+18 - eps 22-27 - A case takes Russell and Brock to the brink of death. It'll be up to Gillian and the team to rescue them before they're killed by a white supremacist militia. And in the aftermath of the Paris attacks, the threat of a bio attack fo...
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Brock's eyes fluttered open to a haze of shadows and lights in blurry shapes. And the sound of thuds sprinkled with suffocated moans. Was it Russell? How long had they been beating him? How long had he been out? The blood from his noise wasn't completely dry on his lips and chin, and he could still open both eyes. The ropes around his wrists and ankles cut and stung, but didn't hurt yet, and blood still reached his fingers.
"I said down, nigger! On your four!"
Another thud, another moan. He had to do something. And make it work better than his first attempt to cover Russell, when they were brought to the barracks. Not the same place they were now. This looked like a small room, maybe a shed like the one they'd found in the woods on Sunday morning. At the barracks, his impulse to stand between Russell and their captors put them inside of a circle of fists and kicks. It ended up with both of them curling up on the floor, just trying to keep breathing through that brutal violence spiced up with curses and mocks. Until everything went black for Brock.
They were somewhere else now, and he was tied to a creaky, tight armchair. They'd placed him face to a boarded wall. He heard moves behind him, three people tops. And he could feel a fire burning somewhere at his right.
"Crawl, nigger! Like the filthy maggot you are!"
"Let'im be!" he said. Or tried to say. Only a gurgling growl came out of his mouth. He coughed and spat blood on the dirt floor. Where were they? Was that psychopath Balken there too?
A strong hand grabbed his hair from behind and pulled his head roughly up and back. "Well, well, Sleeping Beauty didn't need a kiss after all," a man said near Brock's ear, tobacco and liquor in his breath.
"Crawl!" Brock heard a hiss and a lash. The bastards were flogging Russell, who let out a hoarse cry as he tried to move. "Now lick my boots, nigger!"
Brock tried louder. "Let'im be!" He turned his head to have at least a glimpse of what was behind him. "You okay, sir?"
The man grabbing his hair moved to face him with a half-mocking, half-questioning smirk. Late thirties, military background twisted wrong. All about him screamed violence: this man enjoyed killing. Brock thought his face rang a bell.
"Sir?" the man repeated. "You work for the nigger?" He clearly thought it outrageous.
Brock struggled to keep his eyes focused on the man. The rest of his body was getting the memo about being awake and he regretted it, because now he could feel every punch and kick he'd taken earlier, especially to his chest and right side.
"We all do, you idiot," he grunted.
Brock's chin touched his shoulder at the brutal backhand across his face. He wished the man's knuckles hurt at least half as much as his cheekbones did.
"Lick it!"
Brock set his aching jaw at Russell's muffled cry when he was flogged again.
