Dmitri Rankoff hated flying.
He hated the very idea of being stuck into a metal tube hurtling through the air at roughly 600 miles an hour. He hated feeling every wind gust, every cloud. He hated the sensation of ascending into the air. But traveling from Belarus to Tokyo, it was the only option that made any sense – especially since they were carrying sensitive cargo.
Pushing his way past the first-class cabin – and silently thanking his benefactors for securing a large aircraft – Rankoff smiled when he saw a figure hunched over in one of the seats in the back. Dirty clothes hung loosely off the figure's shoulders, a black bag covering its face. Rusty chains wrapped around the mask to hold it in place.
The closer Rankoff got to the figure, the more he blanched. The smell of body odor and smoke were heavy; his captive hadn't showered in a while, and the last session with the figure's interrogators ended roughly an hour ago.
Rankoff scratched at his stubble before pulling a knife out of the holster on his hip. His associated weren't having much luck, so – as loathe as Rankoff was to get his hands dirty with such mindless fare – this called for a hands-on approach.
He sat in a seat across from the figure with a sigh. The stench was almost gag-worthy at this point, and Rankoff found himself breathing through his mouth just to get through it. He dug the tip of the blade into his fingertip, shallow, just enough so he could feel it without the knife piercing through his skin.
Rankoff's years in America meant his accent wasn't barely noticeable. "I hope you realize what a pain in the ass you've been."
The figure hunched over a little more, breathing ragged. But if Rankoff didn't know any better, he swore he heard the figure chuckle. Rankoff sucked in his cheeks, focusing on his reflection in the blade. They weren't even a minute in, and already, the captured was testing his patience.
This did not bode well.
"You just couldn't let it go." Rankoff shrugged. "Could you? No. You had to keep pushing. Pushing pushing pushing pushing…" He twirled the knife in his hand, nostrils flaring. Rankoff grew angrier with each word he spat out.
"The two of you…" Rankoff snarled. "You insignificant gnats…"
The figure went still. No chuckling, no breathing. Other than the hum of the aircraft's engines, silence filled the cabin. Holstering the knife again, Rankoff released an exasperated chuckle, his lips curling into a sneer as he stood.
"I guess you're not so insignificant." He paced between rows of seats. "I mean…little bugs don't take down people like Simmons or Bracken. Not that they were the sharpest tools in the shed, but still…power and money used to overcome stupidity."
The figure remained motionless and silent.
"Then again, I guess there's something to be said for persistence." Rankoff plopped himself down into the chair across from the figure again, ignoring the stench. "And luck."
Rankoff watched the figure's shoulders hunch again, another chuckle escaping from under the mask. The drug lord clenched his jaw and growled under his breath, his right hand grabbing the handle of the blade.
"Something you'd like to say?"
The figure sat upright again. Hands were clasped together, fingers interlocking. Three fingers on the figure's left hand were swollen, having been broken in recent days. Rankoff studied the figure closely, disconcerted by how calm its breathing was. They weren't acting like a hostage.
"Why am I still alive?" The figure's voice was but a whisper.
Rankoff's frown deepened. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Excuse me?"
Again, the figure whispered. "Why am I still alive? Why not…why not just kill me?"
Rankoff laughed despite himself. "Because killing you would alert others." The drug lord stood again, hovering over the figure. He hastily grabbed the chain around the figure's neck, unraveling it before tossing the rusty links to the floor.
"I don't need people tailing me. Not the CIA. Not the FBI. Certainly not the goddamn NYPD. I keep you alive, I keep you all bound up like this, no one's the wiser." Rankoff crouched in front of the figure. "I need them to think you're dead."
The figure nodded. "They give up hope…they don't come looking for me."
"Exactly."
"Great plan." The figure shrugged. "Just one problem with it."
"And what would that be?"
The figure raised its head, as if to stare right into Rankoff's eyes despite the mask. "You underestimate the people who would be coming for me."
"Underestimate." Rankoff mulled over that word for a few moments before returning to his seat, grabbing the back of the mask, and yanking it off with a growl. The drug lord leaned forward, his face inches from his captive's, close enough to see the weariness and the dread in his eyes.
"I don't think you're in a position to be optimistic, Richard Castle." Rankoff sneered. "You honestly expect me to be scared of…what? Three homicide cops? Your daughter? A police captain who doesn't even particularly like you?"
Castle's expression never wavered. He was acting like a man with nothing left to lose – aside from the three years he'd been in Rankoff's custody. He knew the odds, he understood the reality. But damn it all if Castle wasn't holding out for some glimmer of hope.
That annoyed the hell out of Rankoff.
"Face it, Ricky." Rankoff shrugged his shoulders. "If they were going to come find you, they would've done it long ago. As it is, they've all just…moved on."
Something flickered in Castle's eyes, something Rankoff couldn't place. "You don't know Kate."
"That so?" Rankoff tsk'ed, sitting back in his seat and folding his arms across his chest, the knife still in its holster. "Then why don't you…enlighten me, Mr. Castle?"
The tease of a smile played across Castle's worn features. He wore a week's worth of stubble, and there was a long scar running down the left side of his face. The bags under Castle's eyes were deep.
"She's stubborn. Headstrong. She sets her mind to something, she won't stop til it's done." Castle swallowed hard, allowing himself a moment of sadness before gathering his bearings again. "You think the fact that it's been three years is gonna stop her? I guess you missed the part where she put away her mother's killer more than a decade after the murder."
"Oh, no, I'm aware of that, Mr. Castle." Rankoff stood again. "How could I miss her arresting my employer?"
Castle nodded. "And here I am as retribution."
"You know…you're not as dumb as you look."
Rankoff kneeled down in front of Castle, pulling the knife out of its holster again and waving it in front of the author's face. "If I'm being honest?" Rankoff shrugged again. "It would surprise me if she didn't come for me. But I don't fear Katherine Beckett, Mr. Castle. I admire her."
He chuckled when Castle frowned in confusion. "Please…if my henchman had half the dedication and ruthlessness that she has, there's no limit to what I could accomplish."
Rankoff grabbed Castle's left wrist, a dark grin on his face. "In fact…I want her to come."
Before Castle could react, Rankoff grabbed the ring finger on the author's left hand, swiping the blade across the finger. He watched the finger fall to the floor, relishing in Castle's scream of pain, ignoring the blood splattering onto his hands and the blade.
Rankoff reached down to pick up the finger, waving it in Castle's face.
"Consider this…her invitation."