I own nothing.
.
.
.
Ping.
(One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine—)
Ping.
(One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Sev—)
Ping.
His breath rose from his lips in tiny puffs, illuminating a small area of space for split seconds at a time before evaporating hazily from view as he edged his way around a corner.
Palm against stone, skin against tough cloth. Finger on trigger. Flashlight in hand.
Kurt's eyes directed themselves pointedly to the tiny girl next to him, and Tina nodded quietly, retracting her gun and slipping away towards the rear exit in the darkness, clicking her flashlight off as he did the same. He turned slowly, hoping for an easy search.
(Black. Black. Black. Black.)
Of course that wasn't very likely. He continued, degree by degree, still counting in his head.
(One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight—)
Ping.
Kurt stopped abruptly, turning slightly to accommodate his previous position, eyes straining to see through the black, ears straining to hear, to get a fix on the suspect, and stepped cautiously over a divider.
(One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven—)
Ping.
Relax, relax, relax, he told himself quietly, neglecting to breathe in as he awaited the next—
(One. Two. Three. Four. Five. S—)
Ping.
Definitely faster.
His earpiece remained in place, but this was not a surprise to him— it had stayed firm in the face of shootings and car chases, even surviving the fall he had taken a few years prior over a small skyscraper off 52nd. Kurt had emerged relatively unscathed, bleeding from his legs and arms, scratches covering his face that Lopez had assured him looked quite sexy indeed.
Lucky, she said.
The murderer he had been chasing had emerged dead. Seven civilians had died.
He had spent six months in physical therapy to regain power over his feet.
Lucky.
It was all comparative in this field. Always based on someone else's success, someone else's misfortune. He turned a fraction of a degree.
(One. Two. Three—)
Ping.
Good.
Idly, he considered that his team must have noticed him passing this area at least a dozen times. He could practically see Hudson-Berry and St. James, smacking their foreheads as they shouted from their van in an alleyway nearby, probably bonding over their immense frustration while Finn Hudson-Berry sat idly at home, waiting for his wife to come home. But he couldn't hear that— only the quiet noises that sounded as he neared his target. He could only discern the location based on these noises— hear one, circle around. Pray that he heard the tell-tale sound often enough to realize he had reached his target. Pray that when it did so, the same sound would alert the rest of the team with him— that they would all be alert, all ready to take him down.
Personally, he would have preferred the night vision goggles. They looked good, too.
Uncertain footsteps were his method of travel— uncertain, but silent. Silent— silence was their mode of operation. Without it, they would be utterly… well, screwed.
A bead of sweat rolled down his temple, and it made him terribly aware of his shirt sticking clammily to his back, of the pain in his feet as he trudged on tiptoes around corners, of that one infernal strand of hair tickling the spot directly adjacent to his eye…
Ping.
Click.
He turned, barely in time to see Tina return stealthily to his side, at least twenty-three accompanying her for backup.
The captain had been generous. But that was no cause for celebration— in fact, it made what they were doing even more vital.
Kurt signaled quickly with his hands, and the team raised their guns, Lopez nodding in the back and moving her finger an inch to the power switch of the flashlight in her hand, rubbing over the rubber button, aching to press.
Waiting, waiting, waiting…
Ping.
Pandemonium. Lopez switched on the light, a dozen others shouting as the suspect, a deceptively fragile looking man of forty, attempted to bolt, flashes of his greying hair visible between shadows. Kurt was the fastest, his eyes trained solely on the man's wrinkled skin, memorizing his dull eyes and laugh lines. But most of all, Kurt kept his eyes on the gun in his hand.
"NYPD!"
"You don't understand! You've got the wrong guy!"
"Mr. Tyson, we just need to—"
"No! It wasn't me!"
"NYPD! Stop now, we need to—"
"It wasn't me! It wasn't me!"
"Drop the weapon, Tyson! Drop it now!"
"Game over, Tyson, just drop the weapon and we can get this all over—"
"No!"
"Hummel! Down the west side, 82!"
Kurt rounded the corner, cutting across the parking lot with ease.
Eyes on the target. Stay on the target.
Flashes of memory— his father tossing him a baseball, his eyes sharp but kind, teaching him the
His breaths became labored, hastily trying to catch up with the fleeing criminal, but he was already at the door already—
"Tyson!" Kurt shouted in a last ditch effort. "Tyson, stop your fucking ass right there!"
Tyson turned in surprise, evidently under the assumption he had left them all behind, and Kurt pounced as two shots rang through the air.
"God!" Kurt screwed up his face in pain, pulling out handcuffs and arresting Tyson as soon as possible. "You have the right to… to…" Tyson's immobilized body blurred and he began to tip over. A strong arm pulled him upright. Noah Puckerman had caught up at last, breathing heavily as he yanked Tyson away, continuing to inform him of his rights. Kurt glanced after them for a minute, his gaze blurring again. His head dropped against his chest, and he noticed with mild interest that his calf appeared to be soaked in scarlet— fresh blood.
Well, that was odd.
"Hummel?"
The rest of his team was catching up, it seemed. A pair of soft hands caught him and lowered his head gently to the cement.
Well, that was even odder. When was he falling?
"Just now," Tina said gently, her voice worried. Had he spoken aloud? Why was she worried?
"Don't worry," he sighed quietly, his vision darkening. "I'm just fine. Just…"
Black.
.
.
.
A/N: This is a direct result of loving Klaine and watching Castle. I have a generic plan and plot line, but I can't honestly predict how long the story is. All I can hope for is to not give up on it halfway like I do so many others.
Let me know what you think!
~idb
