IV

Bumping and jarring its way over frozen roads, slewing through great cuttings of hardened snowdrift, the gypsy caravan slowly wound its way down the wind scoured hill overlooking the Siret River flood plain. As the heavily laden wagons approached a forlorn ferry building, looming dark and forbidding through blustery snow squalls, Kate Beckett pulled back the muslin windscreen and dropped lightly into the knee-deep snow. Gathering her heavy woolen coat tightly around her with a wide leather belt, she checked the accessibility of her Glock 19 deep in the outer right pocket, along with an eight-inch folding stiletto she had bought in Rome for "up close and personal work". How Agent Danberg had smiled when she said that!

In the 12th Precinct they would have called this "Indian Country," in recognition of the border being little more than a stone's throw away, an area rife with competing territorial claims, feuding clans, and a government that only periodically made its authority known over the indigenous peoples of the region. As she half-slid, half-scrambled down a rock-strewn uneven track towards the small, squat building built close to the riverbank, she kept a careful eye on her surroundings. Rumors picked up in the gypsy campsite the previous night indicated "she" was here, but offered little more information. Beckett remembered the transponder in her left boot, but decided to wait until positive identification was made. You'd only get one chance to locate Sophia Turner…and you'd better be right.

Nine days ago she had been fit, sun bronzed, and living the good life on the island of Melos, ready to resume her job as a NYPD detective, her physical confidence restored through a brutal encounter in an ancient Greek amphitheater. Now she was half frozen in the remote fastness of the Central Carpathian Mountains, somewhere in northeastern Romania west of the Moldovan border, looking for someone judged to be an enemy of the State. Just why was unclear, as was just how Beckett was…maybe…to execute what was essentially a kill order on Sophia Turner.

Castle would have loved this, she was certain. Rouge cops performing as executioners for a shady security agency halfway around the world from the City. She could see him, sitting in his underwear before his desk, banging away on the keys of his laptop: "Nikki Heat cursed the cold and the wind as she wound her way towards…"

"Damn it…focus Beckett," she muttered, amused that it was normally her that would be admonishing Castle when he was on one of his wild mob, extraterrestrial beings, zombies, or CIA theories to stay focused on the crime at hand. Now hers was the mind that was wandering.

Funny, this wasn't one of Castle's outlandish story lines anymore. She was actually in the pay of the CIA…and on her way, perhaps, to a murder…and she would be the murderer. The "irony," another favorite Castle word, was not lost on her as she approached a door barely visible in the swirling snow.

Making her way to the heavily barred door, she first banged her fists, then the butt of her Glock, to announce her presence over the howling wind roaring down the Siret River flood plain. Finally, the heavy bar rotated upward, the door opened a crack, and a guttural voice shouted against the noise of the storm, "What do you want?" Then seeing it was a woman, rather than the relief watch requesting entrance, the door was quickly thrown open wider and Beckett crossed the threshold into the hovel that passed for border security in this part of the Balkans.

The stench of unwashed bodies, half-cooked food, and thick smoke emanating from a poorly tended fire was nearly overpowering as the freshly minted CIA special agent peered through the dimly lit interior, looking for the Watch Captain. One particularly burly, seemingly drunk gypsy stood up and approached her, repeating the doorkeeper's question, "What do you want, bitch?"

Without waiting for a reply he turned to his three companions gathered around the gaming table. "Look what they sent us on this cold winter night. And unlike the normal cunts we get up her, this one actually looks good. Nice of the boss, isn't it," he chortled. Half-drunken, lusty laughter emanated from the group, but as his hand groped towards Beckett's face, a quick right forearm to the chest sent him stumbling back towards his companion.

"You stupid ass! Get your hands off me! I'm not one of your camp followers, or some wench willing to fuck for money. I have been told you are holding an American woman as a prisoner. I have your Chief's permission to question her…and use any methods I want in the interrogation."

Well, that wasn't quite true. Yes, the chief of this gypsy caravan had been well paid by the CIA to escort Beckett into the Central Carpathian Mountains. With enough money, liquor, and pornographic DVDs his support had been grudgingly given. Still her wagon was the slowest and filthiest in the bunch, always positioned at the rear of the caravan, rolling through piles of horseshit left by the teams in front. And the women all resented her; her looks, her coat, the way she carried herself amidst the others. Part envious, part intrigued, they kept their distance at the direction of the Chief. And as for the men, they'd do her in a minute, and the detective was always on her guard. She once had joked to Castle in her apartment, the one that had been burned up, that she slept with a gun. That was humorous…but here in the Balkans, rife with white slave rings in addition to smuggled guns, liquor, and drugs, a gun for protection, particularly for a foreign woman, was a necessity.

The Glock 19 and several magazines had been removed from the left inner pocket of her great coat her first night in camp. The smaller 23 remained sealed in the right inner pocket. The CIA outfitters in Rome had done a great job assembling her wardrobe on short notice; the guns were hardly discernible in the folds and thickness of the coat. And she had always loved Italian fashion, never so more than now. And these boots! Yeah, the heels were virtually non-existent, unlike her normal footwear in the 12th, but they were certainly appropriate for the terrain and climate, and looked quite fashionable outside the skintight jeans that hugged her long legs.

Having been amidst the gypsy caravan for three days, she wasn't sure which was more dangerous. The leering looks of the men who wanted to fuck her, or the envious glares of the women who wanted to scratch her eyes out and then strip her naked for her clothes. And these were the "friendly" contacts the CIA had in the Romani people. "They were sons-of-bitches, but they were our sons-of-bitches," Beckett rationalized.

Waiting in this shit hole for the Watch Captain to make up his mind as to what to do, she thought back longingly to her time in Melos: the heat, running along the sparkling Aegean beaches at sunrise, the thrill of victory in the arena. But…but…she was now back to being, what did John Candy say in "Stripes," a "lean, mean fightin' machine" and she had a bank balance in the Caymans that would make even Castle stand up and take notice. And thinking of Castle, where was he? Prague, Warsaw…somewhere in Eastern Europe, hopefully far away from this hapless caravan of filth and lust.

Beckett snapped back to the present as the Watch Captain, more careful this time to not get too close to her, replied, "Very well, you're welcome to that cunt…actually killed one of my guards on the road from Iasi last week. Watch her…even shackled she's dangerous…hamstrung two of my watch section yesterday."

Beckett wondered how they had gotten that close to Sophia to be injured, but figured she probably didn't want to know the answer. Instead, she removed her outer coat, but carefully slipped her stiletto into her right jean pocket. But she didn't have to worry about the watch section seeing the knife. Gathered around the gaming table in a game of dice overladen with copious amounts of alcohol they were focused on her close fitting sweater that did little to hide her sensuous curves and taunt breasts way up firm and high. And those long, long legs that seemed to go on forever. You didn't see legs like that on most Balkan women. Short and squat, that was more the norm around here. "Men!"…Beckett inwardly smiled, "What was that Castle use to say about boobs and Santa Claus?"

The cold butt of the Glock 19 in her right hand brought everyone back to reality. The watch section, once fixated on what it would be like to bed this American beauty, recognized the import of the gun. If there was one thing the Romani men appreciated as well as a beautiful woman, it was a handgun in the hands of someone who clearly knew how to use it. Any thoughts of overpowering this woman for a quick romp in the back room were quickly abandoned. "Well maybe later, but not right now," was the consensus of male opinion.

The Watch Captain, raising his game to reflect his responsibilities, gave Beckett the once over. He concluded from her looks and the strength of her arms and legs, evident even with outer garments on, that she could either beat…or fuck…the information she was seeking out of the woman in the next room. He did not care which method she chose. And then when she was done, his watch section could have their way, again, with the prisoner.

Beckett nodded in acknowledgement of the Watch Captain's caution regarding the prisoner. "I know. I've dealt with her before, replied the detective, "But I don't intend on killing her. We want her alive."

"Sorry. I didn't know that," replied the Watch Captain, missing the implication of the word "we," but thinking, "Yeah, right. You think we're going to give up such a delicious piece of ass to you. This is a gypsy camp, not a Hollywood movie set. The old rules still apply."

But he stopped there, thinking it best to maintain reasonably good relations with this bitch. She had probably shared the Chief's bed on the way into the mountains, and a misplaced word or gesture towards her might place at risk his own status within the tribe. "The Chief is so busy he doesn't have time to tell us much. Anyway, have a good time!" he grinned mischievously, "and if you need any help just call out. That cunt knows well the power and glory of the Romani people!" he slurred, grabbing provocatively at his crotch with both hands.

Beckett blanched and turned away, heading towards what apparently was some manner of cellblock. The idea of Sophia Turner, or any woman for that matter, being routinely raped or molested by these pigs turned her stomach. Homicides with an underlying motive of illicit sex were always those she most disliked working in the 12th, and she felt nothing but contempt and visceral hatred for these pigs laughing and joking like it was a holiday outing in Central Park.

But she was not in the 12th, she was on a special op for the CIA, and the job came first. She concealed her sentiments from the Key Man as he unlocked the outer cell door.

"Now you girls just have a good time in there…and save some for us!" he grinned, licking his wine stained lips as he slammed the door shut behind her. Beckett swallowed the bile that had risen in her throat, stood still while her eyes adjusted to the gloom of a cell dimly lit by two sputtering torches. She eased off the safety on the Glock.

A brief stirring to her right brought her into a firing stance. But a prolonged silence followed by a low moan eased her concern and she walked slowly towards the approximate location of the sound. Flickering torchlight finally revealed someone chained up to the damp, moss-encrusted wall. Moving closer, the source appeared to be upright, shrouded in a heavy, vulgar black leather mask, shackled to iron rings on the floor and overhead. Beckett could make out a slender body slowly swaying back and forth. And from beneath the mask, long, almost mahogany colored hair tumbled forth: Sophia Turner!

Beckett put the Glock back on "safe," returned it to her greatcoat and extracted the stiletto, flipping open the blade. Satisfied this was the object of her mission, she slipped the transponder from her left boot. Pushing down on the top, a brief green light indicated its activation. The detective smiled, recalling Castle pushing in the "Panic" app on the cellphone that Sophia had given him, before both Beckett and Castle had been locked in the trunk of an automobile in long term parking at JFK. The detective had derided him at the time for seeking help from his "girlfriend." Now in an ironic twist ("irony" again, one of Castle's favorite words), a transponder, another kind of "Panic" button, had been activated to extract one, if not two of Castle's lovers, past and present, from the remote fastness of the Carpathian Mountains.

Beckett moved quietly in front of the prisoner, careful not to disturb the heavy chains lying coiled at her feet. From the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, the former KGB sleeper agent appeared asleep. As Beckett closed her nemesis, it was apparent that she was nearly naked. Sagging in her restraints, seemingly unconscious in a filthy dungeon, the detective was moved by the portrait before her: long sinewy legs, lithe thighs, hard flanks, flat taught stomach and small, pert breasts, nipples stiff in the cold. No wonder Castle had slept with her! You wouldn't find a body like this anywhere north of the fleshpots in Bucharest. She appeared to be wearing brief shorts and an even briefer halter top that barely covered the ends of her breasts, garb hardly suitable for a damp, cold confinement, but more than suitable for men not much better than animals. Long, narrow bruises visible above her groin and on her thighs and upper arms gave evidence of having been repeatedly beaten by truncheons wielded by her guards.

"May God have mercy on their souls if she ever gets loose," Beckett thought, "for she will surely have none." A wry grin came to the detective's face as she envisioned Sophia Turner forcing her captors to kneel and beg forgiveness before she blew their brains out with an efficient, single shot, execution style, to the back of the head. And Beckett, CIA agent or not, would stand aside, only ensuring she had enough ammunition to finish the job.

As she drew closer to the manacled woman, and seeing further damage across her breasts inflicted by the guards, Beckett reached forward and gently caressed the wounded area. Sophia's eyes few open, an instant fear of more inflicted pain washing across her face. Slowly as she focused in the poor light on who was standing before her, a faint nod of acknowledgement was discernible beneath the embossed leather restraints of her helmet.

"Why Detective Beckett…Kate…isn't it? How good of you to come and see me. Her voice barely above a whisper, she added, "Would you be a dear and fetch me some water…please?"

Beckett nodded her assent, turned, and folding the stiletto back into its handle, walked back to the narrow arch leading from the dungeon. "Guards!" she shouted. Their dice game rudely interrupted, the Key Man sauntered over.

"What do you want now, bitch?"

"Water…for me…I am thirsty."

"Get it yourself," he muttered and lifted the iron bar across the door.

Beckett walked out, went over to a bucket, and ladled out a full amount. Placing it to her lips, she walked slowly back into Sophia's cell as the dice game resumed.

"Sophia…careful…" she whispered as she slowly brought the ladle up to the prisoner's lips, pushing back and finally removing the helmet so the renegade spy could drink. The blood caked on her lips slowly dissolved into the water as Sophia gulped down as much as she could manage. An equal amount spilled down her throat, between her breasts, and down her torso. Scarcely constrained trembling replaced an initial shudder as the liquid coursed down her battered body, the wetness accentuating the cold and dampness of her riverside imprisonment.

The ladle was emptied before Sophia was sated, but the detective refrained from getting more for fear of alerting the guards that their prisoner had regained consciousness. Quietly putting the implement on the ground she gently felt the prisoner's sides, her arms, and the bruised areas above and on her breasts. There were deep cuts and bleeding, but no broken bones or contusions that would seriously impede her mobility. Beckett sighed in relief…but Sophia immediately understood the reason for her concern.

"Want to ensure I'm not too damaged…right?" Sophia hissed. She tried to raise her leg to knee the detective, but the weight and length of chain stopped her thigh half way to its target. She simply didn't have the strength.

Beckett took a step back, withdrew the stiletto from her pocket, and flipped open the blade. Even in chains and manacles this she-bitch was dangerous, as the body count during the Linchpin op had shown. The detective had to remind herself that as helpless as Sophia Turner now looked, she had killed Blakely, McGrath, Gage, and had been moments from executing both her and Castle before the timely return of Agent Danberg.

"Now Kate, no need for weapons. You don't have to be concerned. I cannot hurt you…at least not now. My 'friends' from the gypsy camp have seen to that. And honey, watch them. They don't really care which side you are on…or what they have been paid to do. A beautiful American woman…and yes I include me in that group as well as you…to them we're just delicious pussy offered up by the Gods for their own satisfaction. Watch them Kate, they're dangerous. You don't think I volunteered to get like this, do you?"

Beckett remained silent. Let her go on. Maybe some of the information the detective was looking for would come out in the one-way dialogue.

"Tell me Kate, and I feel we are old friends, having shared a lot together…including, what did the book reviewers call him, the 'ruggedly handsome Rick Castle'…have you ever wondered what it would feel like to be trussed up, nearly naked, in front of a bunch of beasts? How it would feel to have you private parts violated, filthy fingers and equally filthy cocks thrust inside of you, your upper body torn at and beaten at the same time? How it would feel to be humiliated and ridiculed in front of a bunch of people you thought were your friends? Kate, I've had better times."

Beckett suppressed a sympathetic nod. Remember, she reminded herself; this is a dangerous killer, one who attempted to bring down the entire economy and government of the United States. But still…

Turner sensed what she was thinking. "I know, you're standing there thinking, so what, this bitch is an enemy of the State, and I've been sent to kill her. Right? Honey, man up! If you're going to get into this business you have to put personal sentiments and sympathies aside. This is a dirty business…you have neither friends nor enemies…only your own interests to watch out for…to take care of."

"I'll guess you've been told to get as much information about what I'm up to as possible, and when satisfied, kill me…what's that sterile, 'washing our hands like Pontius Pilate before the crucifixion' phrase they use: 'Terminate…with extreme prejudice?' Ah, I can see from the look on your face that I'm right. So...just how much different are you from me? You are, as I have been, a Terminator. Now don't look so distraught! If you're going to play in this game of nations, you've got to better disguise your emotions. Hey…look at me and Castle. I slept with him for almost a year…furnished all the context he need for his Clara Strike character…then broke it off. He had what he wanted, and thanks to his father, so did I. We were done…though I do admit, Castle in bed was something worth keeping…but then you already know that, right?"

At the thought of Castle, try as she might, Beckett failed to suppress a faint smile. Turner didn't miss it.

"There, see, I'm not all bad. And Kate, I promise that if you can get me out of these chains, and give me that knife…what is it?…a stiletto you're carrying…you didn't think I saw it?...I'll kill these guards with my bare hands. And when I'm done, I'll give you that chance you've been waiting for. We can fight to the death…no knives, no guns…just you and me…one on one…and if you win…mission accomplished…an extraction…and the grateful thanks of your nation. Hell, they might even put your name up in that secret hall in Langley they reserve for covert operatives. And if I win? They'll put a gravestone up next to your mother's, and Castle will author the sentiment: 'Katherine Beckett, Beloved Daughter, She Died as She Lived, in Service.' Nice isn't it. That's what he wrote for my better half, Clara Strike."

Beckett moved closer, but remained watchful. Regardless of her current situation, the detective realized this woman was still dangerous, but she had also discerned the truth of her presence here. No use continuing the charade.

"Well, I can see you are as good…or should I say 'bad'… as they say. Yes, I was sent here to find you, but then remember, you asked for me. I'm supposed to determine what it is you are up to, kill you, and then return with the information. But I told the Agency…you know, the agent you betrayed, Martin Danberg, that I was not an assassin…a murderer. If I could I would extract you, and turn you over to them. If you tell me what I need to know, I will do everything in my power to get you out of this hellhole. But Turner, I warn you. You are a murderess, and to boot, someone who has sold their country out. As you told Castle and me before you would have killed us, the United States never was your country…and despite you fluency in the language, I don't think Russia was either. Well, America is my country, and while I might just be a NYPD cop, not a secret agent by trade, I assure you, I will execute the mission they have sent me on, and if need be you. Yes, I have been well paid to kill you, but it is a story for which the ending has yet to be written. So it's your choice, dead…or alive. I don't really care. I consider you a fucking traitor…"

"A story for which the ending has yet to be written. God, I love it Kate. You're fucking him…and now you're talking like him. I bet your daddy is so proud of you!"

"You fucking cunt…don't even bring my father into this" Beckett yelled, and drawing back, delivered a slashing kick to Turner's left side above the waist line of her shorts.

A bitter scream of anger and pain punctuated the damp atmosphere of the dungeon as in response Turner vainly swung her fists at Beckett's face. "Bitch," she screamed, "I would tear your throat out if I could reach you." She screamed again, and began a loud, painful rant, punctuated by the noise of her chains rising and falling. The resultant laughter in the gaming room as the guards paused to imagine what Beckett was doing to their prisoner told Turner the ruse had worked. Now gesturing with her head, she whispered, "Quick, get me another ladle of water." Sensing Beckett's reluctance to play her game, she added, "Come on, you owe me. After all, I was the one that told Maddox not to kill you. Why do you think he just left you hanging on that wall?"