The Guilty Party
Part 4
Foggy swung the bag into the dumpster and turned around to go back into his building. It was cold and there’d be frost before morning, but he hadn’t seen the necessity of putting on a coat just to take out the garbage. Then somebody stepped in front of him, and all thoughts of cold or coats disappeared from Foggy’s mind, to be replaced by only one thing: Gun. The man had a gun, and it was pointing directly at Foggy.
“Whoa,” Foggy said, raising his hands immediately.
“Foggy Nelson,” the man said. He was big, well over six feet, and as broad through the shoulders as a professional wrestler. Even without the gun, he was intimidating.
“Yeah,” Foggy replied, his mouth dry, his heart hammering, and words spilling out as they always did when he was close to panic. “You want money, man? Cause you can have it, no problem, just don’t shoot.”
He made to reach for his wallet, but the gun twitched, and Foggy froze. With his other hand, the man extended a bundle of dark cloth to him. “Put this on or I will shoot you in the arm. It won’t kill you, but it will hurt.”
Edging away from the barrel of the pistol, Foggy reached out and took it. “A blindfold? What is this, a kidnapping? I can give you the money in my wallet, but I don’t have enough for a real ransom, because, yeah, I’m a lawyer, but we’ve just started and we can barely pay the electricity and –“
“Shut. Up.”
At a miniscule movement from the pistol, Foggy snapped his mouth shut.
“Put. The. Blindfold. On.”
Foggy put it on. The man grabbed his shoulder and spun him around three times, just like they were playing Pin the Tail on the Donkey. Foggy staggered, and when the man gave him a push from behind, he went down on his knees, close enough for him to smell what was under the dumpster. “Ow!”
The man kicked him in the leg, and Foggy cried out again. “Ow!”
“Get up,” the man growled.
Foggy heaved himself upright, wishing heartily for Matt’s superpowers so that he could sense where the man was just by listening to his heartbeat, then reach out, disarm him, and clock him one in the face for good measure. Maybe throw in a couple of backflips, too. Instead, he just stood there, shivering, while the man slung one arm over Foggy’s shoulders and pressed the gun to his ribs with his other hand.
“Walk,” he commanded, and Foggy walked. Despite his dizziness, he thought they must be heading farther down the alley. He could feel and hear broken glass grinding under his shoes, the crackle of a piece of paper, the rustling of a plastic bag, and, just ahead, the opening of the side door of a van. He wanted to fight back, or run, or even just scream, but when they got to the van, he simply let himself be pulled inside and guided to a middle seat.
When the van stopped, they got out, and the men guided Foggy to a doorway, then into a building and down a set of stairs. A very long set of stairs, straight down. Foggy clung to the guiderail with one hand and felt with his feet for each step, terrified of falling. The end came as a surprise and he almost stumbled then. The man on his right caught him and guided him along. After several steps, they stopped, and the man on his right let go. There were sounds of rustling movement, and Foggy jumped as something touched his hand.
“Wrap this around your waist,” the man told him. “Or I will shoot you in the arm.”
It felt like the kind of thick velvet rope that they had in museums or other swanky plances. Awkwardly, Foggy pulled and twisted it around his waist, wondering why on earth they wanted it there. Weren’t they supposed to be tying his hands behind his back or strapping him to a table or whatever the bad guys normally did? When he’d finished, the man took the end from him and readjusted it with a few tugs. Then there was a kind of metallic clicking on both sides of him that as though they might be clipping the end of the ropes to something.
“Bend over and grab your ankles,” the man told him. Foggy hesitated, and the man tapped him on the upper arm. Feeling suddenly sick with fear, Foggy reached for his shins, jerking back with a cry of surprise as someone else grabbed his left wrist. They handcuffed his hand to his leg, pulling his pantleg up and fastening the cuff tightly around his shin, then moved over to his right side to do the same.
“You can scream all you want,” one of the other men said. He had a slight accent. “Nobody will hear you down here.”
“Oh, g-d, don’t rape me, please!” Foggy cried. It was hard to talk, harder even to breathe when bent double, and he tried to pull up as far as he could. It wasn’t very far, and one of the men whacked him softly in the head with something that felt like a broom handle.
“Head down,” he said, and Foggy let it drop again, panting and close to panic.
A moment later, pain cracked across his backside, reminding Foggy of when he was a child and the few but memorable times his father had taken a belt to him. Then the first man said, “Beg me.”
“Beg you for what?” Foggy gasped. The man hit him again, and when Foggy didn’t respond immediately, hit him a third time.
Foggy pulled his head up and yanked at the handcuffs, trying to slip them higher up his legs so that he could straighten out, but they scarcely budged. As he struggled to take a deep breath, the second man gave him a tap on the head, and then another, sharper one.
“Head down!” he reminded Foggy, just as the first man belted him across the buttocks yet again.
“Hey, stop!” Foggy cried, still struggling and earning a third blow to the head. They were becoming painful. “Stop, I’m begging you! Is that what you want me to say?”
Apparantly, it wasn’t, because they kept hitting him. It was taking on a kind of rhythm; a blow to the backside, a whack on the head, back and forth, back and forth.
“Please!” Foggy finally panted. “Please! Just tell me what you want me to say! Just tell me!”
“Put your head down and I might just tell you,” the first man said. The second man punctuated the sentence with by giving Foggy the hardest whack yet, and Foggy couldn’t help flinching away. Finally, he let his head hang, forcing it to stay down even as he got another beltlash.
“Beg me,” the man finally said, “to let you tell me everything you know about Daredevil.”
“What?” Foggy exclaimed, pulling his head up again and gulping for air. He was going to pass out soon, he thought, and the latest blow to the head made him see stars behind his blindfold. His legs were already getting weak and he felt his knees bend, but the rope around his waist kept him more or less in position. Oh, he thought vaguely, so that was what it was for.
The man with the belt had stopped hitting him, at least for the moment, but now he prodded Foggy’s ankle with his shoe. “Come on, beg me for the chance to tell me about Daredevil.”
“What makes you think I know anything about Daredevil?” Foggy asked, and the man hit him twice in rapid succession with the belt. Struggling to breathe, Foggy also got another whack on the head.
“We recovered a phone last night after a fight with Daredevil,” the man said, and gave Foggy two more beltlashes. “It took time to crack the password, of course.”
Yeah, Foggy remembered Matt saying something about having lost his burner phone. He’d gone out at lunch time to get a new one, probably never once thinking that his enemies were using the old one to find him. Foggy wondered if Matt even knew you could do that sort of thing. He kept up to date on blind-friendly technology, but otherwise pretty much divided his energy between practicing law and being Daredevil.
The man hit Foggy again, this time across the upper thighs. Foggy cried out, and the man went on. “We triangulated one of the numbers to someone at Metro General Hospital. Too many people there. But then we tried your number, triangulated it to your building, and tracked you down. You practically welcomed us with open arms.”
Two more lashes. Foggy felt sick at how easily he’d gone along with his own kidnapping, and hung his head without any reminders from the second man.
“That’s why we think you know something about Daredevil, if he had a phone with your number in it.”
“Well, maybe he meant to put in somebody else’s number and got mine by mistake,” Foggy cried, which earned him fives lashes in rapid succession, and a hit to the head to round it off. He was feeling even more breathless now, and wondering why he hadn’t fainted yet.
“So,” the man said. “This is your last chance to beg me, before we do something worse to make you talk.”
Go to Part 5
“Whoa,” Foggy said, raising his hands immediately.
“Foggy Nelson,” the man said. He was big, well over six feet, and as broad through the shoulders as a professional wrestler. Even without the gun, he was intimidating.
“Yeah,” Foggy replied, his mouth dry, his heart hammering, and words spilling out as they always did when he was close to panic. “You want money, man? Cause you can have it, no problem, just don’t shoot.”
He made to reach for his wallet, but the gun twitched, and Foggy froze. With his other hand, the man extended a bundle of dark cloth to him. “Put this on or I will shoot you in the arm. It won’t kill you, but it will hurt.”
Edging away from the barrel of the pistol, Foggy reached out and took it. “A blindfold? What is this, a kidnapping? I can give you the money in my wallet, but I don’t have enough for a real ransom, because, yeah, I’m a lawyer, but we’ve just started and we can barely pay the electricity and –“
“Shut. Up.”
At a miniscule movement from the pistol, Foggy snapped his mouth shut.
“Put. The. Blindfold. On.”
Foggy put it on. The man grabbed his shoulder and spun him around three times, just like they were playing Pin the Tail on the Donkey. Foggy staggered, and when the man gave him a push from behind, he went down on his knees, close enough for him to smell what was under the dumpster. “Ow!”
The man kicked him in the leg, and Foggy cried out again. “Ow!”
“Get up,” the man growled.
Foggy heaved himself upright, wishing heartily for Matt’s superpowers so that he could sense where the man was just by listening to his heartbeat, then reach out, disarm him, and clock him one in the face for good measure. Maybe throw in a couple of backflips, too. Instead, he just stood there, shivering, while the man slung one arm over Foggy’s shoulders and pressed the gun to his ribs with his other hand.
“Walk,” he commanded, and Foggy walked. Despite his dizziness, he thought they must be heading farther down the alley. He could feel and hear broken glass grinding under his shoes, the crackle of a piece of paper, the rustling of a plastic bag, and, just ahead, the opening of the side door of a van. He wanted to fight back, or run, or even just scream, but when they got to the van, he simply let himself be pulled inside and guided to a middle seat.
When the van stopped, they got out, and the men guided Foggy to a doorway, then into a building and down a set of stairs. A very long set of stairs, straight down. Foggy clung to the guiderail with one hand and felt with his feet for each step, terrified of falling. The end came as a surprise and he almost stumbled then. The man on his right caught him and guided him along. After several steps, they stopped, and the man on his right let go. There were sounds of rustling movement, and Foggy jumped as something touched his hand.
“Wrap this around your waist,” the man told him. “Or I will shoot you in the arm.”
It felt like the kind of thick velvet rope that they had in museums or other swanky plances. Awkwardly, Foggy pulled and twisted it around his waist, wondering why on earth they wanted it there. Weren’t they supposed to be tying his hands behind his back or strapping him to a table or whatever the bad guys normally did? When he’d finished, the man took the end from him and readjusted it with a few tugs. Then there was a kind of metallic clicking on both sides of him that as though they might be clipping the end of the ropes to something.
“Bend over and grab your ankles,” the man told him. Foggy hesitated, and the man tapped him on the upper arm. Feeling suddenly sick with fear, Foggy reached for his shins, jerking back with a cry of surprise as someone else grabbed his left wrist. They handcuffed his hand to his leg, pulling his pantleg up and fastening the cuff tightly around his shin, then moved over to his right side to do the same.
“You can scream all you want,” one of the other men said. He had a slight accent. “Nobody will hear you down here.”
“Oh, g-d, don’t rape me, please!” Foggy cried. It was hard to talk, harder even to breathe when bent double, and he tried to pull up as far as he could. It wasn’t very far, and one of the men whacked him softly in the head with something that felt like a broom handle.
“Head down,” he said, and Foggy let it drop again, panting and close to panic.
A moment later, pain cracked across his backside, reminding Foggy of when he was a child and the few but memorable times his father had taken a belt to him. Then the first man said, “Beg me.”
“Beg you for what?” Foggy gasped. The man hit him again, and when Foggy didn’t respond immediately, hit him a third time.
Foggy pulled his head up and yanked at the handcuffs, trying to slip them higher up his legs so that he could straighten out, but they scarcely budged. As he struggled to take a deep breath, the second man gave him a tap on the head, and then another, sharper one.
“Head down!” he reminded Foggy, just as the first man belted him across the buttocks yet again.
“Hey, stop!” Foggy cried, still struggling and earning a third blow to the head. They were becoming painful. “Stop, I’m begging you! Is that what you want me to say?”
Apparantly, it wasn’t, because they kept hitting him. It was taking on a kind of rhythm; a blow to the backside, a whack on the head, back and forth, back and forth.
“Please!” Foggy finally panted. “Please! Just tell me what you want me to say! Just tell me!”
“Put your head down and I might just tell you,” the first man said. The second man punctuated the sentence with by giving Foggy the hardest whack yet, and Foggy couldn’t help flinching away. Finally, he let his head hang, forcing it to stay down even as he got another beltlash.
“Beg me,” the man finally said, “to let you tell me everything you know about Daredevil.”
“What?” Foggy exclaimed, pulling his head up again and gulping for air. He was going to pass out soon, he thought, and the latest blow to the head made him see stars behind his blindfold. His legs were already getting weak and he felt his knees bend, but the rope around his waist kept him more or less in position. Oh, he thought vaguely, so that was what it was for.
The man with the belt had stopped hitting him, at least for the moment, but now he prodded Foggy’s ankle with his shoe. “Come on, beg me for the chance to tell me about Daredevil.”
“What makes you think I know anything about Daredevil?” Foggy asked, and the man hit him twice in rapid succession with the belt. Struggling to breathe, Foggy also got another whack on the head.
“We recovered a phone last night after a fight with Daredevil,” the man said, and gave Foggy two more beltlashes. “It took time to crack the password, of course.”
Yeah, Foggy remembered Matt saying something about having lost his burner phone. He’d gone out at lunch time to get a new one, probably never once thinking that his enemies were using the old one to find him. Foggy wondered if Matt even knew you could do that sort of thing. He kept up to date on blind-friendly technology, but otherwise pretty much divided his energy between practicing law and being Daredevil.
The man hit Foggy again, this time across the upper thighs. Foggy cried out, and the man went on. “We triangulated one of the numbers to someone at Metro General Hospital. Too many people there. But then we tried your number, triangulated it to your building, and tracked you down. You practically welcomed us with open arms.”
Two more lashes. Foggy felt sick at how easily he’d gone along with his own kidnapping, and hung his head without any reminders from the second man.
“That’s why we think you know something about Daredevil, if he had a phone with your number in it.”
“Well, maybe he meant to put in somebody else’s number and got mine by mistake,” Foggy cried, which earned him fives lashes in rapid succession, and a hit to the head to round it off. He was feeling even more breathless now, and wondering why he hadn’t fainted yet.
“So,” the man said. “This is your last chance to beg me, before we do something worse to make you talk.”
Go to Part 5