The pain was trying to come back in Tyson's leg. It wasn't quite there yet but having feeling again meant that it wasn't far behind. His leg still restrained with a metal ring with pins pushing in he wanted to move it but he knew in doing so would only hasten the oncoming. He quickly opened his eyes and let the fogginess fade to clarity. It was still night. Nightstaff would give him another dose and he could enjoy the joyful rush of narcotic bliss. He patted the bed were his right hand was hoping the alarm would hop into his hand and he could summon the drug giving angel, whoever it was, tonight.
His hand failed finding the alarm and flailed as would a fish out of water trying to play chess. He finally turned his head and noticed no alarm near him but did see the shadowed silhouette of a man wearing long coat.
Then he knew his time was coming. He would pay for his sins and those voices would become real demons. Hell had come for him in human form.
"I'm sure you know already," the figure started saying, "the myth of the silencer is purely Hollywood fantasy."
Still the figure pulled out a gun with the tell tell attachment intended to mute the explosion about to happen that would propel matter tearing metal out the back of his skull.
"The decibel level out of a hand gun, say a 9 mm, is 140. Add a silencer it merely drops it down to about 125."
The figure then wrapped a towel around the barrel and the silencer.
Tyson's breathe hastened. He began to try to speak.
"Don't bother. The guards are dead. Nurse's station is at the end of the hall and the alarm?"
He held up a cord that had been severed. The copper wiring still frayed.
"Where was I? Oh yes. Silencer. Adding this wet towel probably drops the decibel level down to oh say …"
The figure's head waivered to and fro as if computing some complex algorithm.
"… One hundred if I'm lucky. Still too loud. That's about as loud as a Harley or a buzzsaw. The real silencing effect comes with the ammo. Subsonic rounds. They don't break the sound barrier like standard ammo does and so now we're talking about 80 or 90. The nurses station will probably think they heard a really thick telephone book fall from the ceiling. If they bother to tear themselves away from Candy Crush or whatever they're doing up there. By the time someone comes to investigate I'll be camped with my sniper scope aimed out the back of a van right at precinct headquarters."
He put the gun in a large plastic Ziploc bag.
"Then there's the matter of residue. You can't wash it off so the best way to keep that from firing is of course not to fire it, right? But I can't not shoot. I have to. I got the call to correct your mistakes."
He formed the plastic with his fingers to be able to pull the trigger and stepped forward.
"I hope you can appreciate the exposition I provide to you since we never really spoke when we worked at Blackgate. I will say though I admired your work in Venezuela. I don't think I would have ever downed that general without that insane maneuver you pulled. C4 in the toothpaste. Kind of brilliant."
The pain had arrived and Tyson's adrenaline finally over shadowed the effects of the fading drugs and haziness. His ability to speak returned.
"You're fucking insane! I've never been to –"
The man emerged from the shadows, grabbed Tyson's hand and snapped his fingers into an L shape. The resulting scream resulted in the plastic covered, silenced gun right down his mouth. The barrel shaped plastic bag and the wet towel already condensing out to the surface pressed down near his gag reflex.
"Would you kindly remember?"
The memories returned to Tyson.
The cashier clerk in Seattle when bringing down the terrorist cell he made put the shotgun barrel in his mouth before pulling the trigger. The mother and her nine children in Juarez Ciudad he burned alive to stop the flow of cocaine for one week. The fact that his schizophrenia was something he had discussed with Bracken as something he had wanted to experience. That it would be the perfect defense in an insanity plea after he was finally captured. The hours of preparation for planting suggestive statements during the hypnotherapy sessions. His agreement that would he be killed should he fail.
"Remember now?" The man said. The man's face was clear now in the light from the streets coming in from the outside.
Tyson nodded.
"Remember me?" The man asked.
Black American. Assassin. Specialized in sniping and extremely ruthless in close quarters. If Tyson was bat-shit crazy than this man was pure psychotic bloodlust.
Tyson bit down on the barrel and nodded. Resigning to his fate.
"Tell the Devil Montgomery sent ya'." Said the man and with that he pulled the trigger.
! #
"Castle!"
Somewhere in his subconsciousness he knew it was Ryan but he wanted it to be a dream so he ignored it.
Dreams don't bang on apartment doors so when he heard it he spout his sounds of displeasure and finally oozed out of bed and began his bare footed walk toward the door.
More shouting from the other side of the door demanded he hurry up.
His thoughts muggy and primitive, blood flow was still an issue to anything above his waist and he struggled to get his muscles coordinated.
More banging and Richard growled. Something inside said to attack but his mind, still in between awake and slumber, hoped for it to be Kate.
He grabbed the knob to his door and were it not attached he would have flung the dman thing across the room. The door opened and Ryan stood, bright eyed and two coffees in hand.
"Tyson's dead."
It was Ryan. Not the shapely author with the bedroom voice he had hoped for.
Rick gritted his teeth before snatching the Styrofoam cup out of his hand.
"Espresso with cinnamon. You're welcome by the way."
Rick let the warmth surprise him as it had cooled enough to reach that cocoa-on-winters-eve perfection. Not that he'd notice if it was too hot since he'd burned away most of his taste buds leaving the only real palpable foods left somewhere in the 'disgustingly sweet' and 'charred flesh' sections of his food pyramid.
"Someone capped him and the two officers watching him last night."
Rick was waking up into a procedural nightmare. He would ignore his friend's update for the moment as he headed towards his room to get dressed.
"Amy was found hanging in her holding cell this morning. We're pulling tape from everywhere."
Standing in the living room Ryan took his rare opportunity to scan the precinct's playboy's things. Couch. Love seat. Flat screen. Several dozen books piled into shelves and in the corner? A quick scan revealed several classics: To Kill A Mockingbird, Jurassic Park, The Stand …
He pushed deeper and a few Beckett novels sat on the shelf. A couple of books on biology. One on the art of the renaissance. That's 70's classic, the illustrated wonderwall "The Joy of Sex" as well as a few anthologies of Calvin and Hobbes.
An interesting peak into the man's mind no doubt. Ryan new about his father's death and realized how hard Rick had worked to get were he was. Cramming his schooling into just over a year and making special forces. Reading was probably the only thing hehad to keep his more frivolous needs satisfied. Being so focused on school and kicking ass he probably devoured the books quickly and efficiently because he had too.
Rick came out of his room dressed and moved quickly and determined. Grabbed his keys.
"Oh, hey were you goin'?"
"Crime scene. C'mon."
! #
The car ride over should have been quiet since Rick didn't want to discuss much but Ryan's curiosity had been poked with a large stick. He was taught, like all were, to detect the lies and expose the truth. The fact Rick was on paid leave made his eagerness to jump on the update to the case interesting. Ryan had gone over as more of an inquiry. To use Rick as a consultant however Rick's actions were one of someone who hadn't clocked out.
"Sleep much last night?" Ryan probed.
Rick slurped his coffee loudly and looked right into Ryan's eyes while dragging out the annoying sucking sound.
It didn't seem Rick was terribly willing to talk.
"You don't look –" Slurp.
He was seriously going to act this way?
"I've been over your case file and I –" Sluuuuuurrrrpppp.
Ryan sealed his mouth shut and waited.
Then with one mighty, slurpy, obnoxious glance Rick finished the cup. With a mighty exhale of satisfaction he spoke.
"Hospital first."
The car stopped at a light and Rick turned on the radio. The music played and he began to thump the dashboard with his hands mimicking the drum beat. Ryan wasn't entire sure of the sincerity of the notion so turned it down.
"What are you doing? I was into that?" Rick whined.
"Two witnesses were murdered and you don't want to talk about it on the way?"
"Paid leave." Rick said before he turned the music back up. It was Stone Temple Pilots and Rick began to sing a long.
"I aaamm! Smellin' like a rose that somebody gave me 'cause I'm dead and bloat-ed!"
Ryan began to think he made a mistake.