh, come now, Compton. It's been a few years, but my face is not exactly one that you'd forget,” Quentin purrs acidly.
Compton blinks away the bleary sleep from his eyes, rubbing at his face with the backs of his hands.
We hadn't bothered to cuff him here in the van—unarmed with the four of us—it seemed completely unnecessary.
As his senses begin to sharpen and he returns to himself,Compton's eyes widen, his posture straightening—his mouth hanging open slightly and disbelief.
“Beckett?” Compton blubbers dumbly.
“That's right, Eddie boy. It's me.”
I can see the pulse in Compton's neck jump as his eyes land on me.
“McBride, what the hell is going on here!?” he barks, spittle foaming at the corners of his lips.
“Take a deep breath, Ed. You're in no immediate danger, provided you cooperate with us.” I do my best to infuse some of my calm into Compton.
“The fuck I am!” he blusters, his clumsy fingers moving to the empty holster under his arm before his hands move to his seat belt as if he's going to do something, and I let out a single cruel laugh.
“Let's spare us all a little embarrassment. Shall we? You're going to want to cooperate with us, Compton. We have you outnumbered. Caz has your phone, I have your duty piece, and Seb has a hypo full of night-night juice if you start to make a fuss in the back of the van. If you work with us, nobody will hurt you.”
Now, it's Compton's turn to laugh.
“You boys are way out of your league. If you think that I'm worried about you dip-shits against the Windmill, you've got another thing coming.”
Before I can say anything else, one of Seb’s hands snaps out—the heel of his palm making contact with Compton's nose.
Compton screams out, but not loud enough to cover the sickening crunch, which gives way to a splattering of blood down the front of his white suit shirt.
“Fuck!” he roars, hands moving instinctively to his face to try to stay the blood, but as soon as he touches his nose he only cries out again—realizing it must be broken.
“The great thing about taking you hostage,mon ami—we don’t actually have to bother making fingerprint caps or retinallenses,” Seb growls, his patience long spent. “If you decide not to co-operate,” he snarls, grabbing Compton’s bloody shirt front with one hand and flicking open his trusty butterfly knife with the other—holding it flat against Compton’s cheek threateningly, “Then we just take your hands and your eyes with us in little plastic baggies.”
Compton actually lets out a little squeal and forces his eyes shut.
“You’re all fucking crazy!” he screams as Seb allows the pointed tip of his blade to pierce the full round of Compton’s cheek.
“You still feeling tough, Eddie? Or are you gonna be a good coward and cave to save your own skin?” I press, unwilling to relent.
“Alright, alright! I’ll cooperate—just get the fucking knife out of my face,” Compton cries.
Seb and I exchange a glance. Good, we have him right where we want him.
Once he’s been reeled back from the edge of hysteria, we explain the plan to Compton along with his part in it.
