Series: Deliberate Lies
Summery: The Piccolo had waited too long before killing him.
He sprawled across the dirty floor, legs stretched out in front of him, as still as he could manage, and he counted.
He counted days he had been here. He counted the minutes between surges of pain. He counted the number of body parts he could still feel. But most importantly, he counted the steps of the man holding him here.
Eight steps to the kitchen or the bathroom, or somewhere with running water. Five steps to the room with the television blaring soap operas. Three steps to the top of the trap door.
Ten long steps down.
The Piccolo had waited too long before killing him.
Danny felt an unpleasant smile stretch across his bloody face, stretching a split lip. He knew something the little weasel didn’t know.
Danny knew the team would be looking.
Danny knew the team would come in, tires squealing, guns out, ready to rescue him.
Danny knew he didn’t want to be rescued.
Fifteen days in this hellhole really didn’t have anything on the hell he went through in his own mind for several months before that. Things happened. Rebecca, and all the mess that went with it, happened. It happened, and instead of dealing with it, Danny lost sight somewhere of who he was, and he fell.
Danny was tired of falling.
And he was tired of being a punching bag. For either of them.
And, just like that, a switch in Danny’s head reset from Victim to Bad ass.
He had been picking at the chain holding him to the wall for several days, and by the looks of it, he wasn’t the first one. And the Piccolo was too damn sure of himself to replace it.
All it needed, at this point, was a little bit more weight. And Danny was plenty heavy, even if he had to twist around into an odd position, sending more pain up from his shattered knees.
The chain gave with a clink and a pop, sending Danny tumbling back to the floor with a curse through teeth clenched tight in pain. Landing hurt like hell, and Danny continued to swear as quietly as possible.
But he wasn’t quiet enough.
The trap door squeaked open, hinges protesting, as the Piccolo bent down, squinting to see down into the dark. “What do you think you can do while you are down there?” he demanded petulantly. “You are mine. Behave!” He took a step down on the stairs, glaring suspiciously. The baseball bat dangled from his hand and he half raised it threateningly.
He never saw what hit him. The chain caught him on the side of the head, and the little man squealed in fright. He dropped the bat and grabbed at the chain wrapping around his throat.
Danny yanked down as hard as he could, sending the smaller man tumbling head over heels down the short flight of steps, hands bloody but firm on the cold metal.
The Piccolo landed with an unpleasant crack, his neck at an odd angle.
Danny didn’t even bother to lean down to see if the weasel was dead. He just sneered at the body, opening another crack on his mouth, and painfully started to pull himself up the stairs.
He could hear sirens in the distance, but he wasn’t sure if he was hallucinating or if they were coming.
But he was damned if he was going to meet them on their fucking rescue sitting on the floor in chains.
His head cleared the trapdoor just as the tactical team kicked in the door. Web’s team was right behind them. “’Bout time,” he remarked as they rushed in.
“Danny,” he heard Mel whisper, but he didn’t look up at them, carefully ignoring the flash of blond hair that had frozen in the doorway.
Danny settled himself on the stairs, turned his face to the side and spit a mouthful of blood disinterestedly. He focused on Web, and made himself as comfortable as he could. “Y’all bring any donuts?”