A/N: I missed my computer a ridiculous amount this summer. It's pathetic really. Of course, I also missed you all as well, especially those of you who were oh-so-kind-enough to leave me feedback last chapter. I know I didn't reply to them, but hopefully you'll forgive me seeing as how I was living in the woods all summer and had no internet. (Or bathrooms. Yay.)
Okay, this one's a little different from usual. I've been wanting to write this for ages but it's kinda complicated and requires some concentration where the time stamps are concerned. To sound like the '24' narrator, all events in this story take place on the same day and it's rated a strong T for violence and unpleasantness.
To reiterate, this is a fairly experimental (and goddamn long) chapter but hopefully it'll work out okay. Either way, the dumb humor will be back next time...
You know that to ask me to turn from my task would be vain...
January 31st 2009, 7.38pm
The metal rasp of the bag's zipper seemed achingly loud in the silent apartment.
Breathing steadily, Booth slipped his hand under the thick strap of his gym bag, the dark material feeling even coarser against the cornstarch which still clung to his fingers. With smooth, precise movements, he lifted it onto his shoulder and walked resolutely to the door, unconsciously completing the long-forgotten routine he'd begun earlier in the evening.
He let the cuff of his jacket cover his hand before turning the doorknob and stepping out into the corridor. Grim confidence seeped from every pore as the lock clicked into place behind him, the sound signalling that no last-minute checks were needed and that he was confident he wouldn't need to return.
His expression belying none of the amateurish fear or guilt that he knew would draw people's attention, Booth walked calmly down toward the stairs, his mind processing the information he'd received and exactly what he'd done to get it.
January 31st 2009, 4.05pm
Relaxing as much as the interrogation room chair would allow, Scott King fixed his cold blue gaze on the agent standing opposite him, smirking at the barely-contained rage that emanated from the other man.
"You want to tell me why I'm here, Agent Booth?" he asked, purposely keeping his voice at an infuriatingly casual level. "Or should I start preparing that harassment lawsuit already?"
A mirthless smile graced the agent's lips. "Not worked it out yet, Scotty?" He moved forward out of the shadows, sinking into the opposite chair. "A smart guy like you, top in his class at Yale, one of the most successful defence lawyers in the district... You telling me you don't know why you're here?"
King shrugged, the movement barely enough to ruffle his impeccably neat suit. "I'm afraid to say I don't, Agent Booth. The agents who came to my office told me that I was wanted for questioning in regard to the kidnapping of a Dr Temperance Brennan, but I don't see what that has to do with me."
The agent's brown eyes met his for a moment, and he returned the probing stare with an innocent yet icy gaze, faintly gratified when Booth looked away first.
Clearing his throat, Booth pulled out a file and King watched with disinterest as he laid out pictures of corpses, attaching a name to each. "Samantha Morgan." A brunette with a slashed throat. "Lacey Jones." Wounds decorating a dismembered arm. "Lindsay Walker." Dark hair matted with blood. "Caroline Evans." A pale body still covered with dirt from its burial.
Booth looked up at him. "Any of these women look familiar to you?"
Pasting a suitably horrified expression on his face, he managed to sound offended as he answered, "No."
"You sure?" The agent leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table with faux-casualness. "You never saw them near your offices? Never came up against them in court? Ran into them at a coffee shop, maybe, or at your gym?" His voice suddenly hardened. "Or maybe you kidnapped them, chopped them into pieces, then buried them in the woods?"
Keeping a calm expression, he coolly informed Booth, "The only time I've ever seen these women is when your agents brought me in last time. I don't know if the FBI are behind on their paperwork, but those accusations were proven to be false." He smirked. "I had an alibi."
"You say alibi, I say bribed associates," Booth shot back harshly. "But that's not why we're here, Scotty." He leaned closer, tone deadly serious, "The bastard who did this has got my partner. If he follows his pattern, her body will be found mutilated and buried in the next two days, and I will do anything to make sure that doesn't happen. Anything."
King's smile faded to an expression of intrigue as the agent continued, "Now, for my part, I think you're the son of a bitch that's done this, but right now I care about her more than I care about you." His dark gaze locked with the other man's icy one. "Tell me where she is."
The blond's facade didn't falter. "How would I know where she is?" He leaned in, speaking clearly for the benefit of the tape, "I have nothing to do with any of these crimes, including the kidnapping of Dr Brennan."
Booth sat back quickly, his tone becoming more relaxed as he expertly changed tactics, "I'm not saying you did. I'm just asking for your professional opinion here."
"Professional opinion?" the lawyer asked with a chuckle. "You want legal advice on how to find your partner?"
Booth shrugged, tension still coiled beneath the surface as he continued, "If that's what you want to call it. From your perspective, if you kidnapped a woman, where would you take her?" He gave him a forced smile. "Hypothetically, of course."
"Hypothetically?" King repeated, amused. "Do you really think I'd tell you where your partner may hypothetically be held?"
"I'm just asking you to share your opinion," he reiterated, the severity of the situation now evident in his tone. "Would she be somewhere in the city? A warehouse? Across state borders?" His voice cracked slightly as he asked, "Would she even be alive still?"
King leaned back in his chair again with almost palpable confidence. "I don't think I'm qualified to say, Agent Booth." His smile grew. "Maybe you should just wait and see."
January 31st 2009, 6.31pm
His return to consciousness was heralded by a slick burn in his throat, the lingering scent of chloroform soon filling in the blanks of the evening.
Swallowing reflexively to ease the discomfort, he lifted his head from his chest as his memories swirled and settled into a recognisable pattern inside his throbbing head. Too dizzy and nauseous to brave any assault of light on his pupils, he let his eyes stay closed as he shook his head gingerly, slowly pulling together the last frayed threads of memory from earlier that day.
He saw himself leaving the Hoover Building late in the afternoon and walking quickly down to his car, the frustration from the interrogation room still seething inside him. He'd made it less than four blocks down the street, just passing a barber shop and briefly checking his appearance in the window, when a hand had closed round his upper arm and pulled him roughly into an alleyway. With a grimace, he remembered being held in place by a strong arm looped through his own and a pungent cloth being forced over his nose and mouth, choking him into darkness.
Shaking away the thoughts, he shifted again, only to find that he was sitting up rather than lying down as he expected. He tried to lift his hands to rub his eyes, but felt a jolt of panic shoot through him as plastic ties dug into his wrists, binding them tightly behind his back. With an almost masochistic sense of hopefulness, he tried to kick his legs out and was not surprised to find them tied to the legs of the chair with what felt like similar plastic ties. Tensing in fear, he opened his mouth and eyes experimentally, but his immediate relief that he was not gagged or blindfolded was replaced by confused panic when he took in his surroundings.
His gaze fell on his own couch. His own kitchen lay behind the familiar counter, lit by evening sunlight filtered through his cream blinds. His own burgundy carpet was soft under his sock-covered feet, and he recognised his current seat as the chair that he sat in each evening to complete, or rather attempt, the crossword.
Sighing heavily, he dropped his head down to his chest as his heart sank. The bastard had taken him back to his own apartment.
"Nice to see you're back with me."
His head jerked back up as the bastard in question spoke for the first time, and still dazed from the chloroform, he looked around to locate the source of the voice.
He didn't need to look far before catching sight of his captor leaning casually against his cabinet, arms folded across his chest and a dark glint in his eyes. He was clad in black from head to toe, blending easily into the shadows, but it was the latex gloves on his hands which sent a rare shiver of fear down Scott King's spine.
Trying to disguise his nerves, the lawyer met Booth's eyes with all the cockiness he could manage. "Is the FBI branching out to kidnapping now, Agent Booth?"
January 31st 2009, 4.36pm
"Tell me where the hell she is!"
King smiled, looking up at the angry agent as he replied, "Should I start preparing that harassment complaint now or wait till you've retreated back to your office?"
Booth leaned over the table, speaking through gritted teeth, "I don't give a damn about harassment. I want my partner back and I'll pull you in here every chance I get if it'll stop you from hurting her. Just tell me where you're keeping her, and I'll let you walk out of here to get your business in order before we push for the electric chair."
"You do record these interviews, yes?" he prompted, smugly. "Because that's evidence enough to file an official complaint against you for harassment. Good luck finding Dr Brennan when you've been suspended."
Anger flared in Booth's eyes and he moved closer, invading the lawyer's personal space as he promised, "I know you've got her, and you will tell me where she is."
"Where's your proof, Agent?" He raised his voice for the microphone, enunciating clearly, "I've never met Dr Brennan, I'm not responsible for whatever's happened to her, and I have no knowledge of these horrific crimes you've mentioned." Smirking at the agent's impotent rage, he pushed himself smoothly to his feet and commented, "If there's nothing else, I'll be on my way. After I've filled in that complaint form of course."
For a second, he expected the fury in the agent's eyes to sublimate into a punch and was mildly surprised when Booth took a step back, dark eyes turning cold and business-like as he spoke calmly, "Thank you for taking the time to speak to me, Mr King. We'll be in touch if we have any more questions, and if you'd like to make a complaint, you can find the forms at the front desk."
King raised his eyebrows, disappointed at the lack of reaction, but hid it quickly, returning the nod and saying curtly, "Hopefully this'll be the last we see of each other, Agent Booth."
Booth gave him a tight smile. "I hope so."
January 31st 2009, 6.36pm
"I was wondering why you were all sunshine and light at the end," King commented, a note of admiration in his voice as the agent moved about in his kitchen, ignoring him.
The radio played quietly in the background, the mindless blare of noise covering the lawyer's attempts to understand his situation. "So when did you plan all this out then? Did you always want to try abduction, or was it a spur of the moment type deal? Because I've got to say, first timers make a lot of mistakes. I see it in court all the time - people leaving fibres, fingerprints, witnesses, and plenty of other incriminating evidence. You may be an FBI agent, but do you really expect do get away with this?"
Booth paused in his task, a smile ghosting across his face before he turned fully to face the other man and answered confidently, "Yes, I do."
Apparently finished in the kitchen, he let the drawer fall closed behind him as he walked back into the lounge, and Scott King's eyes widened when he saw the light glint off the knives in his gloved hands. Feeling his heart beat harder in his chest, the captive tried again, his voice losing some of its cool as he insisted, "You'll slip up. They always do. You let me go now and we might be able to cut a deal, but otherwise, you're going to jail for this."
The agent continued to lay out the knives with meticulous care, examining the blades with a connoisseur's interest and answering without concern, "I have an alibi."
"Against a victim's statement?" The confident lawyer in King couldn't be held back and he gave a small snort of derision. "There's no way the word of one of your friends will hold up against forensic evidence and my statement. They'll lock you up for this; you'll lose your gun, your badge, your job... As for your lady scientist-"
He stopped abruptly as he heard the agent chuckle darkly under his breath, and sat up straighter in the chair, unsettled and insulted by the laughter. "What's so funny?"
Booth's back remained turned. "Your assumptions."
Unnerved, King pushed further, the confidence slipping out of his voice. "What assumptions?"
He saw his hand hover over the knives on the table, moving hypnotically back and forth in selection as he answered matter-of-factly, "That there's going to be any evidence I was here." His hand settled on a knife, lifting it and testing the weight as Booth glanced over his shoulder, the outline of his features just visible in the dim light. "And that you're going to live long enough to make a statement."
King's heart dropped a few inches in his chest.
Realising his breathing had quickened at the first verbalised threat from his kidnapper, he tried to bring it under control and forced himself to sound nonchalant as he asked, "So what is this? I tell you where she is or you kill me?"
Another low laugh, and Scott gritted his teeth in frustration at his failing attempts to gain any control of the situation. Anger mixing with fear, he asked again, louder, "What is it then? Tell me why the hell I'm here or let me go, but stop standing there laughing like Coco the goddamn clown!"
The silence seemed to engulf the room when he quieted and cold ice started to trickle down his veins, quenching the angry fire that filled them and sending nervous tremors through his body. Breathing heavily, King remained stoic as his captor turned to face him, face impassive but hand closed comfortably around a small silver knife. His eyes flickered down to the weapon as Booth walked toward him, but soon returned to the agent's face as he raised his chin and tightened his lips defiantly.
Booth halted inches in front of his chair and King finally remembered to breathe.
"You want to know what was funny?" The agent didn't wait for an answer but took another step forward, toying purposefully with the knife as he met the lawyer's gaze. "The fact that you still think you have a choice." He leaned in and King flinched. "This isn't a game of talk or die. I'm not playing anymore." Empty dark eyes met wide blue ones. "You will tell me where she is. There's no "or" involved."
January 31st 2009, 7.31pm
Standing over his gym bag, Booth let himself breathe deeply for the first time in what seemed like hours.
Willing his pounding heart to fall into line with the rest of his controlled body, he kept his eyes focused on the empty wall in front of him while he moved on an autopilot he thought he'd forgotten.
With blood-stained fingers, he gripped the bottom of his shirt, muscles tensing and relaxing under his skin as he pulled it swiftly over his head before depositing it in the waiting plastic bag. Following an old routine, his hands then tugged at the front of his loose black sweats, not wanting to spread the blood on his gloves to his skin or to his boxers beneath as he stripped quickly and efficiently. His socks stayed on for now, his feet resting on top of his empty shoes so as to leave as little trace as possible for the investigators he knew would come.
The cooler breeze from the air-conditioning unit raked over his now bare skin, making him notice the sweat on his face for the first time. Taking another deep breath, he tilted his head to the ceiling, letting the cold air slip across his exposed throat like the blade of a knife.
Sweat pooled on his palms, damp and constrictive against the material of the glove, and he dropped his gaze to his hands, staring momentarily at the bloody swirls that filled the creases of the latex, moulding to his skin like a guilty fingerprint.
He shook it away, focusing on the immediate future rather than the recent or not so recent past. Just as he saw her do everyday at the lab, and just as he used to do every time his work was over, he neatly pulled the gloves off, rolling them up together and keeping every drop of blood inside, pressed against the membrane like a macabre kaleidoscope.
He dropped them on the pile of clothes, feeling his hand tremble slightly as he did so.
January 31st 2009, 6.59pm
"Where is she, Scott?"
The patient tone of voice made him want to scream almost as much as the burning pain in his arm. Struggling for breath, Scott King tried to sit upright and glared up through damp hair at the malevolent shadow looming over him as it waited for an answer. Blinking away the sweat that trickled into his eyes, he spat defiantly at the floor, the bloody splatter his only remaining form of physical resistance.
"Screw you," he gasped out, feeling the hot blood course down his ribcage. "Asshole."
A deliberate pause and Scott clenched his fists in anger as the blade was dragged slowly and emotionlessly through his forearm, sending a fresh stream of blood down toward his bound wrists and causing him to hiss with pain as stinging sweat slipped into another new wound.
He heard the agent move behind him and dropped his head, pushed to the edge by his calm and controlled approach in the face of Scott's own pain.
"Where is she, Scott?"
He groaned aloud at the question, looking angrily up at his captor again. "I don't care how many times you ask me the same goddamn question; I'm not telling you where she is." All pretences of innocence abandoned, he growled bitterly, "The bitch can starve to death for all I care. She was close to it anyway; another night and there won't be anything worth finding."
"Where is she?"
A smile touched his lips at the edge of tension he heard in his captor's voice and he forced himself to widen it to a smirk. "Why do you care anyway? She was nothing special - too thin really - and she would never keep her mouth closed." He met Booth's eyes. "I had to smack her around just to get her to shut-"
Booth's fist collided with his face before he could finish the sentence.
Spitting out more blood, King grinned broadly, laughing almost manically as he continued, "Although I could think of better things to do with her mouth than gag it..."
This time he was backhanded hard across the other cheek, making him laugh harder. Seeing the agent's hand tightening around the knife, he pressed on, truth giving way to pure provocation as he sought the ending he wanted, "She was a good one though. Worth the effort of getting her." He looked up at his captor, slowly licking his lips at the feigned memory. "Those breasts... wow. And those smooth, grippable thighs, and tight, hot-"
The blade came down.
An elated rush of victory shot through him as he prepared for the final blow, tilting his head up and smiling widely at the thought of release.
Release never came.
Expecting a blinding white light at the end of the tunnel, he was faced only with the stomach-clenching darkness of the agent's angry but controlled gaze as he stared down at him, holding the sharp blade carefully under his jaw. Before King could even slit his own throat, he'd moved it away, holding back and letting him wallow in his own helplessness.
Impotent and denied, King stared up at him and made one last shot at motivation. "So the thought of me screwing your girl isn't even enough to make you lose your cool. And here was me thinking you cared what happened to her." He feigned a shrug, wincing inwardly as he did so. "Guess I'll have to be more experimental next time. You got any sisters I could try, or-"
Booth's cold voice cut through his pathetic spiel, asking in a careful neutral tone, "How many people have you killed, Scott?"
Surprised by the question, King blinked silently as the agent continued, pacing a little in front of him and pressing for an answer, "How many? Eight? Ten? Twelve?"
Deciding that no worse could come from confessing, the lawyer admitted proudly, "Fourteen."
Booth raised his eyebrows and let out a low whistle. "Fourteen. Fourteen young women all killed at your hands." He paused, asking almost conversationally, "They were all women, right?"
Scott tilted his chin up, trying to rebuild his defiant stance as he answered briefly. "Yes."
The agent nodded. "And you what, killed them by cutting them into little pieces? Well, more medium-sized pieces really, but-"
"No," Scott interrupted with boldness that surprised even himself. "I killed them first - slit their throats - then cut them up."
Booth made a noise of comprehension. "Oh. You did the same thing for all of them?"
King nodded, confused where this was going, but felt his heart plummet once again when the agent stopped pacing and turned to him with a coldness in his eyes that made him swallow hard.
Voice low and intimidating, Booth continued, the questions becoming rhetorical and forceful, "So you made it quick? One clean slice, and you could step back like a farmer at the slaughterhouse? Never felt anyone's life slipping away beneath your fingers? Or heard that one sudden crack as your bare hands do the work of a noose?"
He moved closer, standing above him still but letting the blade rest against his cheek. King froze, eyes straight ahead and breaths shallow with fear as his words sank in. "Never taken a knife and made cut after cut, letting blood run until a final drop tips the scales and they're more dead than alive?"
His hand crept into King's hair, pulling his head back with mocking softness as he leaned in to murmur a final question in his ear, "How many people do you think I've killed, Scott?"
A shuddering, sobbing breath escaped from the lawyer's mouth and he closed his eyes as he felt the agent's warm breath brush his cheek, his words no longer a question but a command, "Tell me where she is."
January 31st 2009, 8.03pm
Siren blaring, he swung the SUV down onto a small dirt road, taking the potholes and road-bumps at a speed his suspension would later regret but which now seemed far too slow.
He heard the vests and equipment in the trunk bounce and rattle as the car shook roughly, and briefly thought about the inconspicuous black gym bag tucked under his gear. Part of his mind said he should've taken the time to dump it, but the other part, the part that had been screaming at him all evening that he was taking too long, overruled it, knowing that once he'd got the location, his own fate was always going to come second to that of his partner.
The abused car pulled up outside a large tin barn, the centerpiece to the abandoned farmyard that seemed bigger than it actually was in the cold winter darkness. Fitting the flashlight to his gun and pocketing a bottle of water, he set off into the barn, knowing that backup was somewhere on the road behind him and hoping neither they nor him would be too late.
The barn yielded no sign of life other than some mice cutting rustling paths through the remaining straw. Feeling overwhelmed by the task in hand, Booth tried to stop his heartbeat from blocking out any other sound and ignored the pessimistic whispers in his mind of what he would find behind each new door.
Guided by the flashlight beam, he shoved open the door at the far end of the barn and made his way slowly into the horses' stables. Hearing the doors rattle in the bitter wind, he shone his light round quickly, unsure whether he was trying to find friend or enemy in the darkness. Taking cover behind a pillar, he risked a shout into the darkness of the stalls, "Bones? Bones, you here? Bones?"
He received no shout or shots in return so edged out from his hiding spot and began his search, kicking open every rusty hinge and splintering door and having his hopes dashed anew every time his flashlight fell on empty straw. Reaching the second-to -ast stall in the stables, he kicked at it as he had the others, only to find it wouldn't budge.
A surge of desperate hope rose up in him and despite the odds against, he pounded on the door, calling loudly, "Bones! Bones, can you hear me?"
Undeterred by the lack of reply, he gripped his gun tightly and took a run at the heavy wooden door, almost shouting in relief when it caved and fell under the force of his shoulder, sending him stumbling into the straw.
It took him half a second to locate the curled, shivering body in the corner of the stall.
It felt like it took even less time than that for him to fall to his knees beside her, pulling off his jacket and lifting her and it into his arms in a fumbling attempt to keep her warm. Feeling her shiver still through the thickness of his clothes, he held her closer, his own arms still shaking with adrenaline as he rubbed soothing circles on her back and whispered comfortingly, "You're alright, Bones. It's over, it's alright, you're safe. It's all over."
The monologue was repeated again and again as he felt her burrow deeper and deeper into his arms for warmth. He made no mention of the bruises on her face, the dirt and cuts marring her pale arms, the severed rope still tied round her wrists, or the blood on her knuckles from an attempted escape, instead just repeating the same platitudes and rocking her until they both started to believe them.
He only dared to start believing everything was really okay when she looked up at him, blue eyes cloudy but focused as she murmured hoarsely, "Booth..."
He shushed her before she could get any further, pulling the water from his pocket and holding it up to her lips. "Shh, Bones, it's okay. The ambulance will be here soon but you need to drink this for me."
Her lack of argument was a testament to her condition, and he smiled tiredly as she sipped the water, coughing at the sensation at first but soon taking larger swallows and trying to speak again. Still curled in his jacket, she asked quietly, "How long have I been here?"
"Two and a half days," he answered quietly, brushing a stray hair out of her face as she took another drink.
Weak from lack of food, she raised her head to look at him, a small, grateful smile on her face, "How did you find me?"
Booth's face betrayed nothing, his usual comforting smile crossing his lips in reply to hers. "I got lucky."
Still smiling with relieved gratitude, she leaned against his chest, exhausted, and whispered honestly, "Thank you."
"Anytime, Bones," he murmured sincerely, resting his chin on the top of her head. "Anytime."
January 31st 2009, 7.25pm
The tangy taste of blood coated the back of Scott King's mouth but he could barely bring himself to move to spit it out.
Head lolling weakly to the side, he made an attempt, mostly just letting it drip pitifully from his lips to the burgundy carpet beneath his feet which was now stained a different shade of crimson. With effort, he wrenched himself back upright, screaming in protest as more blood slipped away.
Or rather, whimpering in protest. He'd given up on screaming a long time ago.
Head pounding and blackness dancing at the corner of his eyes, he let his head fall back and looked up at his seemingly inexhaustible tormentor. Choking on blood, he gasped out a last retort, "Shouldn't you be off-" He coughed weakly. "-rescuing her? I told you where she is."
Booth took a step closer, still holding the knife, and King flinched back, now afraid of the small weapon and what he knew the agent would do with it. Leaning in, he asked seriously, "Are you telling me the truth?"
Too weak to argue, King nodded, feeling the blade settle just above his adam's apple. "I'm telling the truth. She's there. I killed all of them there." A delirious laugh broke from his throat and his neck swayed dangerously close to the knife. "It was fun too." He grinned sadly. "While it lasted. All that blood..."
Booth paused, knife still at his throat and King smiled up at him, teeth and lips stained drunkenly with blood. "You want to kill me," he croaked painfully, blood trickling down his chin. "You want to take that knife and slit my throat for what I did to all those girls."
He coughed again, but then his voice became more like his own as it taunted, "Would've done it to your girl too. She would've been fun to kill; that long pale throat just begging to be cut." His smile faded as his eyes seemed to focus on Booth for a moment. "But then you came along..." The grin returned, just as mad and just as wild. "And I met someone who's even more screwed up than I am."
The defense left Booth's mouth before he could stop it. "I'm not-"
He cut himself off, but still couldn't resist the righteous explanation, "I was just doing what I had to."
King's laugh pierced the apartment, just as cocky as he had been in the interrogation room earlier that day. "Doing what you had to? You're justifying yourself to the man you've spent an hour cutting to pieces? You're a coward. Cloaking murder behind justice because you think it'll make you a bad person." He laughed again and Booth's jaw tightened at the sound. "News flash, Agent Booth: you already are a bad person."
Booth clenched his teeth, unconsciously digging the knife further into his exposed neck. King moved his head back, bloody smile widening as he egged him on, "One more won't make a difference, will it? Do it; make sure I'll never come after that pretty little scientist of yours again. Do it. Do it!"
Breathing heavily, the agent grabbed him by the collar, pulling him closer and twisting the blade so one single slice would be enough. Staring at the jumping pulse in his throat, he hesitated, hand tight on the knife but mind swirling with emotions.
King leaned forward, trying desperately to press himself onto the weapon and giving last minute rationales as he did so, his voice cold and logical, "They're going to kill me anyway if they get me to court. Needle, electric chair, shank in the showerhouse - all you're doing is speeding up the process..."
Booth's hand wavered, and so did King's patience, causing him to snap with angry frustration. "Do it! We both want this! I'd have killed your girl without looking back if I had the chance!"
His voice became sincere, a mixture of bitter respect and raging anger, and his eyes locked with Booth's for the final time. "I don't want to die by lethal injection ten years from now. If I'm going to go, I want to go at the hands of a killer like you. Kill me," he spat, twisted smile in place, "you ruthless bastard-"
The apartment fell silent as the bloody knife dropped soundlessly to the floor.
Thoughts and comments gratefully received.