Warning for inappropriate language. I asked the baddies to behave, but bad guys never listen.
Garret whipped his head around to make sure he wasn't being followed. His paranoia getting the best of him as he hurried across the road to a rundown bar with a half-illuminated sign above the entrance that read "Bull's." The bar was silent, or at least in darkness.
He glanced back one more time before hurrying down the steps leading to the back entrance of the establishment. This place was familiar. He had frequented the locale since he was sixteen. His father had been building bridges for him, even from behind bars.
As he entered the large room littered with empty poker tables, he was greeted by a familiar face.
"Bull's looking for you, Garret. He's in the back. He wants to know what took you so long." The statement was more of a warning than an inquiry, and he knew better than to attempt to explain himself.
The dark, barren room seemed too quiet, its tables normally host to a plethora of unsavory gambling types. He made his way toward the back room to a moderately sized office where his dad's subordinate would be waiting. He hesitated at the door. His hands shook as the weight of the 9mm in his beltline filled him with a sense of pride. He had accomplished what no one else could. It had been so easy, so why was he so nervous?
He pushed past the door.
"You were supposed to be here hours ago."
The silence that followed felt more threatening than the words themselves.
"I had business." Garrett braved the waters. He had done what had to be done. His eyes fell to Bull's designer shoes standing firm before him. His own ratty sneakers betrayed his nerves in the unsteady twitch of his feet, ready to bolt for the door to save his own skin.
"The only business you have is the business I give you." Bull wasn't known for raising his voice. He was a man of action, and if you couldn't fill in the blanks before he decided to act. Well, you were shit outta luck.
Deciding that it was in his best interest to be forthcoming, Garrett continued,
"No one else was willing to do it. I followed him from the station. He went to a party. He beat in my dad's head, guaranteed he went back to jail, and then went to a fucking party! When he left, I did too. He went to a graveyard. It was empty, so easy. I just, I shot him." It felt good to let the words out, to tell someone what he had done.
There were no words, only action.
He felt the hard sting of metal crack against his cheek as Bull's knuckles thrashed against his head, the large golden ring adorning the large man's index finger donned for the distinct purpose of breaking skin.
The force of the blow had knocked him to the floor and he felt a warm trickle of blood run down his jaw.
"Your father didn't want him dead. He wanted him out of the way." The statement stung. He had always wondered why Martin hadn't been put underground. Now he had his answer. His dad still cared about his eldest son, even if all he did was try to tear their family apart. "Did you kill him?" The question was met with silence.
This time the strike brought little dancing dots to the corners of his vision and forced the gun at his belt to skid across the carpet.
"You kept the fucking gun?! Did anyone see you?" Bull crouched and picked up the weapon with a plain handkerchief he pulled from his suit pocket.
"No, I didn't think…Nobody saw me. I shot him in the chest. He must be dead," He rambled as he braced for the next hit. It never came.
Garret felt the tension in the room lift and opened his eyes to an empty office. He could hear Bull talking to his muscle by the door.
"Find out if he's dead, and let Nathan know what happened. I want to know what the cops know."
He heard the door slam closed, signaling that he was now alone with the well-dressed second in command.
"You're done here. I'm sending you back to your mother until this shit storm calms down. I'll take care of the rest."
Roger had passed the good news on to those awaiting the call. Trish and the kids planned to stop by when Riggs was out of the ICU, which would only take a day or so. Molly was on her way back, but knowing LA evening traffic, she would be a while.
Roger took advantage of the lull in visitors to pay his partner a visit. The nurse had warned him that Riggs would be sedated. When he walked into the room, however, the quiet vulnerability of the man forever in motion shook him. A sharp inhale dried his throat as his feet fastened to the floor. The whole situation felt wrong.
He forced his legs slowly forwards, his hands grasping the back of a chair close by. He was grateful for the solid metal grounding him in the moment.
For a while, he just stood.
His eyes skirted the outline of his fragile friend, his partner, the man he hadn't protected. The wires running his form were a stark reminder of the damage Roger hadn't prevented.
He felt his body fight to leave the chair and escape the harsh reality before him.
He stepped forward and took a seat beside his partner.
"You shouldn't be here," His tone fell flatly across the quiet humming of the machines, "but you are. Because of me. I wasn't there when you needed me. All the times you were there for me…" Roger studied his interlocking hands, too warm even in the cool room. "I'm so sorry." The words tumbled silently over the quiet and rhythmic beeping accompanying the rise and fall of Riggs' chest.
Roger let out a strangled laugh.
"You know, it's much easier to talk to you like this." The smile disappeared.
Bailey watched the frantic motion of the precinct. The aftermath of the shooting had left its mark on the face of every officer and detective of the LAPD.
She had witnessed the harsh reality the crime scene had carried. The questions that needed asking, the evidence that had to be logged, and the photos to be taken, had allowed her a buffer between the work and remembering whose blood drenched the grass around her shoes.
It was almost harder to be surrounded by these faces, to watch the aggravation, sorrow, or pity that dressed them. Each empty conversation an attempt to ease the mounting frustration. The vacuum created by the missing words consumed every silence.
Bailey felt for the cell in her back pocket. Its presence was comforting, yet did little to quell the desperation for it to interrupt her from her work. She looked to the Captain's office, needing a distraction from combing over the same surveillance videos over and over again, seeing nothing but the monotony of a busy morning in LA.
Avery was sitting at his desk, Rogers desk. She still hadn't gotten used to Murtaugh's promotion. She had become familiar with Avery's leadership and had found the shift in roles unsettling. It wasn't that Murtaugh was undeserving of the position- he was the hardest working cop she knew and had the experience that went with it... but there was an underlying ease that accompanied Avery's leadership, an ease that was mirrored in Murtaugh's role as Detective. Maybe it was the loss of a man she trusted with her life in the field that had forced these feeling to surface.
Avery had remained in place as her mind had wandered, his stare extending past the opposite wall. She could see the concern in his eyes as he held his shoulders square. His facade was delicately held by fragile scaffolding.
"Anything?" Scorsese had a habit of appearing at the most inopportune moments, leaving remnants of unimportant information to roll off unlistening ears. She had never been happier to hear his voice.
"Roger hasn't called yet."
"No, not that. I mean, I was going to ask that as well, but I meant have you found anything in the surveillance footage?"
"No, just the same useless information on a loop," She huffed and tucked a fussy strand of hair back behind her ear.
"If you want fresh eyes, I'm available." Bailey could sense the desperation to feel of use in his tone.
"Scorsese, you're not a detective."
"I know that, but we are all on the same team."
"Knock yourself out." Bailey rolled her chair aside and gestured at the monitor, happy for the company.
She glanced once more to her old captain before settling into the task of finding the bad guy, this time with Scorsese's assistance. She smiled for the first time in what felt like weeks.