Chapter Text
“Okay Noah, I’ll be home soon,” she tells her son as she walks across the parking lot, his smiling face gazing back at her over FaceTime on her phone screen. “And no, before you say it, I won’t forget the pizza,” she grins at him, raising the hand not holding her phone awkwardly, her arm weighed down with her heavy work purse and a bag full of extra files she needs to work on after getting Noah to bed, waving her fingers at her smiling eight-year-old and blowing him a kiss, him doing the same in return (something she can no longer guarantee as it’s getting embarrassing, so she’ll treasure each and every time he does) before she ends the call, juggling her car keys awkwardly as she reaches her SUV in the parking lot.
“Fuck,” she mutters as her phone slides through her fingers, letting go of her grip on her keys so she can at least stop her phone from hitting the deck. “Why didn’t I pull rank and get a uni to help me with this shit?” She asks herself as she crouches to grab the fallen keys, the heavy bags weighing her down, her ankle, aching after a long-ass day in heels, protesting under the added weight as she stands back up. “Because even after nearly eight years as CO, you still can’t quite get used to the extra perks,” she answers her own question as she unlocks her car, opening the passenger door and sliding the bags from her arm to land haphazardly on the seat. Her phone slides through her fingers a second time, straight into her purse and she shakes her head. I’ll find that in a minute, when I’m in the damn car where it’s warm, she decides, stepping back and closing the car door.
Turning, she gasps when she’s met with the last person she wants to see. Appearing from between two parked cars, Burton Lowe approaches her, stopping a few feet away when she squares her stance. “Burton, what the hell are you doing here?” She asks, peering at him. “Are you drunk?” She asks.
“No,” he slurs slightly, shaking his head. “I am not drunk,” he insists. “We need to talk, you and me,” he declares and she rolls her eyes.
I haven’t got time for this. “I have nothing to say to you Burton,” she tells him, taking a step back. “Go home, sober up.” He steps forward, and she’s suddenly very conscious that her phone is in her car, and he’s currently blocking the door. Stay calm Olivia, she tells herself. Just walk away, get in the car, lock the doors and call Fin. He’s still upstairs, he’ll be down here in less than a minute.
She backs up another step, level with the trunk of the SUV now, almost able to sidestep out of Burton’s direct line of sight when he does the last thing she’d expect.
The gun glints under the lighting of the parking lot when he pulls it from his pocket, the muzzle wavering as he points it at her but she can’t - won’t - take any chances. Where the hell did you get that from? She wants to ask him, but stops herself.
“I said, we need to talk,” he insists, his voice deeper now, lower, an intent in his tone that hadn’t been there before, one that sends a shiver down her spine.
“Okay,” she nods slowly, her right hand inching down towards where her own weapon lies holstered at her hip. “We can talk, Burton.”
“Don’t even think about it,” he says, stepping closer, nodding his head at her creeping hand. She stops, frozen in place as he closes the gap, the stink of whiskey permeating her senses as he roughly moves her coat to the side, unsnapping her holster and yanking her gun out, holding it loosely in his left hand.
Left unarmed and with no way to call for help, she knows she has no choice but to play along. Why did it have to be after eleven? She thinks to herself, angry. There’s never anyone in the parking lot this late. Raising her hands, palms flat towards Burton, she blows out a breath. “Okay,” she says calm and level, her experience with these situations kicking in, taking over. “Okay, we can talk Burton,” she says, his proximity making her skin crawl, but backed up against the side of her car now, there’s nowhere for her to go. “Why don’t you just put the gun down and we’ll-”
She never gets to finish her sentence; the dull thud of Burton’s gun hitting her skull cutting off her very thought.
Darkness.
***
Sound returns first; the revving of an engine, road noise, tires screeching. What the… she thinks as she opens her eyes, the world tilting violently as she slides across the leather she feels underneath her.
Reaching out her hands on instinct to stop herself, she realises that she can’t; they’re trapped behind her back, encased in cold metal and her breath freezes in her chest. No. No… what happened?
Her head aches; a pounding in her skull, a stickiness on her forehead and cheek but she can’t move her hands to touch, to check and all she can see is black leather. The car seat (she’s pretty sure she’s in a car, at least) stinks of alcohol and for a moment, for a split second she’s in the backseat of a different car, in a different time and she bites down hard on her lip to bring herself back to the present. No duct tape, she reminds herself. No tarpaulin, and you’re on the seat, not in the footwell. It’s not him. He’s dead. He’s dead.
But who the hell is it?
Rolling awkwardly, her bound hands crushed under her weight, she finds herself facing the car roof. Lights from buildings flash past the windows at speed, the car swerving from side to side and she knows they’re driving far too fast. Come on, she silently begs. Let there be a patrol car, let them see. Please!
“You awake back there Olivia?” A drunken voice sing-songs from the drivers seat, and the memories flood back in.
The parking lot. Burton. The gun. Being pistol-whipped unconscious. It’s blood on my face, she realises.
The world blurs at the edges and she opens her mouth, half-expecting it to be covered in silver tape but it’s not, she can open it, she can speak, she’s sober, there’s no duct tape in sight and he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead it’s not him.
Terror spikes in her heart and she takes one deep breath. “Burton?” She asks, a question and a statement rolled into one.
“You are awake!” Burton replies. “Good, good. I was gettin’ a little worried there, I gotta admit.”
Her position means she can’t see his face, but she can see a half-empty vodka bottle propped up in the passenger seat and as she watches, his hand snakes out, grabbing the bottle (the same brand as the one… the one he’d preferred because of course it is) by the neck. It disappears, and she hears the faint sound of liquid swishing over the road noise before the bottle reappears, tossed into the seat, almost empty now. How drunk are you? She wonders, very conscious of the erratic driving, and her lack of seatbelt.
“Burton, just stop the car,” she pleads. “Just pull over and we can talk, like you wanted,” she remembers. “Okay? Whatever you’ve got to say I’ll listen, I promise.” Just pull over before you kill us, please…
“Nope,” he replies, the car taking a hard left turn, sending her sliding almost off the seat entirely. “We’re going to go see some new friends I made,” he tells her, making her stomach drop.
“New… friends?” She asks tentatively, swallowing thickly.
“Yup,” he replies, popping the ‘p’. “Met them in a bar the other night. We were in there for hours,” he tells her. “My wallet hasn’t had as big a workout in years. Worth it though, all those drinks, all that money… I had a great night Olivia, those girls were all over me, and…” He pauses, either through drunkenness or for dramatic effect she doesn’t know. “The big boss guy said if I ever needed a favour, then all I had to do was ask,” he giggles to himself, turning right, sending her flying heavily into the seat back.
What the fuck does he mean by that? She asks, panicked. Where the hell is he taking me? “What do you mean by that?” She asks, trying to keep the fear from her voice.
“You ruined my life,” Burton declares, swerving violently. “No-one in the publishing world wants to talk to me anymore, half of those women you dug out of the past are suing me… I’m losing everything, and it’s all because of you.” He’s angry, slamming on the brakes, the car screaming to a halt as she slides off the seat finally, landing heavily in the footwell with a thud, the air knocked out of her as her ribs hit the lump for the fuel tank awkwardly.
Gasping for air, she can’t speak for a few moments, hearing the drivers door open and close, the rear door of the car opening a few seconds later, cold air drifting over her sticky skin. “Come on,” he grabs her by the arm, a stabbing pain shooting through her left wrist. “It’ll all be over soon,” he tells her as he pulls her to her feet. “I have it my way, you don’t make it out of here alive.”
There’s a large building across the street; a gym, but the image of it blurs and suddenly she’s walking across gravel and not tarmac, the sun has replaced the moon, high in the sky and she’s facing a beach house. Her breathing quickens, Burton’s hand gripping her arm the only thing that stops her stumbling as she’s led forward, her head spinning, the world swirling in a sickening kaleidoscope of colour.
She tries to focus on the floor, on her feet as he leads her, both in an attempt to steady herself, and out of sheer terror as to who Burton has met, who he thinks owes him such a big favour that they would be willing to kill a cop for him.
The glint of her badge at her hip, right there for the world to see now her coat and blazer have vanished God knows where. Whoever this is is gonna know I’m a cop, she thinks as her vision steadies. Now that could be a Very Good Thing… or a Very Bad Thing.
As she is thrown violently to the ground, as she feels her wrist give, snapping under the pressure, as the memories knock her sideways she looks up, the boxing gym she’s found herself in full of people, full of people not dressed in gym gear.
With one person standing right in front of her, looming over her, his bright blue eyes wide with shock, his mouth open slightly, hidden under a thick grey beard.