A/N: Once again thank you all for the 'follows' and 'favorites' and reviews. I have been overwhelmed by your responses to this story. I hope I have managed to respond to everyone who left a review. If I haven't, it was purely unintentional and I thank you very much for taking the time to leave a comment. Guests, I would reply individually if I could.

Chapter 9 – Search and Rescue

He was dozing when Niska and his cohort came for him. Castle opened his eyes and forced a cheeky grin onto his face as Meathead bent down to pick him up. Castle didn't know his real name but he decided anyone who had a tattoo across his forehead was clearly lacking a little something in the cerebral department. "Oh I was beginning to think you'd forgotten me." Meathead didn't respond as he didn't understand a word that Rick said but Niska grinned. "So what are we playing today?" He grimaced as he was hauled to his feet. He glanced at the three black lines. "We've already done baseball and … boxing and … er … oh swimming … that was fun! " Rick had to grit his teeth as pain flared through his ribs. He suspected that at least two were cracked now and his chest ached having spent half of the night coughing up water from his lungs after the previous day's session. "Pity that the pool wasn't bigger."

Niska laughed out loud. "You big fun!"

They dragged him down the passageway towards the hatch that led to the hold. Rick didn't think he could take another day let alone another thirteen but despite his size he was no match for the other two men. Besides, on his daily trips to the hold, he had spotted other men even uglier than Meathead armed with AK47s. They dragged him and dumped him on the floor. Meathead left, locking the door behind him. Niska walked over to the far wall and picked something up. He sauntered towards Rick.

"Today we play bandy."

"Bandy huh?" Rick was breathing heavily trying to control the pain in his chest. He struggled to his knees. "Don't think … I know … that one."

Niska circled him like a vulture. "You not know bandy? Russian national sport. Two halves. Forty five minutes each. Eleven men on a team. Like football only on ice with sticks and small ball. "

"Small ball? Figures! … Sort of ice hockey soccer?" Rick tried not to eye the stick that Niska was weighing in his hands. "That's cool. I like ice hockey … soccer not so much … it's for girls. Bet you like soccer."

Niska laughed again. "You try to annoy Niska. Get Niska angry. Perhaps you think I will kill you quicker." It was then that Niska made another two mistakes. His first mistake had been that he hadn't bothered to tie Rick's hands thinking that the man was already beaten. His next was that he bent down beside Rick and whispered into his ear. "You are more fun than I thought. I like you so I am going to keep you alive for the whole trip ... and perhaps for my next trip I will bring your daughter. I bet she is fun too." That was his last mistake.

Something inside Rick snapped. His pain turned to rage and his rage to adrenalin. Curling in on himself he let out a moan of frustration. Niska misinterpreted it as a cry of despair and he remained where he was gloating. He was totally unprepared when Castle's fist connected with his groin. He screamed in pain and dropped the bandy stick. Doubling over to grasp his crotch gave Rick the perfect opportunity to deck him with an upper cut to the jaw that sent him sprawling. Rick forced himself to his feet and took a couple of wobbly steps. He bent down and picked up the bandy stick weighing it in his hands. "Yeah just like ice hockey. I like ice hockey." He turned around to where Niska was rolling on the floor in agony. "No-one and I mean no-one threatens my daughter!" And he swung the stick.

Rick slid down the wall, the adrenalin rush gone. His energy was waning fast from the beatings and the lack of food. He needed a plan. He had already wasted too much time dwelling in self-pity. He needed to protect his daughter and he needed to make things right. He had created this mess and he was going to fix it come hell or high-water. He tried to clear his head. What would Derrick Storm do? He's on a ship probably in the middle of the Atlantic. Radio. Okay. He had to locate the radio. He rested for a minute looking at Niska who was no longer moving. He didn't bother to check whether he was dead or not. He didn't care. As he got his breathing under control and his heart-rate down to something approaching near normal, he dragged himself to his feet once more. Clutching his ribs he took a couple of steps towards the hatch when a screeching of metal against metal announced that someone was opening it. Rick's steps faltered as Meathead stepped in and he wasn't alone. Two other men, bigger and uglier than Meathead stepped through the hatch. They both had AK47s.

Rick grimaced. "Oh that is so not fair."

Meathead glared at him with hatred on his face and uttered something in Russian. The man on his right lifted his weapon. Richard Castle straightened himself to his full height. His last conscious thought was for his daughter and how he had failed her. "Alexis. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." When the blast came it was bigger and brighter than he expected and strangely there was no pain. He thought there'd be more pain but there was nothing other than a pressure in his head, a ringing in his ears and a blinding light. He had the sensation that he was falling. Then nothing.

.

Someone was calling his name and tapping his face. Rick forced his eyes open and blinked trying to bring them into focus. Two faces swam before his eyes and a cacophony of sound assaulted his eardrums making his already aching head pound. Slowly his vision resolved itself and he found himself face to face with what he could only describe as … devils. Their blackened faces glowed orange and red in the heat from the fires. Reflections of flames danced in their eyes. The first of them had a pixie-like look with a shock of spiky red hair. He grinned. "Welcome back!"

Rick gulped. "Back?" he stammered. "You mean I've been here before?" The pixie like creature looked surprised. "And to think, I didn't believe in reincarnation."

"He gonna make it Spike?" A third face appeared peering down at him. It too had a blackened face though its skin was much darker than the others and he appeared to be in charge.

The pixie nodded. "Yes Sir, he's a bit banged up but nothing we can't fix."

The third devil nodded. "Good." He then noticed something and called out. "Demon get that fire put out."

Rick groaned. "Oh God! I'm in that special hell."

The other devil who looked as though his face had been flattened with an iron looked worried. "Spike, are you sure he's all right?"

The red-headed devil called Spike smiled. "Don't worry Blowfish, he's just a little disoriented from the flash-bangs. Give him a couple of minutes." He nodded encouragingly at Rick. "You know, it's a real pleasure to meet you Sir. I've read all your books."

Rick was confused. "They have my books in hell?"

Blowfish stared at him open-mouthed clearly thinking he had lost his mind when they were interrupted once more. Digger touched his throat-mike. "Wolf, Minefield, report." Castle didn't hear a reply but somewhere a loud explosion rumbled in the depths making the metal floor beneath him vibrate. This was followed by several short staccato bursts of gunfire "Goddamit! Minefield! I told you not to blow anything up." Blowfish and Spike exchanged glances that said they clearly thought this was like asking the Pope not to say grace at meals.

Something was not quite right.

Castle struggled to sit up with Blowfish giving him a hand. He looked around surprised to find himself still in the hold. Behind him a man dressed all in black with a rifle slung over his back was struggling with a fire extinguisher attempting to extinguish the flames that engulfed the flat screen TV and the wooden table. Rick felt the acrid smoke tickle the back of his throat. A cold blast of salty air brushed his face. Looking up he could see the cargo doors were now partially open and four ropes were swinging gently back and forth. At the far side of the room, Niska, Meathead and his cohorts were all lined up flat on their faces, their hands zip-tied behind their backs while the commander paced back and forth keeping an eye on them and having a one-sided conversation with someone called Minefield.

Blowfish remained kneeling beside Rick with a hand on his back worried that his charge was about to keel over while Spike was digging in a bag with gloved hands. He came out with a small packet. He ripped off the wrapper nodding reassuringly at Rick. "Morphine patch – it'll take the edge off."

Rick looked at his two companions and began to laugh though it turned into a wince as his ribs objected at the movement. Their camouflaged faces registered concern. "I know who you are," he muttered gritting his teeth against the pain. "Yurr' the gorramn cavalry."

Spike nodded smiling happily that his patient seemed to be recovering his senses. "That's us. Seal Team Nine at your service Sir." He applied the patch to Rick's skin. "It'll kick in in a minute. Think you can stand."

Rick grimaced. "If it means getting outta here … hell yeah!"

.

The morphine patch did the trick. The transfer to the helicopter was exhilarating. Rick stored the sensations away intending them for a future novel. Future. Four days ago he thought he didn't have one, that his life had come to an end. Rick had thought that he was about to be killed and that there was nothing he could do but Noronov had made a huge mistake in letting Niska take his time because it had left Rick Castle with a lot of time to think and in doing so Grigori Noronov had unwittingly given him a reason to live.

.