Archive of Our Own ^beta

Jim parked a block away from the downtown Hilton, not wanting his truck to be seen in case questions came up later. For the same reason, he entered the hotel through the back service entrance. At 2am, the kitchen was mostly closed down, and he encountered no one as he slipped into the service elevator and up to the room in which Blair had been assaulted.

Jim had been careful to keep his questioning of Blair casual. If his partner had known what he planned, almost from the moment he'd seen Blair lying on his office floor, the grad student would never have allowed Jim to go through with it. And Jim knew that of all people in the world, Blair Sandburg was the only one who could stop Jim from doing anything.

There was no hope of bringing Blair's rapists to justice. As a cop, Jim was painfully aware that the American legal system favored the criminals while leaving the victims out to dry. If Jim arrested the men responsible, Blair would be put through a trial, made to repeat his story over and over while the defense ripped into his personal and sexual life. In the end, it would come down to Blair's word against his assailants, and the chances that any jury would believe that a part-time prostitute wasn't "asking for it" was slim to none. Officially, Jim's hands were tied.

Unofficially, there was nothing stopping the ex-Army Ranger from doling out some serious Special Forces justice.

Jim could tell from halfway down the hall that the hotel room was deserted. It had been cleaned already, but under the cleaning fluids he could pick up faint traces of aftershaves, wine, sweat, and sex. The same smells that had been on Blair. The smells of his rapists.

Pulse pounding in his temples, lips pursed into a tight, angry line, Jim took the back stairs down to the basement. His nose took him to the area where trash was stored for pickup, and he waded among the bags, concentrating on the smell he'd encountered from the room upstairs until he zeroed in on one trash bag that had come from that room. He ripped it open and spread the contents out on the floor, searching the debris with the tip of a pen until he found something useful. The wine bottle still held some good, clear fingerprints. Jim carefully slid it into his jacket and left by the basement door.

This is my night for basements Jim thought humorlessly as he walked in the basement of the Cascade PD and into the lab area.

The tech on duty looked up from a sample he was analyzing. "Hey, Jim. Late night for you, isn't it?"

"No rest for Cascade's finest, Dave, you know that ," Jim replied. He handed Dave the wine bottle. "I need some prints run through the DMV. Rush job."

Dave took the bottle with a long-suffering sigh. "Lemme guess: you need them right away. You and everyone else in this department." He started lifting prints off the glass surface.

A short time later, Dave handed him two sheets of paper. "Okay, Jimbo, I got two people's prints, here they are, good luck with your case, and get the hell out and let me work."

Jim took the papers. "Thanks, man. I owe you."

Dave rolled his eyes. "If I collected everytime a cop said that I could retire at 30. Bring me some of your spaghetti sauce and we'll call it even."

Jim hesitated. "One more thing: I need a few syringes, and vacutainers, okay?"

Dave considered. "A quart of your spaghetti sauce and a cheesecake."

Jim smiled. "You drive a hard bargain, Dave. You got it."

Dave shrugged. "You were never here." He gave Jim a handful of syringes, and turned back to his work.

Jim left the same way he'd entered and sat in his truck with the dome light on. Two sets of prints, one belonging to a Mildred Adams. Jim disregarded her immediately. Probably the maid who'd cleaned the room. The other set belonged to a Randall Schaeffer, 42, of 315 S. Amber Way. Jim scowled at the picture from the man's driver's license. Blair had mentioned that a man named Randy had been the ringleader in the assault. This had to be him. Jim felt rage and disgust so strong that he was unable to move for several minutes. Finally, he ripped the picture into small pieces and drove.

Amber Way was in one of the more affluent sections of Cascade, an area where the cheapest house probably ran $300,000. Jim had grown up in a place similar to this, and knew the routine: well-lit, security systems, and a beat-up old truck would be quickly spotted and reported. Instead of parking in the neighborhood, Jim chose a street several blocks over where construction was going on and parked behind a large bulldozer. Hopefully, his truck would go unnoticed behind it until he was finished with Randy.

Jim pulled on an old rubber raincoat and belted it at the waist, then slipped a pair of latex gloves and a ski mask in his pocket. No fingerprints, no hair, no fibers from his clothes. Nothing to link Jim Ellison to what he was about to do.

Jim found the house easily, and just as easily circumvented the laughable security system as he'd been taught in the Rangers. He walked into the house through the back door and scanned with all senses. A single heartbeat rang through the house from upstairs. As Jim got closer, he smelled the odor of the man, the same odor that Blair had reeked of when Jim had found him. *Here I come, you son of a bitch* he thought with grim pleasure.

The man lay across his bed fully clothed, snoring. He stunk of alcohol and less pleasant things; he'd obviously not showered after the rape, because Jim could also smell Blair. Smelling his Guide's sweet scent on this pig enraged Jim, and he clamped his hand over the man's mouth. "Hi, Randy," Jim whispered when the man's eyes flew open.

Predictably, Randy tried to sit up, and Jim smashed him in the throat. Randy gagged and grabbed his neck, trying to scream. Jim slammed his gloved fist into his face hard enough to crack the cheekbone. Randy uttered a high, wheezing noise and held up a hand to stop the blows. Smiling unpleasantly, Jim took the hand in his own and quickly snapped all five fingers.

The fight went out of Randy, and he cringed on the bed, shielding his face and head. "What...who.." he managed.

Jim bashed a hammerfist into his side. The sound and feel of ribs giving way under his hand was satisfying, and Randy's gobbling cry even more so. He was snivelling now, staring at Jim with wide, terrified eyes. "Money," he croaked. "In the desk." He pointed.

Jim watched Randy's mouth move with whiny, unintelligible pleas. *The same mouth that bit Blair so badly* The thought set Jim off again, and he sent his fist crashing full force into Randy's mouth. Blood sprayed and front teeth broke off at the gumline, but it wasn't enough, never enough to make up for Blair's pain and humiliation. Jim wanted to kill him, to rip his skin off inch by inch, burn him alive from the feet up, forcing him to smell his own cooking flesh as he died. Again, Jim heard the low growl of a jungle animal that could only have come from himself. He forced himself to take a deep breath and find the small part of himself that was still civilized.

He could kill the fucker easily, but better to let him live with the assault, to know fear like Blair had, knowing his attacker would never be found. Jim leaned down until he was almost nose to nose with the cowering figure. He wrapped his hands around Randy's injured throat and squeezed tightly. "Do you know how easy it would be to crush your windpipe?" he whispered menacingly. His grip tightened further, and Randy's face began to change color from a deep red to purple. Jim let up. "But I need some information, and you're going to give it to me."

When Randy didn't reply, Jim belted him in the nose, shattering the bone. "Right?"

"Right, anything, just please don't kill me!" Randy blubbered, blood squirting through his fingers and dripping down his chest. The sharp scent of urine filled the room.

Jim stood up straight so he was towering over Randy, a psychological advantage. "You raped my best friend last night, you sick motherfucker!" Jim hissed. "You and some other drunken wastes of space." He leaned down again, and gave Randy time to shake and contemplate what was coming next. "Let's talk names, what do you say?"

"Jeff Morton, Steve Collins, and Matt Newsmith!" Randy cried immediately.

Jim shook his head in disgust. He himself would have died before giving up a friend, but what else could you expect from a man who had ganged up on and raped another man? "Ever been tested for AIDS, Randy?"

Randy nodded.

"When?"

"Last-last April. Clean."

Jim glared. "You wouldn't be lying to me, would you? If you were, I couldn't leave you alive."

Randy trembled and shook his head. "Swear."

Jim grabbed his arm and held up the syringe. "I'm going to take a little blood sample. You're going to stay still. If you move, I'll rip open the nearest artery and leave you to bleed to death." Jim deftly removed the blood necessary for an AIDS test and slipped the vials into his pocket.

He stood up and looked down at the cowering, sobbing figure. "You thought you were a man last night, didn't you?" he sneered. "You're no man. You didn't even put up a fight when I beat the shit out of you. You lay there an pissed yourself. The next time you get to thinking you're a man, I want you to remember this night, you lying here covered in your own blood and piss, helpless." He kicked out suddenly, connecting solidly with Randy's ass. "I especially want you to remember how it feels to be helpless while someone else controls you, you sad sack piece of shit."

Jim left Randy semi-conscious and bleeding and walked toward his truck. He had three more visits to make tonight.