Previously on The Essence of Existence...
"Ally let's just wait- Just a few moments until we can confirm that Beckett and Monica are out," Castle pleads with her again as she adjusts her grip on the bags and her own gun. She shuffles and picks at her straps, securing, adjusting them. She's stalling an explanation. He knows that look, not quite meeting his eyes; he's used to seeing it on Kate when she deflects, when she doesn't want to share… when Kate would freeze him out because she feared the possibilities. Maybe that's it. There's a limit to the amount of worry this girl can carry within.
"I'm getting this train back on track," Ally finally says, stubborn, lifting her gaze to him and releasing a breath that he refuses to see as a defeated one. But it feels that way. Frustration settles in on him, at her lack of understanding for their fears.
"Hey. Just in case," Ally extends her hand to him. "It was a pleasure meeting you."
No, he won't allow it, not like this.
-37-
He shakes his head, meeting her eyes, meeting Esposito's. No, she doesn't get to say that. Castle turns to Skinner, who fidgets on his feet, briefly meeting his eyes as well, but hiding away behind menial preparations. Everything spins; he's not ready for this rush.
"You don't get to do that—Don't you say good bye," Castle tells her, swallowing the lump that has quickly formed in his throat, a response to the imagery that has started a dreadful dance in his head. He can't let her go if there's a chance that a scene could be written where she ends up dead. It's such a stupid narrative cliché, playing at the strings of the predictability and relishing in the easy dread. "Not like this."
If he lets her say goodbye now, then the writer of this horrific story is not forced to bring it back full circle. He can't let her go on principle. For the sake of the story.
"It is what it is," Ally says, resolute, taking back her unshaken hand and hiking a magnetite-filled bag over her shoulder, nodding to Skinner to start his way towards the roof. Castle doesn't let her go too far before he grabs her by the arm and pulls her into a hug that surprises them both, squeezing until he feels her hug him back, allowing herself the brief connection, even though it's more painful than relieving.
"Don't worry, she's on her way," she says as she untangles herself from his grip, not meeting Castle's eyes. So she's sure that Beckett will be out, but not so sure about herself? He fears, he dreads, he's terrified that she's seeing something he cannot see. That she's seeing a path unfold before her that he cannot stop. The brief time that they've shared, the little that she's allowed him to know about her, has created an affinity that tears him deep with the knowledge that life has been so unfair to her.
He fights every instinct that screams for her protection. She's not your daughter; it's a mental quarrel he's fought throughout the day. He's confused by the nature of this whole situation. It has taken a toll on him; everything seems raw. He needs Beckett by his side to balance him out.
She doesn't turn around to throw him a last glance, so he feeds on a sobering breath as Esposito takes a call from Ryan. Patrol cars are minutes away, Hastings' advance is already in the area and everything is set to go and under control. It sounds easy enough, almost as if they are in control.
Somehow, it just doesn't feel that way.
Castle bites the bullet and surveys the scene downstairs; the supersoldiers are nowhere to be seen. If Monica and Kate are in there, without the magnetite, they're as good as dead. Esposito sidles up next to him, bumping shoulders; pulling him back from the somber place he's drawn himself into.
"Are you packing?" he asks, hanging up. Castle nods, confirming absentmindedly. Javier nods back. "Good. Welcome back, man."
Javier dials again, warning the team on the other end of the line with the details of the plan, fine-tuning.
Maybe Castle is just not ready to assimilate the reality of what their actions meant, he ponders. He could question everything. But it is what it is.
The women bridge the gaps between the uneven levels of the roofs of the buildings. It's clear that everyone abandoned the makeshift posts they held to center their attention on the assault team that is currently decimating the cult's armed members.
As they walk on the flattest side of the roof over the center of the building, they spot the two forces battling at the West corner. The cult's numbers weren't big; the rogue team had effectively plowed through their defenses. The problem is the ones that were still resisting in strategic corners, not allowing for a full neutralization.
From her viewpoint, Monica figures that well-placed bullets will make enough damage to help the situation, but they don't have enough ammo to be wasteful. The surprise factor should work in their favor. She's learned these strategies from John: Look for the advantage that only you have in this fight… and hang on for the ride.
"I'll take the ones on the left," Monica announces after she considers the probabilities.
"Just like that? Are we just... going to kill everyone? Not even give them the chance to surrender?" Beckett questions her, the hushed outrage stalling Monica's momentum. The woman stops and studies her counterpart. Kate Beckett is an NYPD detective, it's not like shooting someone should be something new to her; the problem is that she's not quite grasping the nature of the situation at hand. She'd feared this.
"It's either them or us," Monica responds over the stray shouts and the noise of bullet impacts that fill the air, trying to connect with the hesitant woman before her.
"Shouldn't we have something to show for this raid?" Beckett counters. And if the situation and their plans were different, perhaps that would be a good idea. But Reyes doesn't trust any of these people.
"Mulder walked you through this." Usually she'd have patience to connect, but there's none left when she sees the group before them.
Kate bites her lip, full of doubt and remorse. She's going to get them both killed if they're made.
"Do you want any of them going after you?" Monica questions, drawing Kate's attention back to the scenario before them. She knows these people; she knows them very well. "Do you really think that they're beyond shooting you? Do you think they'd show the same leniency?"
The men holding up the fort are surely determined. They're wearing vests and she knows what's underneath them. If any of them became threatened enough, if they saw no other exit or hope for their mission, they could blow them all to pieces before they ever got to lay out their plan.
Doesn't she want to get to the other side? Back to Castle? Back to her old conspiracy-free life? But then Monica remembers what it's like to not be the jaded people they've become.
The frigid wind whips her hair as she takes a deep breath.
"Look, I get it. This is not your life, this is not your war… and luckily, you still have scruples. I know you function on a different level… I was you, once." Monica tries again but the woman before her is stubborn and careful. She could swear she was facing a younger Scully.
"Have you ever considered that these are innocents too?" Beckett counters, but Monica shakes her head. She's been down this road.
"But, it's just not like that." Kate meets eyes with her this time. The woman's lips are stretched into a thin line that doesn't let her read her emotions too much. "I assure you that not one of the people you kill tonight would have been redeemable. They're too far-gone. I talked to your writer; you care for justice… this is justice. For everyone, even them."
And it's the truth. Even if they were to spare their lives, the repercussions would be too great. For one, if they testified that they didn't kidnap William, the delicate framework that held their story together would fall. Fingers would be pointed at them; the police and social services would hunt for them… they'd go to jail, and Beckett's career at the NYPD would be over.
The truth of the matter is that they orchestrated this operation as the last resort to bring justice and do what no one in the US government had the guts to do. No one would see the unfair and vicious ways in which these people and their leaders had victimized them… the threat behind their purposes. So yeah, if they have to kill a few people that believe in this deranged system, deep enough to risk their lives for it so that they could dream of living another day, well, then so be it.
If they let them live, this sacrifice would be pointless.
"What if they shoot at us? I mean, our own team; they don't know we're coming." Kate surprises her with the question when she was almost ready to count their loses. She sees a crack in the armor and Monica goes for it.
"Not if we're shooting at the same target," Monica proposes. Beckett nods.
Kate takes a few precious seconds, before she cocks her gun. "It's just hard for me to be the judge and executioner..." She coaxes Monica with a nod to continue the path ahead of them. "I'll cover you."
When they peek out of the stairwell, their troop is focused on the men ahead. Skinner keeps reminding himself of how simple his life was last night; Maggie by his side, a few jobs lined up at an office somewhere… and yet, here he is, about to go into a gun battle. He sets the magnetite-filled bags on the ground, now a sloppy mess of melted snow and blood. The bodies lay around as they fell. There are no wounded, just fatalities. These men are lethal.
"Are you alright?" Skinner asks Ally while she sets her own bags right next to his.
"You know I don't do concern, bald guy." Ally responds dismissive, serving him with a light pat on his shoulder and walking towards the action.
"Sure," Skinner mutters, as they approach their team carefully, guns drawn and siding up next to Flanagan, the leader of the strike. "How are we doing?"
"There's still eight left," the man responds with a thick Irish accent between puffs of steam coming out of his mouth. It's still bitterly cold outside and as the time goes by, darker. He's worried about time, but he knows it will be over before they know it. "They have a couple of good shots to the right, they shot Blondie and Carmichael in their shooting hands. Coincidence or not, the lads are getting better."
These men remind him of his platoon in Vietnam. Ruthless, never leaving enough room for hesitation; they only had one objective in mind… and that doesn't mean it was always the right objective. This is the troubling back and forth his mind sometimes subject him to; the loud questions he has to gag to keep functioning for what's needed in the present.
A couple of shots graze the top of a chimney that hadn't seen any action, the projectile coming from an unexpected angle. His reflexes jump in alert.
"Shit." Skinner ducks, a reflex, followed by Ally and Flanagan. "Are there any more of them hiding out?"
They cannot afford to succumb to the cult's forces. There's too much on the line for everyone; they're betting their skins and the lives of not only the people with them right now, but those of the ones coming into this operation, not quite knowing what they're about to encounter.
Another group blindsiding them, underestimating the threat built by Curtis Weaver, could finish them for good this time.
Another shot rings out. This time it lands away from them.
Flanagan and a couple more of his guys respond to the unexpected direction of this attack, scanning the periphery. Skinner aims towards his right but he can't spot any shooter. They're good; their vantage point could be their demise.
"No. No, wait." Ally urges, placing her hand on top of his gun's barrel. "It's them."
Who? Skinner takes aim again, anticipating the direction that any other shot might come from.
Flanagan lets a cautionary shot fly past their current attack front. A couple of screams wail from the men before them and even the members of the cult are thrown by the sudden interference.
"I said stop shooting!" Ally screams at Flanagan. Skinner is sure that the man must be surprised by the authority this girl carries through her voice. He focuses his attention back to the scene.
The NYPD convoy isn't here yet; this is not their team… What's going on?
"There goes one," Skinner narrates when he sees the body of one of the cult members drop. The shot that takes him down came from behind.
Their backup is here. It has to be them. That's what she saw.
"Watch out! Fatso over there is taking off!" Carmichael shoots, but he falls short. One of the most skilled cult shooters reacts to the new direction of the attack and starts to flee towards the Southwest. Skinner aims; the man slips and slides. He's fast on his feet considering his volume.
"Got him," Skinner says, seeing the man fall forward.
"No, you didn't-" Ally laments, comically, when she sees the man get back up, wounded but still on his escape route. But a shot comes, precise, piercing the center of his chest. He's done.
"Help the other flank," she prompts him as Skinner sees Reyes and Beckett emerge from behind the metallic coverings of the A/C units.
The men next to him make use of the distraction they've been given and make a run for it, approaching the group that had held court. This will be over fast, Skinner thinks as he sees the bodies falling.
"Drop 'em! Drop 'em, now!" Beckett shouts at a couple of teen girls holding automatic weapons. They had been hiding behind the older men that now lay on the floor with blood seeping out of their necks and heads. They're terrified. The guns fall to the floor in a dull clutter and Blondie rushes to tackle them as they beg for mercy.
"About time!" Ally complains, walking towards Monica, in mock annoyance.
"We got busy back there, flying." Reyes explains, inching towards the edge of the roof, across from the girl.
"Excuses." Ally shakes her head as she assesses the scene.
"Help us over, will ya?" Reyes extends a hand and Ally and Skinner reach out, pulling both women on top of the West building. A flurry of activity engulfs them as they take over the spaces that had been guarded by the cult resistance.
"Take the vests from the bodies," Flanagan orders. Charges of C4 explosives and TNT bars line up the garments, but they're not independently controlled. They're set up for remote detonation. "Careful! Unplug them. Find the central detonator. Find me that trigger."
"What do you want to do with these ones?" Carmichael asks as he drags the teen girls who stand trembling in fear, hands tied to their backs with disposable cuffs.
"Take them downstairs," Flanagan orders, and the man is everything but delicate in the way that he pushes them ahead of him, aiming his gun directly at their heads.
The men carry the magnetite bags and wrap them with the vests, reattaching the wiring and laying the cables against a new trigger.
"This is not going to be enough for the amount of supersoldiers we saw," Reyes comments, assessing the setup.
"I know it won't, but it's going to have to be up to us to finish the job. Your cavalry is coming soon, right?" Ally throws a side-glance at Beckett. The woman looks overwhelmed if Skinner is to judge. He'd be dazed as well, if he hadn't lost that ability sometime around 2008.
"Yes, they have to be here any minute now," Beckett confirms. "But what do you mean this won't be enough?"
"If we had more of this stuff, when we blow up the roof, the supersoldiers underneath us would just… melt." Ally elaborates as she walks over, checking on the trigger's tie-ups. "This amount will just weaken them. Enough to shoot them and neutralize them."
"Just neutralize them…" Beckett observes. She's shell shocked, alright. Skinner can see it on the detective's face.
"With what they'll be showered with, they'll pop like balloons once a bullet hits them. We'll have to help it out a little bit." Ally makes a motion with her hands, mimicking popping a balloon. Beckett seems mesmerized by the gory and somewhat detached explanation. Skinner's seen it before, and it's a sight he's never forgotten. "They're going to know something is up now that this little battle is over. We have to blast them, fast."
"What about the rest of our team?" Beckett asks. He has to admit he'll also breathe easier if Esposito lives up to his word... but then, is it really in his hands?
"I left one of your guys coordinating. We'll make it out in time; he promised, so he better deliver." Ally levels with her. Skinner sees a brief moment of hesitation cross her features and he wonders if Ally is just blocking her own fears. What if John doesn't make it out? What if they don't make it out?
"Charges are set," Flanagan informs. "The main control wasn't among any of them. All the vests were deactivated and reassigned, so we should be alright. They're all routed to the new trigger. The delay system is set."
"How do we know that those are the only vests?" Beckett asks, and it is a valid question. Reyes and Ally cross looks. Worried looks.
"We better rush so we don't have to find out," Reyes urges, collected, but worried still.
"That's the NYPD, just in time," Skinner notes as he hears the sirens approach and the sound of the battalion nearing the building.
"Quick, pick up and down." Flanagan orders his men out as he picks up the trigger box and preps to leave the roof as well. "So… Who's doing the honors?
"I've been waiting for this for a long time," Ally says as she takes it from him, meeting eyes with Reyes who takes a deep breath. Skinner can only imagine the enormous significance of this moment for the girl. To finally blast away some the physical embodiment of a group that made her life a living hell and brought her to her knees in pain.
"Everyone, down the stairwell!" Flanagan orders, and they all follow. "Give us three minutes to clear out. The roll should have enough slack to get you to safety and activate."
Ally nods her confirmation while Beckett takes one last look around with Skinner. There are bodies everywhere. The blood smears create a horrific abstract painting that he's sure he's not going to forget for some time. Maybe he should listen to his wife more; maybe he really should retire and humor her wishes… if he actually comes back to a wife after this. In reality, he's doing this for her as well, to give her the gift of having certainty that her daughter gets to have family again. That justice has been served for her… That criminals have been punished for their cruelties.
He starts his way towards the stairwell. The body of a boy not much older than fifteen slumps against discarded buckets of tar; his eyes are still open, staring lifelessly in what must have been the direction of the person that shot him.
He kneels and lowers his eyelids. He can't just walk away.
Who is the real criminal here?
One, two, three rows, and they all end in a roadblock. They explore the maze of concrete and steel beams, fast, trying to find a way to the site of the wreckage. Mulder tries to ignore his heart, pounding rampant, the uncertainty of what's happened presenting him with a myriad of scenarios that don't necessarily fare for the best.
"There's smoke down this row!" Hastings shouts, and he stops in his tracks to sprint in her direction. She runs to the end of the row and stops; when he catches up to her, he's as flabbergasted as she is.
A mountain of contorted steel lies before them. The arm of the crane is bent onto itself, twisted, creating a cocoon. The engine and the cabin are destroyed, and a tangle of wiring and steel cable is wrapped tight, making it a deconstructed version of a ball of yarn. A dangerous ball of yarn. One that could kill.
A couple of MTA workers are just as shocked as they are. They must have heard the crash and hurried to the spot, and they're already radioing for help. They need to hurry; they can't afford explanations.
They need to hurry because there's not a noise coming out from the wreckage.
"Fuck." Mulder cusses under his breath and approaches the men. "I'm Agent Miller with the FBI. Do you know what happened here?"
"FBI?" An African American in a hard hat asks, surprised at Mulder's rank. "Look, man, I just—we just heard the crash and rushed here. Why is the FBI-? What's going on? Is this some terrorist shit?"
"Have you seen a woman or a child of about ten years old around here?" Mulder asks, frenzied.
"We weren't doing the rounds yet," the other worker responds this time, a typical Brooklyn guy with the Italian descent evident on him. "It's too fucking cold, man."
"Agent, here!" Hastings kneels in front of an opening on the left side. "There's a space underneath."
He rushes and kneels beside her. Indeed, embedded in the snow and slush, the bars of the arm have created a pocket. He can see Scully's jacket.
"Scully!" It's getting dark already and there's not enough light filtering through the wreckage to define anything, to see if there's movement, to confirm signs of life. "Scully, talk to me!"
"Wait, there's someone trapped underneath?" The first worker asks.
"Do you have any shovels? Maybe even a car jack?" Hastings asks the men as she digs around the opening, or, she tries. The ground is frozen and it's to no avail. Mulder tries to squeeze himself through but he's too big.
"Scully!" He tries again, and now he sees movement.
"I'll see what we have at the tool shed." The Brooklyn guy takes off while the other stays behind trying to figure out a way to aid them.
"Mulder!" Her voice is low and exhausted as she coughs. She has to be wounded. "In here- We're in here."
A/N:
As we approach the ending... it is just so rewarding to hear all of your opinions and flails over my FB, Twitter... Ky03elk, you kill me! So do you, Jossa.
Seriously, this has been a fun ride.
Just a few chapters to go, thank KyinHI for her amazing beta skills and suggestions when POVs for this story have been quite challenging along the way.
As always, love to hear back from you, flames, shrieks et all. BWJ.