Close Encounters 14
When the Castle led them got to the far end of the landing strip, Beckett's stomach twisted. His father cast her a wary look, narrowing his eyes.
She'd forgotten. How could she have forgotten?
But Castle - he'd known they were here. He'd let it come to this.
Mitchell had posted a contingency of men at the plane and they ringed it with a determination and steadfastness that she knew from so many missions. The men standing opposite her were her friends, men she'd served with and fought for and who had always had her back.
"Castle," she said, gutted out by the sight.
"We're not going anywhere," Castle answered. "Not with him."
"No," she whispered. "You don't understand-"
"Then fucking explain it to me," he roared.
She stumbled back, her fist releasing his shirt. She opened her mouth but there was nothing to explain - he knew what she was doing, had to do, that they needed the regimen.
"That's what I thought. This ends now."
"Richard-"
"You shut up," Castle growled. He moved out from under the trees to the dirt and gravel of the landing strip, aiming for their rescue squad still a hundred yards off.
Kate stood in the newly-fallen starlight and watched him leave cover, hands up, already calling out his identifying code to the sentries. There had to be another ten guys on the other side of the cargo jet, and a few she didn't see who were sweeping the trees.
"Castle," she hissed. She sensed Black at her side, shifting away, and the hair rose on the back of her neck. "Castle, please."
Even as the soldier stood at ease, weapon pointed to the sky, Beckett missed it when it happened. She hadn't expected it - not this. She should've seen it coming - she'd known there was a plan, that Black was going to move against her the second he got his chance - but not this.
Not this. Never this.
Black lunged for Castle before his son could make it completely clear of the underbrush, tackling him with a force so brutal that Beckett heard the sound of her husband's breath leaving his lungs. She lurched forward in horror, reaching for her weapon and drawing it, but Black had the gun to Castle's guts and an arm around his neck, restricting his throat.
"No," she gasped. "No. What are you doing?"
"Back the fuck off, Beckett," his father growled at her. "I don't want you. I want him."
"You wouldn't kill him," she choked. Would he?
"He's pumped so full of the regimen that I could shoot him in the stomach and it would fucking hurt but it wouldn't kill him. I could get him to my facility before he even went into shock."
"No," she groaned, taking another half-step towards them. "No. Please, don't."
"Move ahead of us," Black snarled. "Move, Beckett. Now. Towards the strike team."
She studied the scene, the soldiers, the weapons, her husband struggling for air, the gun digging in under his ribs. A gut shot. It would be agony but he'd survive...
Only if Black flew him immediately to his own facility. Could Beckett get him medical attention fast enough?
No.
And not only that, Black had more of those stabilizers and probably other elements to the regimen that she didn't even know about. Black had answers to all of this; he was in the unique position of having the regimen entirely under his control - and now this situation as well.
Black knew he could save Castle's life, but Beckett could only get her husband hurt worse.
"Okay," she said slowly. "Okay. Just..."
"Walk ahead of us," Black said, calmer now. "Stay between us and them."
She stepped slowly towards Castle, but Black released the safety on the gun with an audible click. She backed off, circling the two men slowly.
"Keep your weapon in hand, at your thigh," Black said. His voice was steady; he had control of this. He'd always had the power. She was a fool to ever think otherwise.
"Kate," Castle garbled. She gave him a quick, frantic look and saw the way his eyes bulged, his hands gripping Black's neck and clawing. Black knew - must know - the lack of oxygen was worse for him than anyone else. The sedative he'd given his son had made him just weak enough to take down, and restricting his air supply was more damaging to him than a regular man.
And Kate had set everything in motion, Kate had handed him the escape route. And now Black was going to take her husband.
She scanned the soldiers, the plane, the landing strip, but she had nothing. Absolutely no way out of this.
"Walk," Black demanded.
So she began to walk towards the plane.
He couldn't breathe.
He couldn't think; he couldn't breathe. Beckett walked slowly ahead of them with her weapon at her side but the strike team was head of them, waiting and cautious, alert to the new danger but unable to help. Unwilling to raise a gun against them.
He couldn't breathe. His limbs were running to water, his chest tight, and panic was scrabbling hard for a foothold in his ribs. He dug his fingers into his father's arm - his father - but he couldn't find purchase, couldn't rip him away.
He'd been so fucking cocky, so full of the regimen that he'd felt invincible. Shielding Kate from that explosion, lifting the gate, forcing open that old side door - all designed to make him weaker and weaker, to drain what energy he'd built up in the two hour rest he'd gotten before he'd been awakened.
He couldn't breathe. His father - his father was - he couldn't breathe and the feeling of drowning rose up in him again, hard and fast and tight, making his limbs mushy and inoperable.
"Stand up," his father growled. "I could fucking shoot her and no one would save her. You understand me?"
He groaned through it, tried to straighten up, clawing for air. His father was giving him just enough for a gasp before choking him again, and in moments they would be nearing the plane. The squad of guys had circled them, weapons pointed equally at Beckett and himself and Black, but Black wouldn't let her put down her gun. It was making his team all nervous, which he saw was Black's intent, and more than one of the guys yelled at Beckett to put the fucking gun down!
He shook with the effort of staying conscious, of sucking greedily for air, but his father jerked him towards the side door of the plane, low to the ground. It would take an effort to haul himself up, and maybe he could stall or something, anything, maybe he could suck in enough air to make his body start working right again, but the sedative was eating away at him, dragging him into blackness.
"Don't even think it," his father snarled. And Castle knew that all Black had to do was train the gun on Beckett and he'd do anything his father told him to.
Fuck. He couldn't breathe.
"Black," she called. "Black, let him go. Just-"
"Quiet," his father roared. The soldier nearest to them backed off, gun swinging now to Black, and Castle met the man's eyes, pleaded with him to just do it. Take the shot. Take the shot.
"Black-"
"Beckett, shut your mouth and head for the door. Once you're inside, lower the cargo ramp and jump out."
"No," she said, a tremulous note to her voice that Castle thought only he could hear. And he was so damn proud of her in that moment, that his knees went weak with relief. She wouldn't let-
"You do it, or his guts are all over your shoes."
She did it.
Castle groaned, renewed his efforts to rip out of his father's hold on him, but he just couldn't get air. Black spots bloomed before his vision, blinding him to Beckett as she crawled up onto the wing and towards the side door. She'd have to heave on the outside latches to get it open - it might be impossible for her to get leverage-
No, of course not. She was Beckett; his life was on the line and so she managed it.
"Now, inside," Black yelled. "Lower the cargo ramp. You've got fifteen seconds."
Castle wheezed and felt the earth sucking him down but his father loosened his grip and he sucked desperately at air, drawing it down, his own breathing so harsh, choking, that he missed what happened next. He heard the ramp for the back end of the plane coming down and then he was being yanked towards it, but something else had happened, someone had happened, and he felt the sweat on Black's body pressing into his, staining him, acrid and tense.
His vision was dark, deprived of oxygen; his lips wouldn't work right.
"Stay back," Black ordered. "Beckett, get out there. Get down."
Beckett walked down the ramp towards them - Castle could make out the form of her as the darkness shifted around in his eyes. But her eyes moved past him and over his shoulder, widening in horror. She flew down the ramp, shouting, and she pushed right past him and Black, and she shoved herself in front of them.
"No," she shouted. "No, stop. Stop it. You can't."
Mitchell, Castle saw, struggling to break his father's hold on his neck. He kept pitching off the ramp and his father would drag him back, but Mitchell. Mitch would save her, Mitch would make it okay.
"Can't let him do this, Kate."
"You don't understand," she pleaded. "Don't. He'll shoot Castle."
"And then I'll shoot him."
"Castle will die."
"Not quickly though," Black yelled to them, still dragging Castle back.
"I'll take my chances," Mitch yelled. Good ole' Mitch; he'd do it too. He'd fucking shoot Black and it would be over.
"No," Kate yelled, putting herself in front of Black. "No, no, it will kill Castle. It will kill him."
"You don't know that," Mitch said grimly.
Above his head, Black strangled Castle tighter. "And then my next shot goes straight for Beckett's head."
"No," he wheezed. But at that moment, Castle felt the grip on his neck shift. A fraction, a misstep was all, and Castle took it, gun be damned. This was the only chance he was going to get, gut shot or not.
Because Castle knew - he was certain - that the moment they got on that plane, Black was going to shoot Beckett anyway.
So Castle slammed his head back into his father's face, felt the groan and crunch of bone colliding. He grunted and fell to his knees even as the gunshot sounded, felt the burn and blade of the bullet through him. Another gunshot and Beckett screamed, someone yelled her name, Kate, the pounding of boots on the cargo ramp, the hot and wet pain that drenched him.
"Kate," he moaned, the black night swallowing him.
When Beckett turned at the gunshot, horror choking her throat, she saw Black had thrown Castle over his shoulder and was dragging him towards the cargo hold of the plane.
"No!" She lurched backward, knew she was getting in the way of Mitchell's shot, but she threw herself at Black. His weapon came up and Mitch screamed her name.
Rabid frustration clawed in her chest and she lashed out with one foot, swept Black behind the knees to knock him off balance. She fell into a crouch under his gun and felt the bullet passing just over her head.
Black didn't fall, but Castle's weight off-balanced him as Black tried to get him inside the plane. Castle pitched towards the ramp and Beckett lunged for her husband, catching him against her before his head could hit the metal. Black roared and brought his gun to bear on her, but Kate had Castle up against her chest, trying to drag him down the ramp.
Black aimed. There was a terrible hesitation - time clicking into place - and she saw, burning and desperate, the very instant Black decided to take the shot.
He was going to shoot.
"No!"
"Shut up," Black snarled at her and braced himself in the doorway, finger at the trigger. Kate cursed and torqued violently to her right, pitching herself and Castle off the side of the ramp and to the ground five feet below. Her shoulder hit the gravel landing strip first, her head bouncing, and she moaned, her vision going black, swallowing her, Castle heavy across her body.
She heard the violence, felt it in the ground, the very air, the scream and claw of two forces, and she struggled to rise, to save him, to move.
Castle was unconscious over her and she had to scramble out from under him, but as she did, she realized the cargo ramp was closing, the thin crack of darkness as it sealed, and Mitchell was running towards her. The plane's engines were starting, the piercing whine was the scream she kept hearing in her ears, and her arms were filled with him.
Castle.
She hurriedly ran her hands over his body, diving under his shirt, scraping through his scalp, stretching to reach his hips and thighs, her eyes barely able to see him in the red lights of the plane. It was beginning to turn, to aim for escape, but she couldn't care.
"You're okay, you're okay, you're not shot," she heard herself saying, again and again. And she had to wonder how long she'd been saying it.
"What the hell was that?" Mitchell screamed at her. He had his weapon towards the plane, his other men were shooting, and she couldn't see anything in the darkness.
She cradled Castle's head against her, her fingers gripping his jaw as she leaned over him, her ear to his lips. He was breathing, his heart was steadily thumping against her palm; he had just finally succumbed to the combination of sedatives and regimen.
But he was alive.
The plane was rumbling down the runway, and she didn't even care.
"Beckett. What the hell. Tell me what the hell we're doing here. What are we doing? What is your damn plan?"
She lifted her head, everything shimmering and vibrating with exhaustion in the darkness, and she saw, faintly, the outline of their friend in the night.
"Let him go, let him fly," she croaked.
"What?"
"He's tracked - tracking - Castle injected him. Ask Malone."
Mitchell cursed and shouted a cease and desist to his team even as he pulled out his phone. She curled around Castle and couldn't help running her hands over him again, just to be sure.
He hadn't been shot.
His father hadn't shot him.
"We got four wounded," Mitchell yelled over the noise of the engine. "Four. What the fuck was that?"
She couldn't find her voice for answer, could only stroke her fingers over the rough weave of Castle's thermal shirt, her own heart not quite steady yet.
"You're okay, you're okay," she chanted over him. "You're not shot."
He was heavy in his unconsciousness, but she wouldn't dare move him.
"Beckett. Snap out of it." Mitchell leaned in over her and grabbed her by the shoulder, jerking her attention towards him. "Were you shot? You're bleeding."
"No," she croaked. "Not fresh."
"It is fresh. What happened here? What is this? What the hell is going on? Why did Castle not even do anything?"
"Couldn't," she rasped, feeling her relief choking her. "Help me get him up. Black pumped him full of sedatives and the injections and... help me, Mitch."
"Fuck," Mitchell growled. "All right. Come on. This whole thing went to shit, so what the hell, might as well ignore all safety protocol and carry his sorry ass out of here."
She knew he was just spouting off because he'd been as afraid as she'd been. Mitchell slung his weapon over his back and leaned down, hauled Castle up with a shoulder under his armpit. Kate felt bereft, unanchored without her husband's weight, and suddenly the plane reached the end of the runway and lifted, effortlessly, into the black night.
All she could see of it were those red lights.
Mitchell grunted under Castle's weight, touched a hand to the IFB in his ear. "Malone says the signal is strong. He's tracking the bastard."
At least there was that.
Castle might never forgive her for this - for helping Black escape - but at least they were tracking him.
When the strong arm reached past Mitchell and helped Kate haul Castle upright, Beckett was so startled she nearly dropped her husband.
It was Esposito, and he was half-carrying Castle towards the jeep they'd appropriated, grunting at her to keep up, Beckett.
She scrambled to do so, her arm around Castle's waist as her various wounds began to throb. Her neck burned at the raw places, her ear was hot with pain, and she could hardly bear to have her shoulder move.
"This guy's heavy," Esposito grunted. He and Mitch slung Castle into the backseat, and Espo nudged her in beside him; she fell over Castle's legs even as she tried to clamber inside. Esposito gave her a dirty look and hefted her over the open side of the jeep, arranged Castle's legs inside as well.
"He's going to be unconscious for a little while," she admitted. "We need a place to..."
"We've got a command center set up, even have the electricity running again."
"The mercenaries that were with Black-"
"Accounted for."
She let out a relieved breath, but she couldn't let herself relax, not yet. She didn't know what came next and Castle was still unconscious; she knew he'd been pushing himself too hard, that his body was in a vulnerable place with the regimen working inside him to rebuild his systems. He'd told her he needed at least four hours to recover, and he'd had maybe two.
She gripped the front of his shirt to steady him as the jeep careened around a corner and over a jagged place in the dirt path. His head rolled and she reached out to pull him against her, keeping him safe.
While he'd let her, anyway.
Castle woke in silence on the outskirts of activity, the hum of efficiency somewhere far off, the darkness around him soothing for all its removal from the action. He shifted in the bed and felt the light touch of covers, the curious lack of weight.
He took a breath and it hit him - everything.
Castle jerked upright on an unvoiced no, but the darkness was quiet and respectful, the darkness was trying to soothe him.
He turned blindly to get out of bed and his feet hit the floor sooner than he'd expected; the frame rocked and trembled and he realized it was an army cot, and that meant he was still on the island listening station.
Or in his panic room downstairs.
With his luck, probably the damn island.
Castle groaned and rubbed his hand down his face, but he felt good. Even as he thought that, he got to his feet and moved without caution towards where he expected the door, found the wall with a hand, brushed his fingers over the switch.
The light came on and everything was illuminated.
The army cot he'd woken up on was pulled up beside a second, and on the thin mattress was his wife, asleep on her side. The light hadn't even woken her. She was pale, bruises flaring darkly under her skin, her body so thin under the blanket that she barely took up any space at all.
He feasted with his eyes for as long as he could stand it, and then he turned the light off once more.
The afterimage remained, but he slid through the room without sight, carefully navigating his way back towards the army cot and her side, pushed the bed until it bumped up against hers, right there, close. He eased back down and reached out for her, found her bony shoulder, the edge of a bandage taped to her skin below the scoop of her black t-shirt.
He pulled her into him and closed his eyes, pushed everything else away, ignored it, kept it out there with the busy center of the operational effort, kept himself and Kate here, on the outskirts with the silence.
She breathed in and out in the quiet, her ribs expanding under his arm, her heart safe under his hand. He nudged his nose into the warm skin at the nape of her neck and slid his thigh between her knees.
Everything else could wait. She was at peace and she was alive, and soon enough the rest of it would crash down on him.
He stayed as long as he could, but when the outside world crowded in and reminded him he had duties and responsibilities, reminded him that they were here because of what she'd done, Castle reluctantly withdrew.
He tugged the too-thin blanket up over her, close at her neck the way she liked it, and then he cracked open the door and slipped outside.
His furious and grief-stricken anger came back to him in the hallway, and he strode down the blank stone corridor towards the hub of activity just beyond. He found Esposito standing at attention right at the juncture of the two halls, and the man gave him a grudging half-salute.
"Esposito," he acknowledged. "Good to see you."
"Agent Mitchell is just in there," Espo pointed out, cocking a finger towards an open door down the hall. "Beckett still passed out?"
"Passed out?"
"Asleep."
"Yes," he answered. He realized he was looking back down the way he'd come and that he'd started rubbing his thumb over the creased scar at his palm. New, pink, and raw enough to sting. The place where he'd caught the blade.
"Good."
Castle glanced back to Esposito and saw the pride on the man's face, realized Esposito had a hand in that. "You got her bandaged up?"
"Made her let the medic look at her while we dropped you in a bed down there. Let you sleep it off."
"Esposito," he said, reaching out to grip the man's arm. "Thank you."
"Whatever man," he said, shrugging him off.
He dropped it and moved down to what had been the server room, confident that Esposito would look out for Beckett as he stood guard in the hallway. Inside the room, he found Mitchell and Monares working over a laptop, Monares wide fingers surprisingly adept as he pushed a cord into the side.
"Mitch."
His friend glanced up, gave him a short nod. "Glad to see you awake."
"What's going on?"
"Doing some clean up, seeing what Black might have left lying around, and tracking him in that plane."
"Tracking... How'd he get off the damn island?"
"Shit went down, Castle. You were unconscious. Beckett got you, and Black got on the plane."
"And then? You let him go? Just... fly off. No attempt to-"
"Castle, shut the hell up, would you? You don't get to pass judgment on my operational decisions when you're the one who ditched the plan in the first place."
He shut the hell up and swallowed the rest of his ire because Mitchell wasn't the one he was pissed at. "All right. Fine. What are we doing to track him?"
"Nothing to do," Mitchell said. "All right here on the screen. Monares has it covered. But you know what you can do? Talk to Reynolds."
Castle startled. "Reynolds is alive?"
"Yeah, man. We found him closed up in a room back there. Beat up pretty bad, but alive. He's kinda miserable, but I think most of that is shame. You knew him, right, before he came out here? Think he could use a friend."
"I knew him, yeah. I'll talk to him." Castle sighed and rubbed at the scar in his palm, the way it seemed alive with electricity, an awareness in it that he didn't like. "I'll talk to him while Beckett's still out. Not sure when she last had sleep."
"She looked pretty rough, but the medic said it's just bruised ribs and those stitches."
"Stitches."
"On her shoulder. The bullet that grazed her ear - medic said that would heal so long as she keeps it clean."
"Ah. Right." Castle rubbed the scar harder to feel the give of his skin and the resistance of pain. "Actually, I'll go check on Beckett first and then-"
"No," Mitch said, blocking him with a hand to his chest. "No. Go talk to Reynolds."
He was right. He was right. Enough with Beckett for now. He'd only be tempted to wake her up and yell at her.
"Where's Reynolds now," he sighed.
Castle leaned in over the bed with his elbows on his thighs and his hands dangling down, helpless, as he watched Reynolds breathing through the mask. Every release of the kid's chest seemed like it would be his last, but his lungs expanded again each time.
"Shit, Reynolds," he sighed.
The kid blinked dully, but a finger lifted from the bed, the pulse-ox weighing down the digit so much that it collapsed back to the blanket. He was outfitted with the best they had at the island, and it was good enough for now, but Reynolds looked beaten half to death. Black eyes, purple splotches on his neck and face, his hands swollen, half his fingers broken.
"Shit," Castle grunted, hung his head. "So sorry, man. Fuck, I am so sorry. What he did to you."
A growling noise came from the bed, and then the words from a bruised and scraped-raw throat. "Not you. Me. Let him out."
"Fuck."
"Told me. You warned me."
"God damn it, I want to fucking murder him."
"My own fault," Reynolds croaked. He looked ready to cry and fuck that would set Castle off; he'd be done if Reynolds actually cried. Lanky kid, blonde hair, freckles, those blue eyes and that cocky grin - all of that mottled and messed up, his career completely fucked by one mistake.
Trusting his former boss.
"You let him out?" Castle asked.
"He... was convincing. Take it back. Take it all back." His words were whispers, ragged through what remained of his throat.
Reynolds had screamed. Reynolds had been tortured for something - the broken fingers and the bruising and the beat-in face. What was left of his voice was witness to some kind of horror, and the idea that his father had done this to the man, or let his fucking mercenaries do it, was enough to make Castle sick.
"Did he get it?" Reynolds coughed. His hand came up to his throat as if he felt phantom fingers, but Castle jerked to attention and helped the kid, eased him upright.
"Breathe, kid. Shit. Don't worry about it. Just breathe."
"He got it? How'd he get in?"
"Get what? Got in to where?" Castle said, keeping his hand at Reynolds's shoulder to support him. Michael, that was his first name. Michael Reynolds. He'd been on Eastman's crew out of New York back when he'd first been training. In fact, Reynolds had been one of the guys sitting on Beckett's apartment when Castle had first met her.
"Got in," Reynolds sighed, slumping back down to the army cot. He closed his eyes and his breathing evened out again, like he might fall asleep. But he spoke again. "To the weapons."
"No. He didn't get into the weapons room. He brought his own, kid."
"Not this one," Reynolds groaned. "Not this. I'm the only one with the combination. Only one can get it."
"Get what, Michael?" he said quietly, but the kid had opened his eyes and was staring at the ceiling, breathing faster, looking agitated.
"He didn't get it, did he? Did he get it?"
"I don't know what you're talking about, kid," he said. He stood over Reynolds and checked the monitor, but no alarms were going off and it was just a breathing mask and an IV for pain. The pulse-ox was as normal as it could be, heart rate a little elevated but nothing wrong. "Michael, come on. Calm down."
"Head hurts."
"I'm sure it does. You got a bitchin' black eye. Two of 'em."
He dropped back to his seat and watched Reynolds breathe, the labor of it, and he wondered if this was how it looked to Beckett when Castle had been drowning in pneumonia. Worse probably. Whenever Reynolds seemed to falter, when his breath hitched, Castle found himself rigid and hands fisted on his thighs, waiting until the kid kept going.
"Hey, Reynolds. Remember when you first started? My partner Eastman had you sitting surveillance duty on my wife's apartment. Kate Beckett. Wasn't my wife then, but you know what I mean."
"Surveillance," he said. His eyes were open again, his head turned slowly to look at Castle. "Shit, that was Beckett."
"Yeah," he grinned back. "Small world, huh?"
"She was hot. Is hot. Fuck, I watched her-" Reynolds cut off, and Castle could swear his cheeks were pink under all those black bruises.
"You watched her...?" Castle prompted, raising both eyebrows.
"Already got beat up once this week. Don't need it again - keeping my mouth shut."
Castle laughed and shook his head, reached out carefully to lay his hand on Reynolds's shoulder. "You heal up, you come find me, Michael. All right? I'll take care of this."
"He didn't get it, did he?" Reynolds said again. "I didn't tell him the combination."
"He didn't get it," Castle said, but he had no idea what the kid was talking about. Didn't tell Black what?
"Good," Reynolds sighed. His eyelids dropped and he was falling off the cliff of awareness.
Castle sat there for a long time, elbows on his knees, and tried to reconcile himself to what his father had done - all for his son, to reclaim his son's rightful place as the CIA's unbeatable machine.
