Four months earlier
The file doesn't fall into his hands so much as it's thrust into his them by a very urgent looking Hess. She's barely been on American soil ten minutes, the pair of them in the back of a black Chrysler departing the runway where the Men of Letters' private jet is parked, when she takes out her briefcase and hands him the contents. "Here. Take a look at this." Her tone is sharp, as ever.
Ketch takes it off her, frowning at the front of the dossier stamped with 'CLASSIFIED'. "Straight to business, I see. What is it?"
"Your next assignment," Hess answers tersely. "Dr Ada Valenkova, goes by Carter. Surgeon, alchemist, and former asset to British intelligence."
Ketch's eyebrows creep up a half inch towards his hairline. This was supposed to have been a pick up and escort run. The sudden extra assignment was unexpected, but he knows, like everything else, she intends to keep it out of Mick Davies' sight. His eyes scan the front page, taking in the grainy surveillance footage photo of a dark haired woman in a hospital parking lot. He picks out a few details, notably "rogue operative" and "demon affiliate" from the main body of the text before returning to the profile. Curiously, her nationality is listed as British, not Russian. Then he notices the birth date. "She's looking good for 92."
"She developed an alchemical formula in the 60s that allows her to live indefinitely without aging," Hess explains, and immediately Ketch's curiosity piques. That explanation needs more than a sentence. "She's worked for us on previous occasions. Strictly a contract basis, but it was mostly before my time. We've been trying to keep tabs on her, but she dropped off the radar a few years back."
"And what does this have to do with our current situation with the American hunters?" He's begun to flick through the pages, eyeing up more photographs. He hasn't missed that the skills section lists "torture".
"Our latest intel on the Winchesters suggests Dean has made contact with her."
That grabs Ketch's attention. He looks up. "Oh?"
"It appears she's been providing medical services to demons in North America for the past decade or so. Surgical upgrades. We've managed to confirm as such with two demons we were able to capture. Word is she provided a similar service for Dean Winchester."
"Well that is...fascinating." It's an understatement. Now he's devastatingly intrigued.
Hess gives him a sombre look. "Her MI6 record also shows above average performance with tracking difficult targets. We believe the Winchesters have recruited her with the intent of locating Kelly Kline and having Dr Carter deliver her child. That can't be allowed to happen."
"No. Of course not."
"Find her, Ketch, and stop her."
He nods, serious and obedient. "Yes, ma'am. I'll start as soon as I've seen you safely to the hotel."
"You'll start now."
There's a pause as Ketch grits his teeth, not quite imperceptibly enough that she doesn't notice. He should have known that was the correct response. "I take it Mr Davies is not to know about this?"
"Naturally." She purses her lips. "Until he has completed his performance review to my satisfaction, you are to run all his orders by me. His handling of the situation with Lady Bevell has called his competence into question. For now, consider this mission top secret."
"Yes, ma'am." He tries to hide his smirk of satisfaction. "May I ask when you intend to tell him you're here?"
"At such a time as I deem it appropriate." The non-answer irks him, but it's all he's getting. "It's a large file, Ketch. I suggest you start reading."
She turns away to stare out of the tinted windows at the streetlights zipping by, and Ketch knows that's his cue to shut up. She's had a long flight. There's no room for polite conversation. Only business.
He buries his nose in the dossier and begins to read.
—
"Coffee. Black. To go." Carter sets the money down on the counter as abruptly as she'd ordered and waits, lips pursed.
She'd gotten the call from Dean a couple of days ago, prompting the sudden road trip across half the country to Lebanon, Kansas. He'd sounded desperate, like she was his last resort. Can't say she blames him.
It's barely been five seconds when she's interrupted by a random stranger, making her skin prickle in irritation. "Well, it's good to hear a familiar accent," a voice drawls behind her, like pretentious home county nails on a chalkboard, and she rolls her eyes. "Why don't you come join me?" he's already invited her by the time she turns to look at him, glaring daggers. "Maybe make a friend this far from home."
"I doubt it's that familiar," she says, deadpan, as the drink arrives and she picks it up. "I didn't go to private school and I have places to be. So, thanks, but no thanks."
She's already turning away when his next sentence stops her dead in her tracks. "I don't see there's any need to hurry. We're both on our way to see a dear mum-to-be."
Carter freezes. "And that means what, exactly?"
"I believe you know Kelly Kline. Or at the very least, you're about to."
Fuck, Carter thinks. She turns, striding to the booth with a filthy look as she sits down opposite him. "Alright, who are you?" she hisses, pouring as much venom into a hushed tone as she can.
"Arthur Ketch, British Men of Letters," he introduces himself smoothly, taking another sip of the cup of tea he has in front of him. She can smell it's Earl Grey. With lemon. Toff.
"Oh, hello Arthur. Nice to meet you," she says with a cutting fake smile. "Now that we're done with the pleasantries, how about you tell me why I shouldn't take that silver spoon in your mouth and ram it down the back of your throat?"
His eyebrows lift, amused. "I'm sure you wouldn't want to cause a commotion."
"I can be surprisingly subtle."
"Oh, I know." He almost seems to smile at that. "In fact, I know a great deal about you, Dr Carter, and therein lies our problem."
"I don't know about that, but I can certainly make it your problem," she retorts, turning the threat up to eleven. She doesn't know who this asshole thinks he is, but she hates being caught off guard.
"You see, you're the doctor who's going to deliver Kelly Kline's baby," he continues, then his superficially polite tone turns a note menacing. "And I'm afraid I can't let that happen."
A smirk plays on her lips. Just give her a fucking excuse. "It's really not a case of you letting me. I do what I like, and bad things happen to people who stand in my way."
"Then I'm afraid we've reached something of an impasse," he replies, unfazed. "Because the same happens to people who stand in mine."
A tense moment passes, and then Carter lets out a breath, allowing her anger to turn into a sarcastic chuckle. "Well, I guess we'll just see which of us wins out then," she says. "So, if it's all the same to you…"
She's about to rise again, but he puts out a hand to grab her coffee cup, forcing her to either abandon it or stay. It won't stop her leaving, but it buys him a few more seconds.
"You do realise that this baby is Lucifer's child?" he says, the patronising tone suddenly increasing her urge to slap him tenfold.
"And Lucifer was God's child. Children aren't their parents."
"Accurate, yet in this case, irrelevant." He hardens his stare, the mocking derision turning to seriousness. "The consequences of the birth alone will be devastating."
"Why do you think they hired me?" That buys her a few seconds, his eyes narrowing as he tries to figure out what it is he doesn't know. "Look, I have paying clients waiting for me. You don't want me to play midwife, make me a better offer. Other than that, stay out of my way." She bats his hand away, picking up the coffee and striding off without a backward glance.
Ketch stares after her, letting out a sigh, and then finishes off the last of his tea. He sets down the cup, places a few crisp dollar bills on the table, then gets up and follows.
There are only five cars in the parking lot. Hers is the black Jeep Renegade, trailer attached, which is currently backing up out of a parking space and taking a turn that takes it perilously to where he's left the Norton.
He can see her through the driver's side window, twisted round in her seat to peer through the back as if she's doing it on purpose. She must have guessed the bike's his. Given every other car in the lot probably falls under the category of "mid-range family vehicle", he'd have drawn the same conclusion.
His pace quickens, expression turning pissed as the trailer finally hits the bike, pushing it a few meters before it topples and the front wheel slides under the trailer's chassis. The Jeep stops, and the front window rolls down so that Carter can stare out straight at him with a mocking smirk. "Sorry, was that yours?"
Ketch just glares. He picks up pace, sliding a hand inside his jacket as he strides up to her passenger side door before she's had chance to complete the turn and pulls it open.
Surprise flits briefly over her face as she looks for a moment like she's cursing that she forgot to lock the door, then it turns to a scowl as she reaches for the coffee cup she's left on the dashboard. Ketch clambers inside and Carter pops the top off of the scalding drink with one hand, and throws it. At the exact same time, Ketch raises his hand to bury the needle clutched in it in her neck.
A look of shock crosses her face, this time lingering while a look of pain settles on his. He depresses the plunger, gritting his teeth against the burn of the liquid soaking into his sleeve. Within seconds, Carter goes limp, slumping against the steering wheel so that the horn blares. Ketch curses.
He hurriedly drags her off, laying her down on the passenger side seat as he clambers back out and glances over to check that no-one's walking out of the diner at that moment. As it is, his luck holds. If anyone inside saw anything and decided to call the police, by the time anything happens, he'll be long gone.
Ketch curses again under his breath as he shakes his arm, a few droplets of now-lukewarm coffee falling to the tarmac. The suit's dry clean only. He slips off the blazer then tosses it over Carter so that it at least looks somewhat to a casual observer like she's sleeping, then slams the door and crosses to the back of the trailer.
It takes most of his strength to get the bike out from under it and stand it upright again. He takes a moment to check for damage, but to his relief, there doesn't seem to be a scratch on it. He's crashed the damn thing before and it's fared worse.
Satisfied, Ketch's attention turns to the trailer. He undoes some of the fastenings on the tarp covering it and throws it back, then lowers the loading ramp. She's got an entire exam table loaded up on the back, it looks like, plus some incredibly old-fashioned monitors partially wrapped in polyethylene, and a few plastic crates, only a couple of which feature yellow sticky labels identifying them as containing medical equipment. The trailer's about 80% full, but there's space.
Ketch wheels his bike up the ramp and rearranges a few of the crates around it before securing it with the straps, then returns the ramp and the tarpaulin to how she'd had them before. When he climbs back into the Jeep, taking the driver's side, he smiles slightly upon seeing she's already got a TomTom stuck to the dashboard. Really, that had been too easy.
He knows roughly where he's going. There's a disused warehouse owned by the Men of Letters a couple of hours' drive away, and he thinks it'll do nicely for what he has in mind. Ketch punches in the zip code, puts the car into gear, then completes the turn out of the parking lot and begins to drive off.
On the passenger side of the car, Carter cracks an eye open, gazes for a second at the GPS screen, then closes it again without a word.