January, 2004

Five years. Five years since her mother had been stabbed to death in that alley, while Kate and her dad sat in the restaurant without her, ignorant, oblivious. Luigi's. Johanna had always loved Italian food.

Beckett stared at the ceiling, cold despite the covers piled up on top of her bed, and listened to the angry beats of her heart, wondering if it would ever stop.

If the pain would ever dull.

The therapist she'd seen then had promised her that the wound would heal, but somehow, as the years passed and her mother's absence remained a sharp knife between her ribs, a jagged blade that twisted viciously on days like this, Beckett found herself doubting the woman's words.

She stayed in bed for a moment more, eyes fixed above her, her body very still, as if the slightest move might disturb the grief swirling inside her. Might make it worse than it already was.

Then her alarm rang, and she knew it was six, time for her to get up, shower, get dressed, eat something before she took the subway to the precinct. Time to live her life.

Her life.

As if she had one.


"Hey, Beckett."

She muttered something back, didn't bother to raise her eyes; she knew that voice. Officer Marshall, a cute guy with tousled hair and very green eyes, the only one that hadn't yet given up on trying to make friends with her.

Sooner or later, he would realize.

Kate Beckett didn't need friends, and didn't want them. Lanie was the exception that proved the rule.

So she focused on the report in her hands, reading extra slowly to make sure Marshall would be gone by the time she reached the last line. And he was. She allowed herself a tiny sigh of relief, then grabbed a pen and signed her name at the bottom of the report.

"Beckett!"

This time her head came up without hesitation, trained as she was to answer the calls of any Vice detective. "Yeah?"

"Need you in the conference room," Osborne told her, walking past the desk she shared with a couple uniforms.

Kate looked down at her father's watch, the watch he'd given her for Christmas, and her heart sunk when she realized how early it was. 10:32. The day was just going to stretch on forever, wasn't it?

Well. Maybe, if she was lucky, she'd get assigned some more paperwork. Or sent off to pick up a suspect. Oh, she hoped for the suspect. She needed to burn all that extra energy; she needed to do instead of think.

That was her best hope for today.

No thinking.


They wanted her to act as bait again.

It wasn't that she minded exactly, but - yes, she did wonder if the only reason she'd been assigned to Vice was because of her looks, and to be honest, she was getting a little tired of it. Hell, she'd been first in her class at the Academy, and it certainly had a lot more to do with her brains than with her body.

But nobody seemed to care much for her brains, did they?

Beckett pressed her lips tight and tried to refrain from sulking, focused her attention on the meeting again. This time the operation was considerably more organized, involved a larger number of people; if everything went as planned, they would take down Velasquez.

Lock him away. For good.

Kate knew Detective Osborne had been slowly gathering information against the man, but she hadn't realized how much he had accumulated over the past few weeks. She couldn't help but be a little impressed.

When the meeting was over and everybody got up to leave, Osborne turned to Kate, standing between her and the door. "You okay with this, Beckett?" he asked, eyebrows drawn as he studied her. "I know you're young, but you're the only one we've got who can play that part. And you've handled yourself well before."

Was he asking if she could do this? Shit, had she said anything-

"I'm good, sir. I can do it."

Hell, she was not going to pass up the chance to be a part of an operation like that. She knew what it could mean for her career.

Osborne looked thoughtful. "Okay," he said at last, opening the door for her. "Good."

Beckett's eyes landed for a second on the detective's hand, resting over the round doorknob like Kate herself couldn't possibly manage that, open the stupid door for herself, but she swallowed her frustration and stepped into the bullpen without saying a word.

It was a man's world.

She'd always known that.

And yeah, she missed Royce, the trust he'd always had in her, the respect he'd treated her with. Didn't matter to him that she was a woman, that she was smart. When she did wrong, he yelled at her; when she did good, he took her out for drinks.

But Royce was gone now. She worked for Vice, and these men were the only co-workers she was going to get; she just had to deal with it.

Save your fight for when it counts, Beckett.


The neon sign of Russian Angels looked sadly familiar, letters flickering in the falling darkness, both 'i' and 'l' probably on the verge of extinction.

Kate turned her eyes away, smoothed her dress, pushed her hair back.

Except it wasn't really her hair. They'd made her wear a wig this time, in the unlikely event that a customer or bouncer or bartender might recognize her; strangely enough, a long mane of blond, wavy hair had never featured at the forefront of Beckett's dreams.

She was wearing a different dress too, a dark, shimmery thing that showed off too much leg and too much cleavage, in her opinion; but the look in the eyes of the Vice detectives seemed to say otherwise.

Beckett smirked. College had given her something that had somehow never been obvious to her in high school - the knowledge, the assurance that she was hot. She didn't trust the other words, 'beautiful' or 'gorgeous' or 'stunning'; they meant nothing.

But she could see the way men looked at her when she wore skirts, when she had her hair down. They noticed her. And yeah, her hair was short now, but still - Kate knew.

She'd known for a while that she could use this to her advantage. She just... She didn't want to have to.

Too late for that, she thought, skimming her fingers over the neckline of her dress, checking for the small bug that was hidden in there. This time she wouldn't be alone in the club: a Vice detective was already inside, hopefully mixing with the crowd, maybe even getting a visual on Velasquez.

They knew from an inside source that the man would be at the club tonight. All they had to do was to approach him without spooking him or his bodyguards, isolate and arrest him. Osborne had been very clear about this: he didn't want them to burst into the club, create a confusion that might allow Velasquez to escape. What he wanted was subtlety, and efficiency.

That was the reason why Kate was supposed to get to the pimp first, get his conversation with his associates on tape if she could. Osborne didn't just want the owner of the club; he also wanted to know who did what in the Velasquez organization.

Beckett wasn't wearing an earpiece this time. They had tried to limit the risks of her getting caught; the bug was the only thing that could give her away. Once inside the club, she was on her own. But her team would be listening to her every move, ready to intervene.

"I'm going in," she said quietly, knowing the bug would carry her words no matter what.

She clutched her tiny purse, took a deep, cleansing breath, and went to work.


The club was packed.

She almost took a step back, an overwhelming sense of agoraphobia washing over her, but her cop instincts took over and helped clear her head.

It was interesting, actually, that there were so many more people here compared to her last visit. Either the nightclub was really picking up, or Velasquez's network was expanding. She leaned towards the second explanation.

Beckett scanned the space, caught sight of Detective Johnson but didn't let her eyes stop on him for more than a split second. He was at the bar, deep in conversation with a couple men who looked like they belonged there; Kate resolutely headed for the back rooms.

No need to waste time.

The two men guarding the door could have been the same as last time; they were every bit as bulky and intimidating. Only someone very observant - or someone whose job it was to notice these things - could have told they were different people.

She strode towards them, swinging her hips, adopting a more straightforward, confident approach. If she believed in her own story, they would believe it too.

"Hi, guys," she said with a slow smile, deliberately dropping her eyelids, sizing them up. The Russian accent seemed to be doing it; an almost smile flashed across the face of the shorter man.

"Is Mr. Velasquez expecting you?" his partner asked, his cold eyes revealing how unimpressed he was.

"No," she said, and she wrapped a strand of fake blonde hair around her index finger, giggled lightly. "But you see," she went on when she had the men's attention, "I'm a surprise for him. Present. From Nikolai."

If Osborne's information was right, Velasquez was doing business with the Russian mafia, and had met a few times with a man who called himself Nikolai Lyubov. If not...

The two men exchanged a look, and the taller one looked back, staring as if he were trying to read her mind. Thank god he couldn't.

"Show us your purse," he said, gesturing to her tiny clutch.

Beckett laughed, made it long and throaty as she flipped her hair back. "Boys, really. You do not ask to see a woman's purse."

The vein on the man's neck pulsed. "Purse," he said simply, icy and irrevocable.

She sighed, held it out for them. "If you insist."

They looked inside, fingers almost too thick to zip the thing open; when they were satisfied that nothing dangerous was contained in the ridiculous space, they gave it back to her.

As if she was going to keep her gun inside her purse. Honestly.

But she was in; she was in and it was all that mattered.


Just like the main room, the back space was crowded; Beckett took a couple steps and assessed the situation, decided that Velasquez was probably at the table where people laughed the loudest and smoked the most.

She made her way there, slow and deliberate, stood in front of the table until all eyes had turned to her. And then she dropped her hands to the dark, shiny wood, her weight resting on her wrists, arching her back as she stared into Velasquez's eyes.

He looked a lot like he had in the picture Osborne had shown her, unexpectedly young - around thirty-five or so - and handsome in a rough way, as if he had spent most of his youth outside, in a cold, windy place that had shaped the straight nose, the high cheekbones, the almond-shaped eyes that seemed always squinting.

"Mr. Velasquez, I presume," Kate said quietly, satisfied with the sexy echo of her voice in the sudden silence. She let the corner of her mouth curl up, her eyes never straying from the man's.

She was surprised when he held her gaze, didn't even glance at her chest that, she knew, was very much exposed from the way she was leaning in.

"And you are?" he answered calmly, barely a touch of curiosity in his voice.

"I am your present," she declared confidently, tilting her head, feeling the blonde hair spread over her shoulder. It was strange, knowing it wasn't hers, even if the imitation was good. "The present Nikolai sent you."

Something flashed in Velasquez's eyes, too quick for her to identify, and she prayed to god that their information was right. They probably wouldn't kill a cop - and she could surely fight her way out - but she didn't feel a great compulsion to find out about either of those things.

"Nikolai, uh," the club owner said slowly. "Well, isn't that lovely of him. Gentlemen, make room for this charming young lady."

Some of the men slid out of the seats they'd slouched into; they left an empty space next to Velasquez, and he nodded towards it. Beckett moved, taking her time, dragged her hand down the pimp's arm as she sinked down to her seat.

"You're strong," she purred, leaving her fingers at the crook of his elbow.

He barked out a laugh, didn't look impressed. She made a note to herself: Impervious to flattery.

"You know my name, but I don't know yours," he remarked, and she again heard the steel underneath the apparent velvet of his voice. This man wasn't easily fooled; Beckett felt her insides clench with apprehension.

"I am Irina," she offered, smiling invitingly. "And tonight," she added, hoping to soften him, "I am yours."

He was looking at her still, appraising her; his fingers came up to cup her chin, lifted her face for inspection. "You really are gorgeous," and the tone he used, indifferent, like he was talking about the weather - it sent shivers down her spine. "Nikolai sent you, you say. Now, why would he do that?"

Ah.

"He wants to make sure. That you and him are friends. Very, very good friends," she promised, sliding her hand from his elbow down to his thigh. She felt ridiculous, because he wasn't responding at all, but she didn't have a better plan.

"Very good friends. Even though he refused my business proposal. Now, that's interesting."

Shit.

"Nikolai wants to say, maybe he refused that one, but that doesn't mean he refuses all of them." Her heart pulsed with apprehension and adrenaline; Beckett shifted her leg under the table, taking comfort in the feel of the gun at her inside thigh.

Velasquez watched her, dark eyes almost thoughtful. It felt like progress - some sort of progress, anyway. "Pablo," he called suddenly, making everybody at the table jump. Everybody except a man whose suit looked too tight for his bulky shoulders, a man with grey, emotionless eyes.

"Sir."

"Call Nikolai Lubya. Ask him if he knows a certain Irina, and if he's sent her here tonight. Go now."

Pablo nodded, disappeared without another word. Velasquez turned back to Kate and smiled, no amusement, no affection to the lift of his lips. "We'll see if you are who you pretend to be," he said, almost amicably.

His fingers skimmed her cheek, danced along a wave of blonde hair. "Gorgeous," he said again, and it was all she could do to silence the repulsed shudder of her heart.


They were playing cards, along with drinking and taking frequent trips to the bathroom; Kate watched, didn't dare to even touch her fingers to her dress to make sure the bug was still in place.

She hoped it was; she hoped Osborne was getting all of this.

If they got nothing more, at least they'd have names, at least they'd have an idea of the hierarchy at play here. It was subtle, but if you listened to the lilt of voices, watched who averted their eyes and who didn't - it all said a lot, probably a lot more than these men intended.

Velasquez's hand was on her thigh, his thumb hooked at the hem of her dress, but it wasn't moving. In fact, he didn't look like he was paying a lot of attention to her. Which made Beckett all the more jittery inside.

Pablo still hadn't come back.

She wasn't worried. She wasn't. Osborne had planned for this; the van was parked in a parallel street, and they had the means to intercept the call.

It would be fine.

Velasquez won the round of poker, not a hint of triumph displayed on his face, and gathered the chips, adding them to the already considerable pile in front of him.

You're good player, Kate almost said, but flattery was not the way with him. "You're lucky," she said instead.

He grunted. "Nothing to do with luck. Poker is about observation."

She bobbed her head. "And acting, no? You cannot play if you cannot bluff."

He gave her a long, calculating look. "Are you good at poker, Irina?"

She laughed, and almost scared herself with how amused she sounded. Jeez, she'd missed her calling; she should have been standing on a theater stage. "Me? I am terrible. But my brother, he used to be very good. He told me a lot about poker."

"Your brother," Velasquez echoed, with that same blankness, that complete lack of interest in his inflection. "Where is he now?"

"Dead," she answered without a second of hesitation, matter-of-fact. "He messed with the wrong people."

His dark eyes turned to her, sharp and swift, before he looked back at the table, then at his hand of cards. "That was reckless of him."

"It was," she agreed quietly, peacefully. They said nothing more, but she felt the beginning of a connection there, like maybe he was starting to believe her.

Or maybe he was just silently considering ways to get rid of her. It was hard to tell.

The next time she raised her eyes, Pablo had materialized out of nowhere. Beckett tried not to let her tension show, keep her shoulders relaxed, her breathing steady. She had nothing to fear; Johnson was in the next room, ready to help if she needed him.

Pablo met Velasquez's eyes and nodded once, firmly. If she had doubts about what that meant, the way Velasquez's fingers curled around her thigh instantly removed them.

"Well, sweetheart," he said, his voice deep, something like pleasure coloring it. "Sounds like you were telling the truth after all."