Notes: I've never been to Sultan, WA but the pictures sure look nice. I'm sure there are mistakes. Everything I know I learned from Google. Which just reinforces what I've always suspected, Google is creepy.
Warnings: Same ol', same ol'. Language, evil cliffhangers, Monroe's heldover Christmas sweaters which, I dunno, do they need a warning of their own?
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Air support it turned out was a euphemism for a tiny white and yellow thing that looked like it should have been flying supplies into some remote Alaskan outpost. "Um, I'm all for getting there as quickly as possible but I don't think we're going to fit in that." He'd been in planes before. Large passenger planes with plenty of head room and bathrooms and head room. Did he mention head room?
"Of course we'll fit," Hank said but he looked dubious to Monroe's eye.
They met their pilot, a compact man who was closer to Nick's height than either of theirs, clean-shaven, blue-eyed, and reassuringly middle aged. He promised they would indeed fit. And so would their gear, which consisted of a heavy, military style duffle Hank had heaved out of his car trunk. It clanked every time he moved it and Monroe was getting the heavy scent of gun oil off it.
"Cessna 172 Skyhawk." He gave the blue and white paint job a loving pat. "Still one of the most sought after aircraft for training because of their reliability."
Monroe's brain coughed up an interesting fact. "The world's longest continuous airplane flight occurred in a Cessna 172. Almost sixty-five straight days."
The pilot gave him a pleased look. "They still have the plane hanging in the McCarran Airport down in Vegas."
"I saw it once when I was passing through," Monroe explained.
Hank made a strangled noise. "You went to Vegas." He looked Monroe up and down.
"What?" Monroe gazed down at the plaid flannel jacket and the seasonal sweater he was holding out on putting away on the excuse that it was still technically winter. "I went to a conference." And cleaned up at a backroom game of Texas Holdem but he wasn't going to bring that up. There were advantages to being able to hear the other player's heartbeats and smell their anxiety. Also, it turned out four out of five horologists were bad at poker.
"Heard about your partner," the pilot said as they strapped in. "That's tough."
"We're going to get him back," Hank stated.
The man nodded. "Damn right." He spent some time flipping switches and talking into his headset in secret pilot code then glanced back at Monroe who had been relegated to the back seat. "You set back there, detective?"
No. Hell no. He was going to die in this tiny, tiny airplane because he hadn't eaten the Grimm when he'd had the chance and now his life had turned into one of those overblown murder mystery shows where someone died every week and you started to wonder why there wasn't some kind of government warning on the Welcome sign at the city limits. Or at least a listing of the per capita murder rate.
Not that he watched those types of things except those three times when he couldn't sleep and it was either that or that infomercial with George Forman telling him how delicious and healthy meat could be. Not really a big help on long nights when he was reconsidering his lifestyle choices for the hundredth time.
On the bright side if he died in a flaming ball of wreckage he wouldn't have to see Juliette's face if they came back without Nick.
Wrestling on the headset he'd been given he said, "I'm not a detective."
"Monroe is a consultant with the department," Hank explained over his own headset.
They were taxying, lining up with the long stretch of pavement that Monroe had only ever seen out the side window of a commercial jet prior to this. "Oh yeah, what kind of consultant?" And then they were shooting down the runway and should the man their lives depended on really be making small talk at this moment?
Hank glanced over his shoulder at Monroe. "He's, um, hostage negotiations."
Monroe was too busy gripping the sides of his seat to do more than shoot him a glare. Hank smirked and turned back to the pilot. "Where are we landing?"
"There's an airport in Sultan. It isn't a big airport per se but this sweet lady can handle it."
"Have you ever been there?" he asked the pilot. It had been years since he'd had been this far up in Washington. He couldn't recall ever having been to a town named Sultan.
"Once." He looked out at the blue sky and sighed reminiscently. "Woman I dated came from up there. They throw a heck of a party in the summer."
The town turned out to be much bigger than Monroe had expected. The airport was much, much smaller. "Is that grass? Their runway is grass?"
The pilot tipped his sunglasses down and looked over them at the small, grass rectangle lined—literally lined—on all four sides by towering pine trees (Monroe had the hysterical thought that this is what would happen if Paul Bunyan took a long swipe with his giant axe). Pushing the glasses back up he nodded, "Yep, that's grass alright." More seriously he added, "Relax this model is made for this."
The only thing that kept Monroe from freaking out right there was that their pilot didn't have a whiff of fear to him. Hank did though, which made Monroe vindictively happy in a way that was probably bad news for his karma. Hostage negotiator my ass.
"How fast can you be refueled and back in the air?" Hank asked the pilot as he pulled out the baggage.
Monroe wandered a few feet away enjoying the chill, pine-scented air and being alive.
"Depends on how strong their pump is." He hauled Hank's bag out. "You want me to head back up."
"I want you over that house," Hank told him. He hitched the duffle bag over his shoulder.
The pilot grinned. "Send me the coordinates."
A Snohomish County Sheriff's Department vehicle was parked at the end of the taxiway, brown clad deputy leaning casually against the door. He stubbed out a cigarette as they approached and swung around to open the back of the SUV. "You must be Detectives Griffin and Monroe," he said, holding out a hand. "Deputy Mitchim but you can call me Mitch."
"Hank," Hank offered as Monroe said, "Just Monroe. Not a detective."
"Monroe's a consultant with the department," Hank explained, "and a friend of Detective Burkhardt."
Mitchim gave Monroe a second look. "Oh yeah, what kind of consultant?" He was a big man who'd lost most of his hair in his forty-plus years and shaved off the rest. Tall and broad in the shoulders, but he moved like he could handle himself.
Hank gave Monroe a truly devilish smirk before turning back to Mitchim. "He's the department psychic."
Monroe glared at the back of Hank's head. When Hank turned to put his duffle into the truck he glared harder and mouthed psychic!
Hank shrugged and walked around to get into the front passenger seat. "What? It's a good story."
"I think I liked hostage negotiator better," Monroe muttered. He got in the back and yanked the seatbelt on.
They headed off the hill where the airport was located. Monroe looked out the window only half listening to Hank and Mitchim make small talk. He could just see flat, gray water beneath a long line of early morning fog that followed the long curve of the river edging one side of the city.
"You guys need anything before we head out?" Mitchim asked. "Coffee, soda, bathroom, food."
They both declined. Monroe had packed a few muffins and brought his thermos along for the plane ride. And right now his stomach had so many knots he didn't think he'd be able to eat even if he were hungry.
"It's about half an hour to the lake." Mitchim reached over and flipped on the flashing lights. "I think we can make it in twenty. Sheriff's got a rendezvous point set up about five miles from the house where Capra is holed up."
"The Captain couldn't tell us much," Hank said. "He said someone in town identified Capra at the mechanic."
"Local gas station," Mitchim corrected. "Guy stopped in with a leaky radiator. He's been there a few times in the past couple years. Lester recognized him right away."
"After a couple visits? Months apart?" Hank asked doubtfully.
"Guy tried sweet talking Lester's daughter when she worked the counter," Mitchim said with a grin. "You can imagine that Lester wasn't real happy with the guy. She's off at college now. Oregon State. Going into Mechanical Engineering."
"He didn't touch her, did he?" Monroe asked, alarmed. They could be looking at more victims here as well.
"Nah," Mitchim laughed. "She finally told him that if he didn't back off she'd be well within her rights to pepper spray him in the face." He paused then looked at Monroe in the mirror. "Why do you ask?"
Hank exchanged a look with Monroe around the headrest. On the drive to the airport they had come up with a decently plausible explanation they could give to make people aware of the danger Capra posed without sounding too…kooky. Hank explained, "PPD's been seeing a small amount of an exclusive new drug in the bars and clubs. They call it," he made a face, "Z."
Monroe had to duck his head to hide a gleeful snigger. Hank had hated his suggestion and said it sounded stupid but hadn't been able to come up with anything better.
"Effects are similar to Ecstasy but without the morning-after memory loss," Hank continued. "And Capra's adapted it so he can wear it on his skin. All he has to do was touch someone."
"He used it to recruit his cult members," Monroe put in.
"Well that's just disturbing as hell."
"You don't know the half of it," Monroe muttered to himself. He gazed through the window as businesses gave way to houses that gave way to rolling farmland that in turn became thickly packed trees lining both sides of the road. Deputy Mitchim seemed to know the road, which corners he could cut and where there were straightaways he could take at speed.
"Lester's daughter remembered that he invited her out to a house by the lake," Mitchim continued. "Rosie at the grocery store recalled seeing him with Mark and Marsha Preston who happen to have a house by the lake. Sheriff sent a deputy out there early this morning to check it out and guess what he saw in the driveway."
"A beige four-door sedan with Oregon plates," Hank supplied.
"Give the man his prize," Mitchim said in a decent imitation of a game show host. "Judge Simms signed search warrants for the sedan specifically, the house, and any and all vehicles and outbuildings on the premises for your partner or any paperwork, etcetera, etcetera that may lead to his whereabouts."
"And you're certain Capra's still there?" Hank asked.
"Sheriff's had Deputy Smyth sitting on the only road in or out since we found out where he was. Last report said that the Prestons and Capra were sitting down to breakfast. Another unidentified man and woman were there as well for a total of five."
"No sign of Nick—um, Detective Burkhardt?" Monroe asked before Hank could.
"Nothing yet." Mitchim's radio went off and he spent a few moments in a conversation Monroe only understood about a third of. "FBI is at the rendezvous spot. We're about five minutes out."
"Tell them to wait until we get there," Hank ordered.
"They're not gonna move without you," Mitchim promised. "Sheriff Collar will make sure of that."
Monroe was not comforted by the motley collection of vehicles in the parking lot. Four sheriff's department, one state police, one ambulance, and a forest service truck. The three shiny black SUVs parked in a row were much more reassuring.
Deputy Mitchim must have noticed his dismay. "It's a small town," he said apologetically. "They don't even have city police anymore. Everything is contracted through the Sheriff's Department now. That must be the FBI. The Sheriff said this unit includes their HRT specialist."
"What is HRT?" Monroe asked, eyeing the large and heavily armed men in black pulling gear out of the back of the big SUVs.
"Hostage recovery," Hank explained. "Crisis management. Tactical response. They're the best the FBI has."
"Cool."
"Very cool," Hank agreed. Some of the strain had eased around his eyes and mouth. Slipping on his sunglasses he opened his door.
The man that met them could have been the actor in every Marine/Army/Special Ops movie ever made. Blue eyes, scar along one side of a sharp chin, dark hair cut down to a flat-topped fuzz. "Chevie Davidson, Unit Commander."
"Detective Hank Griffin. This is Monroe." They shook hands. "You've been briefed?" Hank asked.
"On the drive. We have copies of Special Agent Rousse's files and pictures of Detective Burkhardt, Capra, and the property owners. Sheriff Collar has put together some blueprints and maps over here."
Monroe had no idea what to do so he tagged along. The tailgate of a Sheriff's truck had been turned into a makeshift briefing room with blowups of driver's license photos taped over the tail lights and maps and pictures and blueprints of a two story house spread across every available surface.
Sheriff Collar was about Hank's height, thin, and wiry tough beneath the tan uniform. The small, square mustache brought to mind Charlie Chaplin.
"Detective Griffin, Detective Monroe." Collar held out a hand.
"Just Monroe," he explained as he shook. "Not in any way a detective."
"Mr. Monroe is a psychic consultant with the Portland Police Department," Mitchim chimed in ever so helpfully.
Monroe winced as everyone looked at him and opened his mouth to declare the lie for what it was.
Hank interrupted before he could get the first word out. "He's also a very close friend of my partner."
Monroe glowered. Great, now they thought he was Nick's gay psychic lover.
"You've had someone watching the house?" Hank pushed on and Monroe was certain he was trying not to laugh. It was the way his mustache twitched like some strange little caterpillar.
"This," Sheriff Collar tapped a pencil on a map, "is the only road in or out by anything but ATV, horse, or boat. Deputy Smyth has been sitting on that since we confirmed that Capra's in the house. There's been some activity but nothing that could be construed suspicious and no one has left the property."
Monroe caught a whiff of familiar smell and stopped glaring at Hank to look around to see where it was coming from. One of the heavily armed, black-dressed SWAT team members was staring at him curiously. The man was a mountain and had a red cross on a black patch on his uniform. Cautiously Monroe woged and wasn't surprised when the other guy woged too. Jagerbar. As a medic. Huh.
"We're setting up here," Davidson said, pointing out a spot on the map that had the topographical lines of a small hill. "It's about a mile out from the house. We'll move in on foot from there."
"I have the PPD air support fueling up and ready to go at the airport," Hank told them.
Davidson looked surprised and pleased. "Excellent. Let's get him in the air." He paused and fixed Hank with a level stare. "I won't do you the discourtesy of asking you not to go in, but I will ask that you keep behind us and let us do our job."
"I've worked with special units before," Hank told him seriously. "I'll stay out of your way."
The jagerbar de-woged and moved slowly through the crowd towards Monroe.
Monroe eyed him cautiously but figured the guy wouldn't start anything in the middle of a bunch of cops. The patch on his shirt said A. Gebhard. "Guten tag," he greeted as the jagerbar drifted to a stop next to him. After some consideration he added, "Freund."
Gebhard gave him a friendly nod.
"And your…psychic consultant?" Davidson asked Hank a moue of distaste, clearly reluctant to even speak the word.
Monroe rolled his eyes aware the jagerbar was watching him curiously.
"He's staying outside until the building is clear," Hank said looking at Monroe like he expected objections.
"Hey, I'm good with that," Monroe assured him. "You guys handle all the shooting and arresting and whatnot. I'm just here for moral support."
Davidson gave him a nod of approval. "Alright then. Let's gear up."
Monroe ended up in a Kevlar vest from Hank's duffle bag. "It's a little tight in the chest," he said and Hank loosened the side wrap an inch.
"It's Nick's back up vest out of my trunk. You won't have to wear it long."
Hank shrugged on his own vest. His usual 9mm was on one hip, his pet Taser on the other side of his belt, and some sort of compact assault rifle on a strap over his shoulder. He looked focused and competent and dangerous. Monroe felt like he was on an episode of Cops.
"Huddle up," Sheriff Collar called out. They gathered around him, checking weapons and gear as they formed a loose circle. "William Capra kidnapped a police officer and that put him at the top of FBI's most wanted. He's known to have at least two guns, including Detective Burkhardt's service weapon so even if you're not going into the house, stay cautious and keep your heads down. Detective Griffin you got anything you want to add?"
While Hank was explaining to everyone else that they shouldn't let Capra make skin on skin contact Monroe got close enough to the jagerbar to murmur, "Ziegevolk."
"Capra?" Gebhard asked.
Monroe nodded. It was a relief that someone besides Hank would know what they were up against.
The man swore and spat in the dirt. Then he got a box of latex gloves out of an SUV and passed it around and made sure everyone had their shirt sleeves down and buttoned.
He thought they would leave then but the Sheriff quieted everyone down again and Davidson led them in a brief prayer for their safety and the safety of those they would be apprehending and rescuing. Out of the corner of his eye Monroe saw Hank tucking away a small silver medal into a pocket, a Saints medallion of some kind and he wondered which one it was.
Davidson crossed himself and bellowed, "Let's move out!"
Monroe rode with Deputy Mitchim, crammed in next to a state trooper named Juan and a woman in Forest Service green whose name he hadn't caught during introductions. There was a name tag on her jacket but he thought if he tried to read it now he'd probably just look like he was staring at her chest. She was short enough she was the only one in the back seat that didn't hit their head every time the truck hit a bump. The road was, in his opinion, disproportionally bumpy.
"This is PPB Air One," their pilot's voice came over the radio, smooth and calm. "I am thirty seconds out, coming in from the south."
Monroe braced a hand on the roof and attempted to decipher the radio chatter and suffered a moment of utter surrealism. What the hell was he doing so far away from home, surrounded by law enforcement types, on his way to rescue a Grimm?
"Copy, Air One. We are ETA three minutes."
Hank was in one of the black SUVs with the FBI and Monroe figured he wouldn't see him again until after the smoke had cleared, figuratively speaking.
The Sheriff's Office dispatcher broke in urgent and worried but Monroe could only understand a few of the codes and numbers she said. "What's happening?" he asked the vehicle at large.
"Dispatch just got a 911 call from the house," Juan the State Trooper clarified.
"Which house?" Monroe asked as they headed up the last ridge. "That house!"
"That house," the man confirmed. "The line is still open but the dispatcher can't get anyone to respond."
Ahead of them the other vehicles accelerated over the hill. Mitchim mashed the gas pedal down and their SUV surged to catch up, engine straining.
"They're not stopping," Monroe realized. None of the vehicles were stopping. The plan had apparently just gone out the window. They in barreled to a stop not far from the beige 4-door sedan that still smelled strongly of coolant and Capra and Nick, which was vaguely reassuring. They hadn't been sure Capra hadn't already passed the Grimm on.
"Stay here and keep your head down," Mitchim ordered, looking over the seat at Monroe.
"Staying here," Monroe agreed emphatically. "Head down." Everyone else bailed out, weapons read, taking cover behind open doors or other vehicles. His seatmates Juan and Unnamed Forest Service girl had been in the Air Force and Navy respectively and appeared to know what they were doing.
The FBI team was already moving in. Monroe saw Hank and Gebhard ducking around the side of the porch. He felt a little better knowing Hank was with the jagerbar. As wesen went they were notoriously honorable and this one was a medic. Overhead there was the approaching drone of a small aircraft engine.
The house looked like the kind people built because they wanted to look rustic and country while staying impressively expensive. Steep A-Frame roof, cedar-shake siding, and an entire front wall of windows. Monroe liked a good view as much as the next blutbad but it would take all day to wash that many windows.
"Air One," Davidson said, voice tinny through the radio, "any movement?"
"Negative. Not a sign."
Monroe sniffed a couple times. They were upwind from the house and he was getting a myriad of smells through the heavy scent of pine and exhaust and crushed grass and the cold, clinging fog creeping down the mountainside. He scrunched down a bit to see the house better and tugged at the Kevlar vest in a futile attempt to find a comfortable position.
"I have a question, Monroe," Mitchim said from his place behind the open driver's side door. He had the air of a man who knew the question wouldn't be appreciated but was going to ask it anyway. He didn't take his eyes or his weapon off the house.
"Go for it, man." There was no sign of movement in the house. All those windows meant surprise wasn't an option but it also meant they should see anyone moving around the living room and most of the kitchen but there was nothing.
"If you're a psychic, how come you didn't know where Capra was?"
Hank was a dead man. Seriously. Monroe's Sponsor would be disappointed, would give him that look that said he knew Monroe could do better, but he thought in this case he could live with that.
Aware they had an audience, Monroe opened his mouth to explain he wasn't really a psychic or a hostage negotiator or whatever the hell else Hank had told them when the radio came alive with Chevie Davidson murmuring, "Go, go, go."
The quiet mountain air exploded with shouts and the crash of doors being slammed open.
"We've got two coming out the back," Air One reported, "suspect one is headed into the trees. Suspect two is breaking north. Looks like both are female."
The front door slammed open and a man in jeans and a white sweater burst out, heading for a pickup truck parked in the driveway. He barely made it off the steps before one of the deputies took him down in a tackle that would have done an NFL linebacker proud.
Monroe winced in sympathy. It wasn't anyone he'd ever seen before, probably another one of Capra's recruits.
"Ouch," Forest Service girl commented as the pair skidded across the gravel. "That's gonna leave a mark."
Air One announced, "Okay, suspect two is circling north, headed for the docks."
Monroe looked towards the lake in time to see a woman being apprehended by two of the SWAT team.
"Suspect one is still moving. Straight ahead of you. Two hundred yards."
"I don't have a visual," someone replied.
Other people were calling out rooms as they were cleared and Monroe was reassured as he heard Hank's voice for a moment.
"One hundred yards. Bear left. Fifty yards. You're right on top of her. Right there."
Silence for the length of two heartbeats then, "Suspect is in custody."
The two women were brought around and sat down next to the man. Mitchim and State Trooper Juan moved over to help zip tie them wrist to wrist.
Monroe watched and waited until Davidson's voice came over the radio again. "All clear."
"We're going to need the ambulance up here," Mitchim added.
Monroe asked, "Did they find Nick?" And yes he knew that made him sound like the worst fake psychic consultant ever. "Someone ask if they found Nick." But he knew the answer was no. Hank or someone would have said that right away, someone would have said something.
TBC
Notes: One more cliffie. I just couldn't resist. I know. Bad squirrel.
The city of Portland really does have an air support unit that does some awesome work. Fanfiction will not let me publish the link but you can Google Portland Police Department Air Support and pick the first option that comes up. Or go to AO3 where the link does publish. The mounted unit has a pretty neat video on how they train their horses as well. And check out the Sunshine Division link to see their soft, squishy side.