#minp1072

“Madeline Pratt,” Liz says, her voice hoarse and rusty with disuse.

“Elizabeth Keen,” the other woman returns. “That is your real name, isn’t it?”

Liz shrugs awkwardly. There seems little point in dissembling now.

“Why am I here?” she asks. “What do you want from me? There’s no one to pay ransom, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Oh, I think I could get a good price for you,” Madeline replies, her voice light and amused, her hand trailing over the end of the bed as she circles the room. “I think our dear Raymond would give me whatever I asked for to ensure your safe return.”

She laughs at Liz’ flinch on hearing his name. “You don’t like that, do you?” she says, sitting beside Liz on the bed. “That I can see it? His preoccupation with you, his obsession? If you think everyone who knows him, who sees the two of you together can’t see it, then you’re even more foolish than I thought. But you listen to me, you little bitch,” and her voice was suddenly tight with rage, her face pushed into Liz’. “He’s mine, do you hear me? You can’t have him. And the best part is, you are going to help me get him back.”

Madeline pushes up from the bed in a rush and stalks back to the lit opening — it is a window, Liz can see now — boosts herself onto the wide sill, then disappears out of it as if it were a door, heavy wooden shutters closing behind her.

Liz is left lying in bed, her aching head spinning, to wonder both what the hell just happened, and what Madeline has in store for her.

They work quickly, in sync as always, the perfect fit. Dembe, running searches, gathering information wherever he can. Red, making phone calls — cajoling, manipulating, calling in favours wherever he can, threatening when he must.

Another day has passed already, and he still hasn’t pinned her down. All he knows for sure is that wherever she has taken Lizzie, it isn’t on American soil. And it’s a wide world out there.

He firmly blocks thoughts of what Madeline might be up to, and focuses everything he has on finding her. His fear spurs him like an angry hornet as he paces through his days.

She doesn’t lie idle while Madeline is gone. As soon as she can bear it, she sits up, then stands, swaying a little as she takes stock of the room.

Like a prison cell, there’s the bed, a toilet, and a bare sink — she supposes she’s just lucky that there’s plumbing at all. Beside the bed stands a piece of what looks like medical equipment — all tubes and dials and buttons — the use of which she cannot even guess at, but which sends a little thrill of fear through her. Surprisingly, a large mirror hangs on the wall kitty-corner to the bed. The room is circular, walled in dull grey stone, and unlit. What light there is in the room comes through cracks in the wooden shutters on the large-ish window.

Most importantly, there is no door.

There’s no way in or out of the room but the window Madeline used. When she manages to drag herself over to it and shove open the heavy shutters, she quails.

Like the worst cliché ever, she’s locked in a tower, at least ten stories off the ground.

What on earth is she going to do?

A lead, a thin one, thanks to Dembe’s relentless searches. Six months previous, a construction contract, stonework. No location, or details they can use.

But it’s something.

He needs to go farther back, he thinks, maybe all the way back to a year ago when he last saw her before the Kings.

What baffling game is she playing, here — and how long has she been playing it?

When Madeline comes back, Liz is waiting, seated quietly on the bed. She’s hoping to get more information out of her captor — or at least some food. She’s been in this tower at least a day, and has had nothing but a few handfuls of water from the sink.

The sudden clatter of the shutters makes her jump, but she doesn’t move. Since she’s watching this time, she sees that Madeline is using a cherry picker to get up to the window. This time, there’s a man with her, carrying a heavy black bag that makes Liz suppose he is a doctor. She thinks uncomfortably of the machine behind her.

Madeline is smiling, and Liz is sure that it doesn’t bode well for her.

“And how are we this afternoon?” Madeline trills. Her smile widens, and she tosses something over to Liz, who catches it in reflex. “Hungry?”

Liz looks at the object in her hand. It’s an apple, large and shiny and red. She looks at it for a long moment, aware not just of the risks but of the irony of it all. She’s too hungry to care too much, though, so she bites into it and eats eagerly.

The man, the doctor, moves around the bed silently and starts to fiddle with the machine beside the bed. Not wanting to think too much about what he might be doing, Liz focuses on Madeline. She has stepped into the room and is admiring herself in the mirror, fussing with her hair.

“I rather thought that you had no further use for Reddington,” Liz remarks, tone casual. “Since you sold him out to the Kings.”

Madeline turns to look at her, eyes narrowing. “That,” she says icily, “was merely the next move in a game we have been playing for years — a callow child like yourself could never hope to understand.”

“A game?” Liz is suddenly furious, rage welling up like bile in her throat. She swings out of the bed, anger giving her strength. “A game? You gave him to monsters, who sold him to a man who wanted his head. Literally. I saved his life with seconds to spare, seconds.” She stops herself with difficulty, breath heaving, fists clenched.

She sees with some satisfaction that Madeline has paled, that her eyes are shocked and wide. A heavy moment passes as they stare at each other, and then Madeline seems to shake herself.

“If not you, it would have been something else,” she says coolly. “Raymond has an unerring ability to get himself out of trouble, and I’m sure this would have been no exception. He doesn’t need you, that much is certain.”

She turns back to the mirror, smoothing her hair, tracing her own features with a delicate finger. Liz sits back on the bed, at a loss. Was Pratt truly this cavalier, this foolish? Or does she actually believe that her actions had no consequences?

“We’re ready to begin, Ms Pratt.” The doctor’s voice interrupts Liz’ thoughts, and she turns her head to look at him. His face is impassive, but she thinks his eyes hold a little worry.

“Get on with it then,” Madeline snaps. “I don’t need to watch, do I?”

“Certainly not if you do not wish to,” the doctor answers politely. He looks down at Liz and gestures. “You should lie down, Miss,” he says. “It will be much easier.”

He has a thick accent, some kind of Slavic, she thinks, but she can’t place where. She’s evidently much farther from home than she’d hoped, and her heart quails a little. She lifts her legs onto the bed and reclines, leaning against the wall. It won’t hurt to cooperate for now, until she knows more about what’s going on.

“What are you going to do?” she asks, damning herself for being unable to keep the fear out of her voice. “What’s that machine for?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” the doctor says, relatively kindly. “It won’t hurt you. This is a plasmapheresis machine, yes? It draws your blood, then separates the plasma from the blood cells, and returns the cells to you. You may become a little tired, sleepy, but it won’t hurt, okay?”

She nods, not able to think of a reasonable reply, mind whirling with horrified thoughts about why on earth Madeline Pratt wants to collect her blood plasma.

The doctor lifts her arm and ties a rubber strip about halfway between her elbow and shoulder. He rotates her arm so her palm faces up, then lets it rest along her thigh.

“Make a fist, please,” he asks politely, neatly swabbing the inside of her elbow with an alcohol wipe.

She complies, because she can’t fight them both, because Pratt almost certainly has a gun. She sits passively while he taps her arm gently with a gloved finger, finding a vein. Offering a faint smile, he neatly slides a needle into her arm, and they both watch her blood begin to flow down the tube attached.

The machine whirs and clicks gently, something is spinning and circling, flashing red.

Her fear threatens to choke her, and she thinks of Red with a desperation that surprises her.

A dead end.

Their only lead has turned into a dead end, literally — the mason on the other end of the stonework contract is dead, body found six weeks after the date of the contract, in a slum on the outskirts of Vienna.

“She certainly won’t be there,” Red says aloud, pacing, thinking. “Madeline would never be so careless. But we can likely concentrate our efforts in Europe, likely in the East. She has contacts almost everywhere…” He trails off as his thoughts outstrip his voice, racing to contacts of his own, people he can use, places he can search…

“Raymond.” Dembe’s calm voice breaks into his thoughts, and he pauses, turning to look at his oldest friend. “We can’t keep going like this. It’s taking too long. The FBI must be looking for her, too — if we connect with–”

“No,” he interrupts firmly, mind rebelling at the thought. “Not in this, Dembe, no. Madeline will see that ham-fisted Ressler coming a mile off, and Lizzie…” His voice trembles a little, and it takes some effort to wrench himself back under control. “It’s the wrong tool. This isn’t the time for a blunt instrument.”

“Well, then,” Dembe replies, placing a heavy hand on Red’s shoulder in comfort, in strength. “Perhaps a visit to the DMV?”

It’s after the fifth, or maybe it’s the sixth, time the doctor comes that she starts to despair. He comes every day to take her blood, and although at least part of it is replaced, she knows she is weakening.

Madeline comes only once a day as well, to bring her a small meal before the doctor does his work, apparently not finding it necessary to take any particular care of her. Liz doesn’t know if it’s in contrast to her own sharpening pallor, shadowed eyes, and shaky limbs, but Madeline looks increasingly healthy as the days pass — her hair golden and shining, her skin vibrant and creamy, her eyes bright and alive.

This time, while Madeline is absorbed in her reflection and the doctor is bending over her to insert the needle, she clutches at his arm.

“Please,” she whispers, as quietly as she can. “What’s really going on? What is she doing to me?”

He shoots a nervous glance at Madeline, but she is lost to the world around her, humming softly.

“It is just what I told you,” he murmurs back. “I take your plasma, yes? That is all.”

“But why?” she insists, desperate for a glimpse of her fate. “What is she doing with it?”

“She…She takes it,” he answers, his whisper grim. “I inject her with it, right after we take it from you, every day.”

He slides his eyes Madeline’s way again, and inserts the needle, starts the process once more.

“She has been doing research, you see. She thinks she will be remade, be young again. You aren’t the first…” His voice trails off as Madeline turns around, smiling.

“Are we done yet?” she trills. “I don’t have all day, you know!”

“It takes time,” the doctor replied defensively. “You know this. Some more time is needed.”

She rolls her eyes. “Well, then. We’ll just wait.”

She sits on the end of the bed, watching them, beaming.

God, he hates it here.

The smells, the humming noises, the people, the dismal air of defeat and resignation. Mostly the smells.

He watches Glen through the greasy window, fingers tapping absently at his knee. Now isn’t the time to make him wait, and he thinks their last phone conversation may have actually had an impact, because it’s only twenty minutes before Glen waves him in.

“Red,” Glen greets him. “It’s been a while. How’ve you been?”

“Busy,” Red replies briefly, unwilling to do the dance, even for a minute this time around. “What have you got?”

“Well, I’ve been poorly, off and on, not that you care, with my sciatica acting up and…”

The typical litany trails off as Red gets deliberately to his feet. He leans over, placing his hands firmly on the desk, and levels his eyes on Glen’s, letting every iota of the rage, frustration, and fear he has suffered over the last two weeks show in his face.

“Listen to me, you odious little rodent,” he says, his tone pleasantly conversational. “If you don’t tell me what you know and tell me now, I will paint this office with your intestines.”

Glen sits back, looking away. “All right, all right,” he says, testily defensive to cover his alarm. “I’ve got what you wanted, as always, I might add. There’s no need to treat me like a schmuck.”

“Where is she?” Red demands, not moving, not giving an inch.

“Madeline Pratt,” Glen says, handing him a slim folder. “Currently spending her time in Jesenik, at the home of oil baron Petr Mladek. Everything you need to locate her is in there.”

“Czech Republic,” Red muses, straightening up, mind racing ahead, making plans. “I can work with that…”

“She’s been there a while,” Glen continues, catching his attention again. “Months. Interestingly, there have been three unsolved missing persons cases in the Olomouc region in past three months or so. All young women, late-twenties, early-thirties. Could be your girl isn’t the first.”

Red nods his thanks, face impassive as his stomach clenches and burns.

“She’ll be the last.”

She dropped the bag, tucked the little cylinder beside her pillow, and lay back, kicking her legs free of the tangled sheets.

She shut her eyes again, and tried not to think too hard about what she was doing.

His scent. His arms, tight around her after her near-shooting. His voice, deep and rich, reassuring. Telling her that she is his way home.

A hand drifted to her breast and she toyed with a nipple, already erect.

The smile that lights up his face. The glint in his eye, every so often, when he looks at her. The mobility of his expressive mouth.

She sighed, warmth seeping through her, and her other hand slid down her body.

He yawned, and blinked. The soft lamplight behind him suddenly seemed glaring; his neck ached with a cramp. He looked down at the book in his lap and realized he’d lost track of what he was reading some time ago.

Time for bed, he thought. Lizzie had gone some time ago, and he should be taking advantage of the chance for a real night’s sleep as well.

He stood and stretched, spine cracking, and yawned again. He might be exhausted enough to actually rest, tonight.

He wandered to the bathroom — peed, washed, brushed his teeth. It was nice to have the opportunity for normal routines.

He hoped Lizzie was sleeping well; she had gained a terrible drawn look over their weeks on the road that worried him. He paused by her door and listened, just to make sure.

It was quiet and dark; good, he thought, she sorely needs a restful night.

But just as he turned away, he heard her moan softly. Concern flooded him — was she ill? Hurt? Upset?

He opened the door gently and slipped inside the room. He was about to call her name when his eyes focused on the bed.

She wasn’t sick. Or upset. She was… She…

God, he thought, look away, get out of this room.

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t move at all.

She was stretched out, limbs long and pale, her back slightly arched, knees wide, head back, lips parted. Slim body almost bare, with her top ruched up under her armpits, her panties tangled around her ankles. One hand teased at a bare breast, rolling a swollen pink nipple between its fingers. The other was tucked at the vee of her thighs, making small, fierce movements.

She was so beautiful it knocked the breath from his body.

Inside the room, he could hear another noise, a low, consistent humming. As his eyes adjusted more and more to the darkness, he could make out the shape of something clutched in her hand.

It took him a moment, but…

Where on earth had she gotten a vibrator from?

As his mind put up a brief struggle with morality, he decided it really didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but the delectable sight before him.

Heat coiled inside her, tingled through her fingers and toes. Her breath came in short pants, her eyes shut tight. The vibrator cupped her clit, surrounding it with sensation, driving her hard. Her breasts ached; her core was slick and wet.

So close, she thought, oh, so…

A faint rustle sounded, just loud enough to catch her attention between breaths.

She froze, startled. She opened her eyes cautiously, and saw him standing just inside the doorway, half-turned — whether coming or going, she couldn’t tell. His face was caught mid-expression, and as their eyes met, he made a little choking noise in his throat.

“Lizzie,” he rasped, his voice deep and husky. “I cannot express how much I regret this intrusion; I would never…”

He trailed off as a smile bloomed on her face; as her eyes dropped to the thickening bulge in his pants and then raised to meet his again.

“Are you sorry?” she asked. “Don’t be.”

Now that he was standing there, she thought there was no way she could settle for the tool in her hand, no matter how diverting.

“Lizzie,” he started again, but stopped abruptly when she shifted on the bed.

She dropped her outer knee as low as she could, ensuring he had a full view, and kept her eyes fixed on his face as she started to move her hands again, plumping and massaging her breast, pressing the vibrator back into her clit.

Her stomach trembled as his eyes went cloudy and dark; as his expression turned hungry and predatorial. He kicked off his shoes and prowled over to the bed, eyes hot on hers. He sat on the bed beside her, leaned over a little with one hand planted beside her head.

“Let me,” he said, and slid his free hand over hers, taking the vibrator from her.

She drew a sharp breath as he increased the pressure, as tension began to build again inside her. He shifted, not letting up, raising himself up and over her to straddle her legs. He traced the contours of her body with his free hand, making her quiver, winding downward until his fingers were stroking at her entrance, teasing. Her hands dropped to the bed and she clutched at the sheets.

“Red,” she whispered, “please.” Her eyes drifted shut and she pushed into his hands.

He licked his lips, let out his breath heavily. The wet heat of her was intoxicating; he eased two fingers inside her and she moaned again. He was hard and aching now, watching her shudder beneath him, listening to the soft cries that started as he thrust his fingers in and out.

“That’s it,” he crooned. “Just let go, sweetheart, I’ve got you.”

She arched further off the bed with a louder cry, coating his fingers, his hand, with moisture as she came. He flicked off the vibrator and tossed it aside, letting the heel of his other hand rub against her throbbing clit to ease her down.

Her eyes opened halfway and glimmered at him, heavy-lidded with pleasure. She pushed up on her elbows, then grasped his arm to pull herself up so they were face-to-face. They looked at each other, waiting, the air electric between them.

“Red,” she breathed finally, “are you going to kiss me?”

He raised a hand to stroke the side of her face, marvelling at the soft silk of her skin, surprised to see how he shook.

“So beautiful,” he murmured, “so gorgeous, you are.”

She flushed a little, leaned into his hand. “Red,” she said back, and closed the rest of the distance to press her lips to his.

His mouth was soft and warm and yielding; she immediately loved the feel of him. Her nerves jumped and tingled; she started to want, all over again.

She kissed him, and he was lost. HIs hands moved, one to tangle in her hair, the other to grip her waist and tug her into him. He had to taste her; he licked at her lips, thrusting his tongue into her mouth as she opened to him on a sigh. He felt half-crazed as he kissed her, drowned in her, the fingers of one hand still wet and slick with her release.

Gasping for breath, he tore his mouth away to burn a path down her neck with hot, wet kisses, her skin salty and damp. He wanted to mark her skin and claim her as his own; he suckled desperately at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, dizzy with lust.

“Red,” she said again, “Red, I want your skin, I want to see and touch and taste.”

His cock hardened further at her words, pressing painfully into his zipper. He managed to pull back from her; was gratified to see her face as driven as his, her eyes as wild as he knew his own must be.

He shrugged out of his vest as she fumbled at his buttons, then peeled his shirt down his arms. She kicked her feet, ridding herself of her panties, as he yanked the tank over her head and tossed it aside. She ran her hands down his body, her fingers light and teasing, learning him. She leaned in to nuzzle at his chest, licking and sucking, as her hands worked the buckle of his belt; unbuttoned and unzipped his fly.

“Just let me…” he managed, pushing away with great force of will to stand beside the bed. He stripped off the rest of his clothing, kicking it away and climbing back onto the bed as quickly as he could.

She laughed softly into his mouth as their legs tangled together, as he covered her with his body, as he dove back into her kiss. She pressed into him eagerly, wrapping arms and legs around him to pull him closer. The head of his cock rubbed along her core, spreading her wetness, gradually starting to slide easily.

She whimpered, clutching at him, her hips twitching; she started to nip little wet bites along his jawline, the curve of his neck, driving him. Shifting his weight, he grasped himself and set his cock to her, held still one moment.

“Please,” she whispered again, mouth tickling his ear delightfully. “I want you so, Red.”

He let out his breath in a long sigh and thrust into her, long and smooth. She fluttered around him and he groaned in appreciation.

“Lizzie,” he murmured, “You’re so lovely, you feel…” He began to move, pull and push, deep and slow, savouring. “Sublime, sweetheart.”

She drew a shuddering breath, started to speak, couldn’t. She buried her face in the crook of his neck and found his rhythm. They moved together well, in synchronicity, damp with sweat, skin sliding, breathing short.

He longed to freeze time, to stay in the moment, a flash of perfection. But she was hot and willing and clinging, touching him, stroking, panting little encouragements into his ear — yes, like that; please, Red; faster now; harder, just there; oh, oh, Red — and he couldn’t stop, couldn’t take it, could only obey.

He moved within in her now like a man possessed, driving into her over and over as she arched into him, her nails digging into his back. She cried out again, high and loud, stiffening beneath him, around him, coating him once more. He opened his eyes and pulled back to look, to see her face, and that was enough — he thrust again, hard, deep, and came in long, hot pulses, shaking with release.

He dropped into her as gently as he could, stilling himself. She tightened the grip of her limbs, welcoming, reassuring him, shaken inside with the intensity of their love making. They lay still for a few moments, then a few minutes, as their breathing evened out, as they calmed together.

When he felt her shiver a little, he rolled them sideways, then reached down and tugged up the sheet, the blanket. She curled into him like she belonged there — and, of course, she did. He pressed a kiss to her damp hair, then rested his cheek against her head, fatigue starting to overcome him.

Just as he started drift, she spoke softly.