Triumphant: Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

A/N: Happy New Year to everyone! This is the third – and final – story in the Monster Trilogy. You know the disclaimer – if you have not read the two previous installments (Monster, and Recluse), please do so first, as this is not a stand-alone story. Thank you again to all who have been following those two stories – an AU take on the end of Season 6/beginning of Season 7 disappearance of Richard Castle, and the aftermath of those events.

History has proven, time and again that - whether through the courageous, advancing marines on the Gilbert Islands in the Pacific Islands, or the heroic, ostracized drivers of the Red Ball Express – the road to victory, the path to triumph is forged through hidden stories of bravery under fire – sometimes friendly fire – and all too often, hidden in details that are far too mundane to listen to, but absolutely necessary for survival.

Thursday morning - October 23, 2014, 8:34 a.m., New York City, at Former Senator William Bracken's Residence

"I don't like this," he mutters angrily. "Not one bit."

He is frustrated this morning. After watching last evening's stunning news broadcast, the politician and his wife spent a restless night, with little sleep. He doesn't like surprises – surprises never turn out well. He likes things meticulously planned, and once planned, you stick to the plan. No surprises – everything runs smoothly. Why Elena doesn't seem to understand this very simple concept is beyond him. Unbeknownst to him, of course, Elena Markov is sticking with the plan. Only it is her plan, not his.

So yeah, he's frustrated, and Elizabeth Bracken doesn't blame him. The truth is, she is every bit as frustrated. She's just much better at hiding it.

"I don't like it either, Will," she admits, and that is an understatement. It's not often that she so vehemently disagrees with one of Elena's chosen tactics. But this is one of those times.

"Why would she choose this M.O.?" he asks aloud, to no one in particular. "I mean, sure, the media now thinks that this is all being perpetrated by the same individual who went all berserk back in May, looking for the damn writer. That means that none of this can come back to us," he muses aloud. "I get that."

"She's playing to the media, Will," Elizabeth tells him. "You know this."

"Stupid, predictable reporters," he mutters under his breath. "So easily bent and swayed."

"Careful, Will," she admonishes him lightly. "Those are some of their more favorable qualities that we enjoy exploiting so effectively."

He offers a small, bewildered smile. Still, this doesn't make any sense. Why would she choose this approach? It is far too dangerous. There is far too much risk. It's just too visible.

"Liz, the only thing this is going to do is draw out whoever was actually butchering those mobsters all those months ago, when you captured Castle," he says aloud, "and you know that as well as I do. That's a problem. We don't need whoever that is running rampant through the streets again. We played that to our advantage last time, but this time it can be problematic for us – for you and me."

She simply nods her head in agreement. She wishes he would shut up right now. This has always been Will's main problem. He just talks too damn much. Yak, yak, yak, incessantly. Oh, he's good at it, she knows, talking. But at the right time, under the right circumstances, for crying out loud. And those circumstances usually involve bright lights, rolling television cameras, waving flags and cheering throngs.

But alone, when it is time to strategize, to scheme?

No, the politician needs to stop talking and let the professional planners do their work.

That said, she also knows that her husband is absolutely right, and this is her concern as well. The press may think that the same person is at work again, killing New York City mobsters as a way of sending a message, as a way of finding a once-again missing Richard Castle. That's what the press thinks. But she is not worried about the press. There are at least four people on the planet who know this to be blatantly false. Will, Elena and, of course, herself are three of them.

It's that fourth, unknown person that concerns her – and Will.

Whoever conducted that now-legendary, savage campaign back in May knows that a new player is in town, running a copy-cat scheme. And he – or she – probably isn't the type to see a copy-cat campaign as 'flattering' or 'complimentary'. No, this is just as likely to draw that unknown and highly dangerous person back into the picture. That's not a good thing. That person disappeared earlier this year once Richard Castle was found. He – or she – needs to stay disappeared.

Right now, the last thing Sheila Elizabeth Bracken needs is an unknown, uncontrollable wild card reinserting themselves back into the fray.

Their silent musings are interrupted by the ringing of William Bracken's burner phone. Neither has to wonder who is calling. He picks it up on the third ring.

"Well, I have to say, that was a bit of a surprise," he greets her, composing himself quickly as he puts the call on speaker, so his wife can hear. "I hope you're willing to share whatever plan I know is percolating in that mind of yours."

She smiles at the other end, knowing he is agitated, and struggling to contain himself. Good. That's just the way she wants him.

"Yes, hello to you also Senator," she greets him in return.

"Ex-Senator," he replies.

"Semantics," she counters. "And yes, that was meant to be a surprise. Understand, if it is a surprise to you, then it will definitely be a surprise to him as well."

"Him?" Elizabeth interjects. "Who exactly is this 'him' we are talking about, Elena?"

"The man who rampaged through your city earlier this year, of course, looking for Mr. Castle," Elena deadpans.

"You know who he is?" Elizabeth asks, surprised.

"He goes by many names," Elena replies easily, knowing how unnerving her calm demeanor can be to the party on the other end. "Last I know of, he is still going by the name of Hunt. And I mean to draw him out into the open."

"Are you insane?" the former Senator asks, exasperated. "What possible reason would you have for doing such a thing, Elena?" He shakes his head, offering his wife a confused look. Neither of them need a crazed lunatic running wild in the city. Not now.

"Rest assured – if you are going to take out the detective, then you need to account for the writer," Elena explains, her voice short and clipped. "And if you want to neutralize the writer, then I promise you – you are going to have to deal with Hunt."

"And you know this how?" Elizabeth questions, now more intrigued than bothered. She knows their assassin to be anything but compulsive. She meticulously plans out her tactics – many moves in advance. For her, life is nothing more than a chess board, and she has become a master at predicting and neutralizing movements. So if Elena believes this Hunt is one who needs to be neutralized, then Elizabeth is not going to argue the point with her.

Her methods, however, are leaving much to be desired.

"Last year, not too long after Christmas," Elena replies, "Alexis Castle was kidnapped. It initially appeared to be a case of bad luck – with the young woman just being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Eventually, however, it was proven that the younger Castle was the original target all along - part of an elaborate plan on the part of some . . . unfortunate past acquaintances of mine."

Both husband and wife suppress a shudder – his wife slightly more successful – as they hear the chuckles of the woman on the other end, which sound like ice cubes dropping into an empty glass tumbler.

Elena's 'acquaintances' as she puts it, had asked her to be a part of their scheme, counting on the woman's hand-to-hand combat skills along with her uncanny strategic thinking as a failsafe in their favor. Elena had politely declined, however, knowing full well the reputation of the CIA man her countrymen were attempting to attack. However, always thinking multiple moves in advance, Elena Markov saw their futile campaign as a means of silently observing – in action – a man that she considers to be a future adversary. Figuring their paths would cross at some point in the future, and that crossing would not be friendly, Elena chose to watch from the wings, learning his tendencies.

"The kidnapping was conducted by a group of Russians who were looking to damage Mr. Hunt for . . . past transgressions on his part," Elena continues, smiling at the other end. "They kidnapped Castle's daughter as a means of drawing him out."

"Wait a second. I heard that Castle engineered her rescue," the ex-Senator comments. Always ones to keep track of their adversaries, both Brackens recall their surprise at the novelist's ability to go to a foreign country, on his own, and retrieve his daughter from mobsters, terrorists, whatever they were. It had earned the writer some modicum of respect from the couple.

"That was the official story, yes," Elena confirms. "The true story? There was no way Richard Castle could engineer her rescue by himself – not against those men. I watched for myself, and confirmed this with . . . one of the survivors."

"Hunt helped him?" Elizabeth asks, ignoring Elena's last comment. She knows full well how Elena 'confirms' her information. "But why? What's the connection between –"

"Hunt is Alexis Castle's grandfather," Elena interrupts, smiling to herself as she sees the wheels turning on the other end of the call, as her two 'acquaintances in New York' put two and two together.

"My God," William Bracken exclaims, his hand covering his mouth.

"Is he really yours?" Elena asks, her tone mocking, then chuckles again as she gets back on task.

"Hunt is Castle's father," she tells the couple. "I suspect that his rampage through your underworld a few months ago makes much more sense now, yes?"

Elizabeth Bracken doesn't answer. She has retreated for the moment – in her mind – as she processes this new information. William is babbling about something or another, and she lifts herself off the bed where she and her husband have been relaxing for the early part of the morning since awakening. She walks toward the bathroom, stopping at the door, running a hand through her hair.

Elena, for her part, listens to the chatter from the ex-Senator and correctly assumes that his wife has moved away. Elizabeth is no fool – Elena realizes this. She respects the politician's wife. She recognizes the leverage the couple holds over her, and places that advantage squarely in the lap of the woman. She shakes those thoughts away before pulling the couple back into the conversation.

"Hunt will do anything – and I do not over-exaggerate this point – he will do anything to protect his son, and his granddaughter. I trust he has proven that to you with his actions earlier this year. So drawing him out into the open – and dealing with him – will be the first step in dealing with Mr. Castle, and ultimately with his fiancée."

"Why not just take Castle's daughter?" Bracken wonders aloud, and realizes the stupidity of his thoughts immediately, as his wife actually gives him an incredulous look. On the other end of the line, the Russian assassin rolls her eyes in disbelief.

"Kidding, kidding," Bracken says quickly, trying to downplay his mistake.

"Duplicating his campaign, mimicking his earlier actions will get his attention," Elena explains. "He's not a fool. He will not come rushing blindly in. But he will take notice, and he will start planning his own campaign as a response. I mean to catch him during this planning mode."

Elena considers her adversary for a moment. She wonders – not for the first time – how she would fare against Hunt. She has no concern that she can take the man in a hand-to-hand fight. She has no concern that if she can draw him out into the open, she can take him. The problem with Hunt is – and always has been – subterfuge. The man fights from the shadows. He conducts his campaigns behind the scenes. He is rarely seen. He fights from long distance.

And then, of course, there are his toys.

No, a long-range war against this man is suicide. She has to bring him into the jungle, directly on to the battlefield where she can see him – where they face each other eye to eye.

"Anyway, the purpose of my call is complete," Elena tells the power couple. "I wanted you to know the reasoning behind my actions, as I suspect they would have caused you concern," she smiles.

"Do you think this will be enough to bring Castle and Beckett out of hiding?" Bracken asks.

"No," Elena replies honestly. "Those movements yesterday, and my movements tomorrow, these are just the sacrificing of pawns on the board as we get into position," she tells them, causing an eyebrow to raise on the ex-Senator's wife. She has not missed the 'my movements tomorrow' statement, and is now wondering what else their assassin has planned. She is also wondering just who – and what – the Russian considers to be 'pawns'.

Asking her is futile, a waste of time, and Elizabeth will not show such weakness by doing so. But her mind is wandering now, wondering just what exactly their weapon has planned.

"When will we hear from you again?" Elizabeth asks the woman brushing her concerns away for the moment. There will be time for wondering later.

"Soon, Mrs. Bracken," Elena purrs into the phone. "I promise you, it will be very soon."

The phone goes dead, and the couple exchange a look before Elizabeth turns and heads into the bathroom, preparing for the day ahead.

Thursday morning - October 23, 2014, 9:07 a.m., at the Castle's Connecticut Island Home

"What do you mean we aren't going back?" Richard Castle asks, the surprise evident on his face as well as in his voice. "The last thing we need is someone else dragging my name – our name, babe – through the mud again."

"Better our name through the mud than our bodies through the street, Rick," she cautions. "This is far too obvious. Someone wants us to go back. Badly. Let's not give them what they want just yet."

"Are you sure?" Castle asks. "This is the last thing we need right now. And I'm not sure . . . I don't know if I am ready to go through this all over again."

He doesn't like the idea of some copycat dragging old nightmares out of the closet. They are in agreement, as both he and Kate know it has to be a copycat, because Jackson Hunt wouldn't resort to any such shenanigans knowing that his son is already safe and sound. Even though they never told Hunt where they are – he comes and goes and doesn't exactly leave a forwarding address – both know that Hunt is probably aware of their retreat.

Anyway, they've just begun to put all of that behind them, and now this happens?

"I'm sure, Rick," Kate tells him. "Trust me, someone is trying to pull us out of hiding – for what purpose, we don't know just yet. But what we do know – what I know for certain – is that we are sitting ducks if we go back now. We don't know who wants us back, or who would be gunning for us – or how many there are. All we know is they don't know where we are – and this is their ploy to draw us out. It would be a mistake to acquiesce to them now."

"I know, but –"

"Right now they are just killing mobsters," she interrupts, a harshness to her tone. She knows how bad that sounds. It's heartless, yes, but she has a point.

"What if that's just their starting point?" he counters. "What if they come after our family next?"

"They won't, babe," she promises.

"But you don't know –"

"They won't, Rick," she repeats, "because they are already on their way here."

"To the island? Who?" he asks.

"Alexis, Martha, Dad – they're all coming here," she tells him, smiling. "I texted each of them last night, after the broadcast. And I made it ominous enough so as to not invite questions. I confirmed this morning that they left – they should be here in about an hour."

His smile is all she needs right now. She has plenty of questions – they both do – beginning with who is doing this, and why. But for now, getting their family out here to bunker down was the top priority. This will give them time to strategize . . . and act when appropriate.

"Thank you," he tells her, kissing her on the cheek. "I keep forgetting that I married brains and beauty."

"Well, I guess I need to remind you more often," she smiles in return.

"Any ideas on who this may be?" he asks. Sure, he is happy that their family is coming, and will be out of the crosshairs. He's not anxious to go off world-hunting again.

"A couple," she admits. "Jerry Tyson crossed my mind for a moment, but this doesn't really feel like him."

"I could have gone our first year of marriage without hearing that name," he mutters.

"Me too, babe," she agrees. "But I'm trying to consider all options."

"Too soon for Bracken," he muses aloud. "He has an election to win – I would hope his priorities are elsewhere."

"I'd agree, but there is not much I don't put past that man," she admits. "Then again, I admit I'm not exactly unbiased with him. I agree, though, he's not my first choice either. Not with him holding a double digit lead in the polls with the election just a couple of weeks away."

They are quiet for a moment, considering options, when Castle speaks up again.

"Then again," he counters, "perhaps this would be just like Bracken. We've already immediately dismissed him as an option, for obvious reasons. Perhaps that is just what he would expect us to do."

She mulls the thought for a few seconds.

"You may be on to something," she says softly, rising from the barstool in the kitchen where they have been eating breakfast – just a snack, really, of fruits, toast and orange juice.

"Bracken felt he owed me a favor for saving his life," she begins, a timeline formulating in her mind. "He also felt like he had returned the favor by saving mine."

Her thoughts return to the mysterious Russian who showed up in the woods, viciously liberating her without breaking a sweat. The experience was both exhilarating in its sense of rescue, and alarming in its sense of effortless brutality. Her husband has his nightmares, she has hers. And in hers, the stranger who saved her life in the woods that night is an ongoing participant.

"And I could have stopped there. I could have left things as is – more or less even between us," she muses, but he stops her.

"And leave your mother's murder just hanging out there? Not a chance," he shakes his head, and she reaches over, touching his hand.

"My way of thanking him for sparing my life was to toss him in jail," she continues. "I would think he was a bit upset about that," she smiles, not fully comprehending for certain exactly how upset he – or his wife, rather – was about that little matter.

"No matter," Castle says, now rising from the barstool himself. "At least now we know one thing for certain," he tells her.

"And what's that, Mr. Castle?" she asks, with just a bit of a provocative hint that catches his attention, bringing a smile to his face.

"No one knows where we are," he replies. "If we were wondering if any of our enemies had found us, or figured out where we are – at least this proves we are still effectively off the radar."

"True," she agrees. "If someone wanted us, and knew we were here, they wouldn't have gone to such lengths back in New York. They'd be out here, after us already."

The fact that she doesn't say 'back home' when referring to New York is telling for both of them. Their island retreat, once nothing more than that – a strategic and temporary retreat allowing Castle to regroup – has become so much more. It has become home. Neither seem anxious to leave – a secondary fact that continues to surprise the couple.

He grabs her hand and they head to the door, peeling off clothes for their morning walk around the island. During the summer, it was often a morning swim, but the water is getting too cold for that now.

No matter, they have all the time in the world.

Friday morning - October 24, 2014, 4:07 a.m., in New York City

The first explosion rocks the large city block, awakening slumbering neighbors around the building.

Later in the day, the news reporters will babble on and on about the miraculous timing and the lack of human casualties.

Fortunately the elderly family on the second floor is away for the weekend, leaving last night, care of airline tickets from an anonymous source. Jeremy Oswald was a bit reluctant – at first – to take his wife of twenty-seven years away on an impromptu trip to the Bahamas, but how often do you win a trip – all expenses paid – to the tropics.

The single man living on the third floor works the night shift at the hospital, so there was no worry about him being home. After all, she really does not want innocents caught up as collateral damage.

As for Marco, the young man living on the fourth floor at the top of the building – well, he is far from innocent, as Elena knows well. A lieutenant of sorts in one of the crime families in the city, Marco is ruthless, known for his quick temper and hard manners with the many women in his life. If Marco makes it out alive, so be it.

If not?

Well, again, so be it.

She idly wonders again how the ridiculously-biased media will repaint this picture she has painstakingly created. There was a time - she has heard – that the news was actually reported, not opinioned. She shakes her head, weary of the fringe thinking forced upon the masses from both the left and right extremes, wondering when her adopted country fell into the role of mindless, easily-molded sheep. She chuckles, brushing those unnecessary – albeit entertaining – thoughts away, her thoughts returning to the task at hand.

Elena's eyes have an orange glow to them as she watches the flames slowly lick their way upward throughout the building, hearing the crackling sound of wood. The fire that she started up against the outer wall grew innocently – but quickly enough, just as planned. She was waiting it – a predator's look in her eyes from her vantage point across the street. That's when that first explosion hit – indicating that the flames had reached the bar area, with the hundred-plus bottles of alcohol awaiting their turn. They do not disappoint.

The smaller secondary explosions are muffled by the sound of the growing, angry fire. She watches the establishment's sign hanging on the outside of the building catch fire, the familiar shield now completely engaged with flames. She offers no expression on her face as the words 'The Old Haunt' are consumed in orange and black as smoke billows from the building, outward and upward. Lights are turning on throughout the neighborhood as windows open and heads preen outward at the sight. Doorways open as others litter out into the street in robes and sleepwear, fearful eyes searching left and right, waiting for the next explosion . . . wondering if it will be their building next.

This will hit close to home for the writer, she knows. Whether it brings him – them – out of hiding, she isn't sure. But she is fully committed to this guerilla campaign, with tactics that some would consider borderline terrorism. Tactics that are part of a much bigger strategic campaign – bigger than even her employers can fathom.

She smiles to herself, watching the flames reach high into the sky above the now fully-engulfed building. Seconds later, she turns with hands in pockets, the small hoodie covering her face, and walks at a brisk pace, away from the carnage across the street as she hears the sirens in the distance.