Chapter One
Wedding Bells and Dark Alleyways

Bright is the moon high in starlight
Chill is the air cold as steel tonight
We shift
Call of the wild
Fear in your eyes
It's later than you realized

Metallica, Of Wolf and Man

June 26th 2014

"Richard and Katherine, by the power vested in me by God and the State of New York, I now pronounce you man and wife. That which God has joined, let no man put asunder."

"You may kiss the bride."

Rick pulled Kate to him and they kissed for the first time as man and wife. A long, slow tender joining of lips that had even Lanie Parrish craving ice water. They both knew that this day had been a long time coming, and much had stood in their way. Fate, and their own insecurities had played their part in near equal measure. Near death experiences had abounded...for both of them.

They were supposed to have been man and wife for over a month now, but fate had again thrown up a roadblock for them to surmount.

Kate's unknown previous marriage, made in a drunken haze and forgotten for nearly fifteen years had made one last fleeting attempt to steal their happiness but they had endured that, together. Got it sorted and then tragedy had nearly stolen the moment from them again that very same day.

The sight of Rick's Mercedes (the same one that had first brought her to this very spot where they now stood as man and wife) burning in that ravine would be seared into her brain forever and likely factor into her nightmares for years to come. Like the day the New Amsterdam Bank and Trust had exploded with Rick and Martha inside had for much of the first year they were together. Like that day in DC when the super-virus had nearly killed him and he had collapsed into her arms. She'd thought she had lost him.

For a few heartbreaking minutes, she had thought an uncaring universe had stolen him from her on the very day for which they had waited nearly five long years.

Until Rick stumbled out of the trees, having clawed his way up out of the ravine to get to her and collapsed at her feet, succumbing to blood loss and a concussion. His clothes were torn and bloody, his hands a mess of torn skin. She had ridden with him in the ambulance to the small hospital in Southampton, then the helicopter to New York Presbyterian, all without changing out of her mother's dress. How she hadn't gotten any of his blood on it, she would never know.

He had been unconscious for three days while he recovered from the blood loss that had nearly killed him, his hands swathed in bandages. Kate had spent nearly the entire time at his side. Stepping out out of his hospital room only to slip into the change of clothing Alexis had brought her from the loft and for calls of nature. He had been released a day later after careful observation.

It had taken three weeks of physical therapy to get his hands functioning properly again, another week after that for the skin to fully heal, though even now he had taken to wearing soft leather gloves to hide the scars on his hands. Scars that would be visible for years. Martha had bought him very fine expensive white gloves to go with his new Armani tuxedo.

He kept telling everyone he wasn't ashamed of them, that they were a symbol of his devotion to Kate Beckett. An outward sign that he had literally clawed his way out of hell for her. He knew the sight of them unnerved people, especially Martha and Alexis. It made him self-conscious; he had always been fastidious about his appearance, bordering on metro-sexual.

She had found him the perfect pair of soft leather gloves, almost the same color as his skin, ones he would not need to remove to put on the crime scene gloves they wore. She wanted him to know she understood his need to feel normal.

When the New York State Police investigators had discovered evidence that Rick's crash had not been an accident, that tire marks near the accident scene indicated a P.I.T. maneuver had been employed at excessive speed to force him off the road. Most likely by a dark colored SUV seen on traffic cameras leaving the scene at high speed. The huntress in Kate had been re-ignited. She had gone to Riker's Island to visit William Bracken that very afternoon. She had walked into the visitation room with her interrogation face on, disconnected the camera and told him in no uncertain terms precisely what his life would be worth if any further "accidents" befell her family.

The last two weeks had been spent rescheduling the wedding. Together, they recreated the wedding in the Hamptons they were supposed to have with near perfect accuracy. Right down to place settings, music, her mother's dress, Martha's mother's earrings...everything. Bringing them to this moment.

"Richard and Katherine, by the power vested in me by God and the State of New York, I now pronounce you man and wife. That which God has joined, let no man put asunder."

"You may kiss the bride."

It was their fairy tale. They chose to be the ones to write it. Not the brothers Grimm, not Jerry Tyson, and sure as hell not former Senator William fucking Bracken.

Everything that came between them before was swept away.

June 29th,, 11:45 PM
Washington Heights

Elena Markhova (she never did grasp how Americans always seemed to get the matronymic of her family name wrong) stalked the dark, quiet alleyways of Washington Heights' unofficial "red light" district. Essentially a series of low rent hotels that took a policy of don't ask/don't tell when it came to prostitution.

She knew her quarry, Emma Smith, could be found here on a nightly basis, walking the corner for her current pimp. Emma was a pretty thing -for a street walking prostitute- intelligent, too. Likely college educated at one time. That was one of the reasons why the late Vulcan Simmons had hired her to count the drug money being sent to Future Forward for her employer, the now former Senator William Bracken.

He may not be a United States Senator anymore, and he may have been indicted for the many crimes he had committed on his climb up the political food chain, but he still commanded enough money to pay her fee. As long as that was the case, she would continue to do the job he had hired her for. Namely, to clean house from the drug cartel that had been created to fund his now fatally stalled presidential campaign.

His political aspirations now over, he had become more dangerous not less. They may have him for enough murders to keep him in prison for the next twenty five years to life, but as he told her in their last communication, he would be dammed if they would get him for anything else. If he ever did get out, (which for man with his connections was exceedingly likely) he would have enough resources to set himself up someplace comfortable. Preferably in a country that did not have an extradition treaty with the United States.

So she was still out here, still cleaning up his mess. She didn't care, she was well compensated for her services.

Emma Smith had just gotten out of a car, after performing her professional services for the man inside, and was about to take up her usual position on the street corner when Elena approached her. A very convincing fake NYPD detective's badge, bearing the number 41319 (Elena had a keen sense of irony, using the badge number of the one life she had ever been paid to save to help do her dirty work) had the young prostitute walking into the alley with her, expecting a shakedown for information from a Vice cop.

Emma Smith turned to face her, the usual denial on her lips. "Look, bitch, I don't talk to cops."

As the hand behind Elena's back twitched, flipping the military-grade Spyderco knife open, she said the one thing Emma's experience as a street hooker hadn't prepared her for.

"I don't expect that you do." Elena stated quietly.

Emma's eyes went wide with terror as she caught sight of the knife in Elena's hand a fraction of a second too late. The plea for mercy, that she wouldn't tell anyone anything, began on her lips and died there as Elena's razor sharp blade bisected her carotid artery with near surgical skill.

Elena sidestepped, in a practiced motion, which allowed her to get clear of most of the arterial spray. Emma's blood painted the alley wall an angry swatch of red instead, before she collapsed, her eyes pleading before they clouded over. Emma Smith was dead before she hit the ground.

"Do svidanya" Elena whispered,

As she walked with a measured stride out of the darkened alley, she removed a red handkerchief from her pocket, cleaned her knife with it, then slid them both into a plastic sandwich bag.

She couldn't help but notice the dark shadow stand over her handiwork for a moment, then move to follow her out. She tensed, her hand on the grip of the gun she carried for self-defense purposes. The one she had used to silence Vulcan Simmons, which had once been registered in Kate Beckett's name. She expected an attack, but the man stuck to the shadows and was gone before she could get a good look at him.

Elena knew almost instinctively that she was not the only predator stalking Washington Heights that night, and this one was not a professional like herself. There was no code, no professional courtesy she could rely upon with this one. The shadow that had stood over her kill was something else entirely. Something darker, more malevolent, a shadow whispered in the dark of night like in her great grandmother's stories from before the Great Patriotic War.

Something dark and evil was stalking the shadows of Washington Heights, and she knew she wanted no part of it. Even with all of her training, all of her self confidence, Elena Markhova shivered, and not from the evening's unusual chill.

For the first time in her adult life, Elena Markhova experienced real fear.

*Author's note* Did this one without the assistance of my Beta, so I hope my errors are not too bad. Not her fault, she did a wonderful job helping with the beginning of "There is Only the Battle" my other story for the ficathon, I'm just not accustomed to going through the Beta process and I could not contain myself anymore. When she gets back to me later I will make corrections as needed.

For those who don't know, "The Great Patriotic War" is the name the Russians used for World War Two. And a PIT maneuver, or "precision immobilization technique", is a pursuit tactic by which a pursuing car can force a fleeing car to abruptly turn sideways, causing the driver to lose control and stop.

Strap in, this one is going to be dark and angsty. (big surprise, right?)