It was a bad idea. Castle could feel it in his bones, and he was sure Kate and the others could too. But what could they do? The suspect in a double homicide with ties to organized crime was about to get away. They had called for backup, of course, but it would never get there in time. So instead, they went into the darkened warehouse by the pier. Silently they traveled through, Beckett, Esposito and Ryan with guns drawn, Castle trailing behind them.
The warehouse was dark and full of shipping containers stacked more than head-high and forming a maze in the large room. Finally, they reached a clearing. Castle kept his eyes peeled, looking left, right and ahead. There was a small gap in front of him, and Ryan had just taken a side-step to his left, offering him cover, when the shot rang out.
In that instant, everything was in slow motion. He saw Ryan jerk and fall backward, one hand removed from his weapon and in the air. He was halfway to the ground before Castle reached his hands out, just in time to stop Ryan's head from slamming into the cement floor.
Ryan lay there, unmoving, unconscious. There was a hail of gunfire from their unseen assailant, Beckett and Esposito. Castle didn't know if they knew Ryan had been hit. He yelled over the roar, and they must have heard him, but not really *heard* him.
"Castle, get the hell out of here!" Beckett yelled as she moved to the left and Esposito moved to the right.
Castle grabbed Ryan by the vest and, hunched over, dragged him until they were hidden behind a row of the shipping crates where it was safer to haul Ryan to his feet. Draping one of Ryan's arms over his shoulder, Castle bent at the knee until Ryan's body had followed suit. Gripping Ryan's wrist in one hand and wrapping his other arm around his thigh, Castle rose.
It was a perfect fireman's hold, learned while researching the second Derrick Storm novel, and Castle never imagined he'd actually be using it. Shots continued, he could hear automatic weapons now, but he didn't have time to dwell on it. Once he was secure in his grip, he did as Beckett had ordered and got the hell out of there, running as fast he could and not stopping until he saw the night sky.
Once the metal of the building was behind him, Castle dropped Ryan on the pavement outside and scrambled for his phone, stabbing at it before bringing it to his ear as an all too calm dispatcher asked about his emergency.
"I need help," he said. His voice was shaking and sounded foreign to his own ears. "An officer's been shot."
He gave the 911 operator all the pertinent information, but as he could begin to see blood seep out onto the pavement, the words caught in his throat. The phone fell to the ground with a clatter as Castle dropped to his knees.
With shaking fingers, he undid Ryan's bulletproof vest. Even with everything he'd seen in his time with the 12th, the bloody pool forming on his friend's chest was enough to make him feel ill. He glanced away only once, swallowing bile before turning back with resolve and laying a hand over the wound.
Ryan winced in pain. A strangled cry escaped his lips.
"It's going to be okay," Castle whispered. "You're going to be fine. Help's coming."
When Castle was a kid, one of the first writing tips he got was to read. "Read everything you can." And so he had. In his years, he'd read countless stories where the hero - or someone important to them - lay wounded in a street.
In many of those stories, the character would lie there, almost peacefully, their eyes slipping in and out of focus as they made one last statement of love or comfort or rousing inspiration for whoever remained, usually offset by a few ellipses every third or fourth word depending on how serious it was - and when the statement was given, the injured would roll his head to the side as the light faded from sometimes-closing eyes.
This wasn't like that.
There were no halting "Tell Jenny I love her"s or "Get the bastard that did this to me." No reassurances that everything would be fine, and if it wasn't, it certainly wasn't any of their faults.
No. Here, on this street, Ryan's whole body was tense. His breath came in shallow, gasps as he struggled both to draw air and to avoid screams that probably wouldn't have come anyway. His eyes locked onto Castle, defiant of any darkness that might come for him. He didn't need words - broken by poor writing choices or not - to tell the world that he was going to fight death until it dug its claws in and dragged him away.
A flash of worry crossed Ryan's eyes once, and he reached a shaking hand to paw at Castle's chest. It was a laborious movement, causing effort and pain, and Castle was quick to grab Ryan's hand in his own.
"Lie still," Castle said. "It's okay. I'm not going anywhere. And neither are you." He squeezed Ryan's hand, and Ryan squeezed back. Not as tight - and certainly not as tightly as Castle would have liked - but the gesture was infused with the same resolve that lived in Ryan's eyes.
"I'm not going anywhere," it said.
The rest of the world faded to a dull hum. Castle thought he could still hear gunshots and sirens - voices even. And if he cared to focus on it, he would probably see flashing lights in his peripheral vision. But none of that mattered. In that moment, he was there, 100 percent, one hand holding Ryan's and the other pressed to his torso as they stared at each other, neither daring to look away.
It wasn't until he felt hands on his shoulders, pulling him back, that anything else registered.
"Sir, let us in," a paramedic said.
Castle let go of Ryan's hand as she pulled him away,but kept his eyes steady. Ryan turned his head slightly, his eyes following Castle. Were they less focused than they had been?
It wasn't until Ryan was surrounded - completely hidden in a sea of legs and equipment that Castle looked away. Everything came rushing back. Sounds. Smells. Sights.
His brain pounded. He ached. And when he couldn't stand it anymore, he lowered himself to the ground, his back resting against the front tire of a police car. With a shudder, he ran his hands through his hair and tried to shut out the world.