Classification: I think this series went completely Alternate Universe long ago — although I’m trying to stick as close to canon as possible

Spoilers: Anything could pop up.

Archive: Sure, just let me know where.

Rating: PG-13, some language (but nothing you wouldn’t hear in Primetime these days), and violence <<gulp>>

Synopsis: Donna's ordeal -- runs concurrently with 'This Crucible's Fire'

Warning: Angst ahoy!

Series: This story is twenty-second (isn't that a whole season?) in the 'Rocky Path' series.

Series So Far:

Basic Elements 1/2

By Lacy

A man with a face I can’t see digs the barrel of his probably- illegal firearm forcefully into my temple. That’s going to leave a mark.

My scalp must have been sliced by the weapon's sight, because I can feel a trickle of thick moisture make its way down my face. I swipe at it, and discover that it is indeed my own blood.

What is going on? Do I have a sign on my forehead that says ‘Victimize me’? This day couldn’t be bad enough without a criminal getting involved?

The police cars…the choppers…something big going down. They must be looking for this guy. Even though I can’t see his face, I can feel nervous energy and malice rolling off of him in bulky waves. It’s the second time today I’ve been able to pick up on those emotions.

"Did you hear me, lady? Drive the damn car!"

I slowly release the clutch, praying the car won’t stall on me. I was never very good at negotiating the standard transmission of his car. That’s why I don’t drive it very often. I don’t even know how I managed to get away from the house with so very little effort. I guess because I wasn’t thinking about it at the time.

But now, it’s all I can think about. Don’t stall, don’t stall…don’t stall. There’s a guy sitting next to me with a gun to my head, so please don’t stall. I pull the car away from the curb with a jerk, and shift to second as soon as I’m able, with a notable sigh of relief.

I don’t know why I’m so relieved. After all, there’s still a guy with a gun pointed at my head. I press down on the accelerator, and my captor increases the pressure of the gun to my temple, causing me to tilt my head at an awkward angle.

"Don’t speed," he tells me. "You’ve just become the perfect driver. You hear me?"

I nod, hastily. My tears have stopped, clearing my vision for the first time in hours. Ironic, isn’t it? My life is in mortal danger, and I couldn’t cry if my fate depended on it.

Up the street, a traffic light turns red forcing me to brake. A police car rolls slowly through the intersection before us, and the man next to me lowers his weapon to his lap, in an attempt to appear normal.

"Where are we going?" I work up the nerve to ask. I’m amazed that, although my voice is quiet, it’s not shaking or cracking.

"Just, shut up and drive," he replies. He shoves the barrel of the gun back to my head after the police car disappears from view.

"I drive much better when I don’t have a gun to my head." I can’t believe the words that are coming out of mouth. Am I crazy? Is it possible that the events of the evening have made me certifiably insane?

"Do you have a death wish?" His thoughts seem to echo my own.

"Not particularly," I fire back. Shut up, Donna! Are you trying to get yourself killed?

Surprisingly, he lowers the gun to his lap, though sure to point the barrel in my direction. "Just drive," he orders, "and if you call any attention to us, you’ll get a bullet for your trouble."

I gulp. I mean I really gulp. It’s ridiculous, really. I feel like Jerry Lewis with a comedic reaction to life threatening peril. Shouldn’t I be swooning under the pressure, or something? Shouldn’t I be screaming like a banshee? Don’t women in the movies do that?

I check the guy out of the corner of my eye, to see him checking the neighborhood out of the window of the car. Clearly, this guy did not grow up on the posh side of town. Let’s face it, he’s got ‘gang member’ written all over him. Or, ‘gang leader’ would be more like it. One thing’s for sure; this guy doesn’t look like he takes orders from anybody. He has an arrogant set to his jaw. He’s obviously a little caught up in his own self-importance.

Okay, I can deal with this. Really, I can. Handling arrogant men is my specialty. I’ll just have to dig deep and find some delicacy. I think the situation calls for it -- a little delicacy and some quick thinking. I just have to put myself in this guy’s shoes for a moment. Not a pleasant place to be, I’ll admit.

"So, what’s the plan?" I ask. "It’s pretty obvious that we’re trying to avoid the cops, which is just fine with me. So what did you do anyway? Rob a store?"

"I killed a cop," he coldly informs me.

Okay, not good, Donna. A cop killer is holding you captive. And not just any cop killer either — a confessed cop killer.

"I killed a cop," he says again, a slight smile on his face. His eyes are icy with apathy. "A couple of hours ago," he informs me. "I can still smell the gunpowder on my hands. I shot her in the head with her own gun." He holds up the weapon in his hand. "She got down on her knees and begged for her life." I’m getting the distinct feeling that he’s decided to tell me all about it just so he can scare the crap out of me. It’s working.

Damn. I can’t even blame this on bad gun laws.

"Well," I say with another gulp, "that explains why we’re avoiding the police." I’m trying to ignore the fact that he just, for the second time, confessed his crime to me. You know what happens to people that hear a criminal’s confession, right? They usually don’t end well.

"That’s right. And if you’re smart, you won’t try to be a hero."

"Hey," I say, raising one of my hands from the steering wheel, "I don’t want anything to do with the cops either. You’re not the only law-breaker here. I stole this car," I tell him. "The owner’s probably reported it by now. I just thought I should warn you."

It bears repeating, especially at this moment, that I am a terrible liar — Drama minor notwithstanding.

With a beefy hand he grabs my hair and yanks my head towards him. "Nice try," he rasps. He shoves the barrel of the gun beneath my chin, and the feel of the cold metal burrowing into my flesh causes bile to rise in my throat.

I will not give in to my fear. I will not give into my fear. I will not give into my fear. The chant repeats itself in my head.

"You’re a real mouthy bitch, you know that?"

And he’s only known me for ten minutes. "The word chatty has come up," I confirm, between clenched teeth.

"Shut up. You talk too much," he spits out. "I don’t want to hear another word out of your mouth, you understand."

I take a breath to answer to the affirmative, but a flick of his thumb, effectively removing the weapon’s safety, tells me to keep my mouthy trap shut.

"Good," he says, before releasing me and retreating to his side of the car.

This guy’s on the edge, I realize. He could put a bullet in my head without thinking twice about his dry cleaning bill. My stomach curls up in fear, and even though he’s on the other side of the car now, I can still feel the sensation of metal under my chin. I glance down at the gun in his hand, wishing it would disappear.

I’ve always known that I have a knack for remembering the strangest things. I read a lot, and sometimes the most obscure facts will stick in my brain. I really don’t know why. Anyway, never in my life has that ability been more acute than it is right now.

Right after Jo–he was shot I started really digging into gun control legislation and everything that I could find on the subject. On my own time, of course — the little of it there was. I remember that I was checking a website on firearms that are standard issue for law enforcement officers. As I look down at the gun in my captor’s hand, the make and model of the weapon pops into my head.

Beretta 8000 Cougar F. Nine millimeter, semiautomatic, double action, fifteen round capacity. Retails for just under six hundred dollars.

I really didn’t need to remember that. Against my will, my eyes turn down again, this time taking a longer look. There’s something I hadn’t noticed before. The dark black specks soiling the shiny silver plating.

Blood. A police officer’s blood.

TBC

****