A/N: The first of two chapters. A possibility (a far fetched one at that) as to what could happen at the showdown of RJ and PJ. For xxxBekaForEvaxxx, who wanted to know if Jane would choose life.
Disclaimer: Not mine. No money made.
Grace held him at gunpoint.
His fury was palpable. Blue eyes blazed, the knife in his hand reflecting the eerie glow of the moon penetrating the walls of the shack.
"Get out of my way, Grace." he whispered. She would have been less terrified if he screamed at her, but somehow the icy murmur evoked more fear.
"No, Jane." her voice was clear, carrying. Her hands shook fiercely, but not enough to compromise her aim.
Behind her, bathed in moonlight, was the unconscious form of Red John.
**
The words on the lips of the dying man gave them all they needed to know.
He lay in the sterile peace of a hospital, immune and removed from the bustling beyond his room. Lisbon sat patiently by his bed, waiting for him to wake.
On discovering he was alive, the man became alarmed.
"Mr. Sykes, my name is Agent Lisbon from the California Bureau of Investigation, I need to ask you some questions." her voice was monotone as she relayed the generic greeting, flashing her badge.
The man's eyes suddenly gave; his face took on a look of absolute defeat.
"I'm going to die." he whispered.
Lisbon averted her eyes.
"It's well known you are connected to the serial killer, Red John. We need to know everything you can tell us, Mr. Sykes."
He sang like a bird, the knowledge that he would only live for another day, if that, provided some form of twisted solace to him, knowing perhaps, that he could atone now, and die without the horror that was sure to come if he betrayed Red John.
"We don't know much," he began "I mean I was sorta on the outer of his network, so I never saw him, but I know where he hides...I arranged the buying of land..."
The story was almost too good to be true. Lisbon listened avidly, the tape recorder humming softly in her hand. Her adrenaline began to pump when he revealed the location of Red John's hideout, that is to say, one of red John's hideouts.
Two days later, Donald Sykes died in his sleep. What scared Lisbon most, on hearing the news, was that the death was completely unsuspicious.
**
They planned so carefully, so discreetly. Jane was almost intolerable throughout the process. He butted in here, and offered suggestions there, and proffered exceedingly useful insights into Red John's character, usually when it was most inconvenient. Lisbon was sure he'd barely slept in three days – he was running off adrenaline alone.
**
Grace always knew in her heart Jane would never wait.
They were camped out in a little mining town, about an hour south of Sacramento. They had made sure every action and decision was checked and double checked, ensuring absolute clandestine secrecy.
The afternoon before the evening Red John was due to arrive; the team stationed themselves around the shack that Sykes had claimed was one of his hideouts. They hadn't notified the FBI – the less people that knew the better, and suspicions were flying about the rumour someone inside the CBI was involved.
Jane had claimed the shack reeked of Red John, trying to cross the decrepit porch alone would ensure a broken neck, due to the almost invisible booby traps littered from the stairs to the door.
Why anyone would want to enter the thing was beyond Grace, but Red John had obviously been careful.
As evening drew, the temperature dropped rapidly and before long Grace was shivering. Paradoxically, she was also sweating profusely, from nerves. Her hair clung to her neck and her bulletproof vest felt like wearing the chassis of a small car. She was stationed behind the body of an old tractor, far too exposed for her liking, but she had a gun, and her senses were heightened to breaking point.
Time wore on, the anticipation was agony. The invisible agents waited, looming over the shack, heartbeats racing with every subtle movement, every shadow that shifted in the wind.
Grace felt her muscles begin to strain; despite her physical fitness the hours of running on an adrenaline rush were taking their toll. She sank lower against the tractor, grease and rust smearing across her sensible pants. Her legs ached, and as slowly as she could, she shifted her weight. Her right foot suddenly dropped, sand and gravel disappearing with a gentle whooshing sound near the front wheel.
Her sudden panic of falling turned to fear when she realised the loose sand disguised a square of hessian, covering the entrance to a hole, hidden beneath the tractor. Her heart raced in her ears as her discovery dawned on her. There was no way in hell the team had every exit or entry covered.
She breathed her realisation into the tiny black microphone, nestled in her shirt.
"Stay calm team." was Lisbon's harsh whisper.
"Want us to scout around boss?" hissed Rigsby.
"No, stay put and look for any sign of movement." breathed Lisbon.
"Boss, I can't see Jane." Cho's deadpan statement froze Grace's blood. She realised she couldn't see him either – he was supposed to be hiding a little way up the hill behind the house – far enough away from the action, but close enough to see. On her last observation she'd noted the rough outline of his form, a black shadow. But now there was nothing.
"Shit." Grace had never heard Lisbon swear.
"He must have gone in." Cho simply said out loud what they all knew.
"If he can get in Red John can." murmured Grace.
All she heard for a moment was Lisbon breathing, then:
"We'll have to get in." nobody needed an explanation as to why.
"We can't get in through the door." Rigsby said, stating the obvious.
"Van Pelt, you're the closest to where Jane was, I need you to go and see if there's another tunnel or something up there, this whole valley is riddled with old mining tunnels, Jane must have found another. Cho, try and get in the house, I'll take the east side, and you take the north. Rigsby call for backup and then try and follow Van Pelt." Lisbon spoke rapidly, her worry evident.
Grace nodded, then realised she was invisible to them, and whispered her recognition through the microphone.
Time was ticking. Grace knew someone would die tonight, if they didn't act fast enough. She silently prayed that it wasn't Jane.
Her brain, against her will, filled with images of a faceless man and Jane, staring each other down, torturing her with different scenarios.
She knew it would take far too long to climb up the slope, and try and find a way in.
Instead, on a hunch, she slid down the tractor, and lifted aside the hessian. The hole was just big enough for her to squeeze in. The earth was freshly dug. The tunnel led into the house – she was sure.
Dread ate at her. The whole situation was far too surreptitious for Red John. Hidden tunnels and booby traps were cowardly, and didn't reflect his arrogance.
The thought struck her, as she wiggled her way into the shaft, that Red John might just be afraid.
She fell heavily on her side, the drop was deeper than she expected. She crawled along, on her hands and knees, inhaling dust and inching further from the comforting glow of the moon.
The tunnel, whilst probably only a hundred feet long, felt like a mile. Her hands became raw and bled from the rocks, and her hair snagged in the roots of the desert shrubs that grew just above her head. Her microphone was dead – she was alone.
Grace was sure he – either Jane or John - would hear her heartbeat. It pounded in her head, throbbed in her ears, and every sounds she made, the subtle shift of rock, the groan of her breath, sounded amplified.
The tunnel ended abruptly, and Grace nearly hit her head on the trapdoor. Jagged nails and splintered wood met her already injured hands as she pressed against it.
She knew she couldn't just barge in; Jane would probably kill her, thinking her Red John. Or John would kill her, not really caring who she was.
She listened for a moment. And then her heart stopped.
Jane's voice rose above the creaking and shifting of the old house in the wind. She had never been so happy to hear his hypnotic tone. And there was another voice, a soft, tenor voice.
Despite the quietness of their voices, she could pick the tone of the conversation – an argument. Jane's voice was ice cold fury, John's was arrogant, taunting.
Grace weighed her options. They sounded as though they were in another room, perhaps she could sneak through the trapdoor, gun raised, and go from there.
Her decision was made for her seconds later.
A/N: I apologise for the ooc-ness and probably far fetched situation...reviews are, as always, much appreciated (: