The drive from 105 Barr Street in Lexington to 3000 Ash Avenue in Peewee Valley, Kentucky took a normal person approximately one hour and thirteen minutes. With the two vehicles they had, plus the police escort, Tim figured they might make it in an hour and seven.
It was a relatively straight shot down I-64 W to Route 60, and Tim thought the terrain was stupid because it left them open to attack from all sides at all times. Still, it also meant he'd hopefully have a clear shot when he needed one. And even if the shot was a little muddy, he had every intention of taking it anyway.
Mark Dawson had to die if Kathryn was going to live. This was a fact; something Tim had known for a long time, and he was glad he was finally going to have the chance to make it happen. Even if Kathryn still went to prison for the rest of her life and he never saw her again, knowing she was still breathing would be his reward for killing the wily motherfucker and putting an end to all the misery he'd ever caused.
The night before Kathryn's transport, Tim removed his favorite rifle from the Marshals' armory—the Remington 700P. It wasn't his preferred weapon in every circumstance, and there were certainly more robust sniper rifles available, but it was light and easy to maneuver with, and Tim figured he'd probably need to be mobile if they were able to draw Mark Dawson out.
As he cleaned and serviced the weapon at his dining room table, Tim thought about everything that would likely go wrong during this stupid fucking operation. And every time he watched Kathryn's head explode or her chest burst open in his mind, he felt like someone was taking an ice pick and sliding it carefully between his ribs, puncturing his lungs just enough to make it impossible to breathe. Not enough for him to die, though, and so he watched her various violent demises on a loop in his brain.
He should have let her martyr herself in that field. She could have bled out on the stupid goldenrod bushes and his life would be back to normal by now. Maybe he would have had a few sleepless nights and had to go back to see that douchebag therapist for a while, but by now, he'd be picking up cute girls at the bar again and arresting Harlan County idiots for fun.
Easy. Detached. Predictable.
Instead, he was wrestling with the thought that he gave a shit about what happened to Kathryn tomorrow. He was busy wrangling his emotions so he could fucking think straight enough to hopefully—hopefully, if he was lucky—save her idiot skin and let her live long enough to see the inside of another prison cell.
It was a long night. A night that ended with a bleak grey sunrise and a hot coffee with sugar and a shot of Jim. All the reading, the review, the preparation; Tim had done everything he possibly could to ensure the integrity of the mission.
But if Tim had known what he did now—if he'd had the fucking brains to figure it out ahead of time, he would have realized their route to the prison didn't matter. His weapon of choice was inconsequential, the amount of caffeine in his cup unimportant, and the angle of the vehicles as they approached the last turn toward KCIW irrelevant.
Because Sarah Geller never even made it out of the parking garage.
#
Tim didn't like to be surprised. Maybe that, in the end, was the thing he disliked most about Kathryn all together.
She was always catching him off guard. The first time she'd kissed him, the way she'd changed her voice in the conference room, when she'd told him about her tattoos—it felt like she was constantly forcing him up onto his toes, craning his neck just so he could see over the curtain to figure out what her next act was going to be.
But as she lay on the cement, too much blood draining from her body and staining it dark brown, he realized that Kathryn throwing herself in front of a bullet should have been the exact thing he expected from her.
What a fucking pain in the ass.
"Gutterson!"
Tim ducked his head back around the side of the SUV, and found Reed looking at him between the vehicles, his glock in his hands.
"You see him?" Tim asked.
Reed shook his head, "Not from this angle. He's not alone, though."
Tim already knew that, of course. Because his eyes had met hers the moment it had all gone to hell.
Delia was here.
Tim remained crouched low as he ran toward Reed, eventually sitting himself directly next to the Agent, their backs to a black SUV whose windows were now functionally useless. He knew Art and Rachel were somewhere behind him, a couple of rows down, but he couldn't see them.
A few exploratory shots rang out, but it didn't sound like anyone was hitting anything, which was both a relief and an irritation.
"Is Geller dead?" Reed asked.
"I don't know," Tim said, and it was a low growl between clenched teeth.
"She took that bullet for you."
Tim didn't answer. He didn't have to; Reed hadn't been asking a question, he'd been stating an obvious fact. Tim had watched in horror as Kathryn stepped between his body and the projectile, but he hadn't seen exactly where she'd been hit. He only knew there was a lot of blood and she hadn't moved once she'd gone down, landing heavy and hard against the pavement.
None of them had been prepared for an ambush before they'd even made it to the street. With all the security surrounding the courthouse already, it would take them days to figure out how Dawson had managed to make his way in, though Tim was relatively certain they could thank somehow Delia for his presence.
It was probably going to take even longer to figure out why he'd aimed for Tim instead of Kathryn.
"We've got to find Dawson," Reed said, and Tim nodded.
The men took off in opposite directions, running low between the rows of cars. Tim heard glass shatter behind him, but he didn't pause to see what was happening. He needed to find a good place to set up so he could finally put an end to this bullshit.
#
Battles are messy and confusing. No matter how much training you've undergone or how well-prepared you think you are, your first real combat situation will have you feeling whiplashed and ragged. Even after many, there was no accounting for the disorienting way the sounds of bullets ricocheting off different materials echoed around you, making it impossible to know where they were all coming from. There was no way to filter out the shouting of your comrades or the cacophony of your own footsteps. All you could do was breathe and trust that your brain and your body knew what they were doing.
Tim had been through plenty of battles of one kind or another, but each one set his ears ringing and wreaked havoc on his nerves. He could hear sirens somewhere in the distance, and Art was shouting instructions at someone behind him, but Tim's heart was racing as he sprinted between the cars, trying to keep his head low and out of the sight of Dawson's rifle, so these things only vaguely registered somewhere in the back of his mind; unimportant information that wasn't going to save his life.
That wasn't going to save Kathryn.
When he made it to the end of the row of cars, Tim spun around and set his rifle against the back windshield of the last vehicle, a little red '90s Honda, making sure the angle of his position would make it almost impossible for anyone to hit him.
Through his scope, Tim could see the other Marshals and FBI agents clearly, but he wasn't looking for them. He wanted Dawson.
He wanted Delia.
Tim scanned the area methodically, waiting for the glimmer of a scope as it caught the light or the sheen of a sweaty, unfamiliar forehead.
Suddenly, a shot whizzed by Tim's head, missing him by mere inches to imbed itself in the cement beam behind him. The shot was close enough to make his ears hurt, but it was all he needed to find at least one of the assailants, and he was pleased when he swung his rifle to follow the bullet's trajectory and he saw Mark Dawson's face appear in his crosshairs.
Tim had to duck because he knew there was another shot coming. It flew into the concrete next to the first one, and would have hit him if he hadn't moved. As soon as it flew by him, Tim moved a few inches to the left and stood back up, bringing the scope to his eye in a graceful arc.
He knew Dawson would be on the move, and when he looked back at the assassin's previous location, sure enough, the man was gone.
But Tim had a starting point now, and he swept his rifle across the tops of the vehicles, skipping easily over the heads of the men and women of the Marshals service. He made sure to keep moving, however slowly, so it would be difficult for Dawson to take another good shot. It took him longer than he'd like, but on his second sweep, Tim finally found his target. Dawson was running full-out for the staircase at the opposite end of the parking structure.
"Gotcha."
Tim calculated Dawson's speed, decided on his shot, and pulled. It took only a few seconds for his bullet to hit its intended target. Mark Dawson didn't even have time to register the pain of the round as it pierced his flesh before it severed his spinal cord.
Deputy Gutterson didn't miss, and Dawson had learned that shit the hard way as his body flailed at the top of the stairs, and then tumbled lifelessly down them.
Tim didn't envy whatever crime scene technician would be tasked with scraping his gooey, broken remains from the metal railing and concrete steps.
#
Tim moved cautiously, now, more concerned about Delia's stealth than her speed. He'd only seen her for a second, and that had been what felt like ages ago. There was no telling where she was now, he could only hope he might get a little lucky.
He could have maintained his position; maybe he should have. But he was hoping for the chance to check on Kathryn, or to at least get an update from someone who might have seen where she'd been hit.
Because the cold ache in the pit of his stomach was telling him she was dead, and that it was his fault.
He'd made it all the way to Art without seeing any sign of Delia, or getting a good look at Kathryn's body.
"You good, Tim?"
"Yeah, Chief. You?"
"I'm gettin' too old for this shit. Otherwise fine."
"Have you seen Dawson's accomplice?"
The older man shook his head, and the sour feeling in Tim's stomach intensified. It was feasible Delia had already managed to escape.
"Where's Reed?"
"I haven't seen him in a minute," Art said, but he nodded over his left shoulder. "He went that way."
Tim followed Art's directions, creeping along silently, rifle still in hand. He realized, belatedly, that he was also moving back toward the last place he'd seen Kathryn. His heart raced the closer he got. He paused at the last possible moment, hoping that when he turned the corner around the front of the SUV, Kathryn would be sitting upright, cross-legged and pissed off at his dumbassedry.
But when Tim peered around the bumper, Kathryn was still prone on the ground, and nothing had changed except the size of the stain beneath her body. Tim couldn't even tell from this distance whether she was still breathing. He began moving toward her, intent on checking her pulse, when Delia's voice crept down his spine like ice water.
"I told you, Corporal, that if anything happened to Kat, I'd come looking for you."
Tim spun around, but he wasn't quick enough. The butt of Delia's handgun came down hard over his left eye, and his vision blurred first with the beginnings of a concussion, and then with the metallic sting of blood.
#
Muscle memory is an important thing for a lot of reasons. Mostly, because it will save your fucking life when your ears are ringing and you can't see straight.
As Delia moved to point her gun at him, Tim swung his legs in a long sweeping arc against the ground, which sent her toppling to the side. Before she could regain her balance fully, Tim managed to stand and wrap his arms around her waist, driving her backward into the hood of the nearest car.
This move was especially useful because it not only knocked the wind out of her for a moment, but it sent the gun in her hands skittering across the concrete and away from her trigger finger.
Delia was a pro, however, and she soon had the advantage over Tim, who was not an expert in hand-to-hand combat. There was a reason Tim was a sniper; he was a lot better with a rifle than with his fists.
And his fucking ears were still ringing.
Perhaps thankfully, Delia's fighting style didn't involve trading brute force blows. It was more a matter of controlling momentum and restricting her opponent's range of motion. She kept trying to get her arms under Tim's so she could put him in a headlock, but his muscles knew this and moved instinctually out of her grasp, even as his vision swam.
The problem was her movements seemed to be speeding up as his slowed down, and he knew it was only a matter of time before his arms could no longer outsmart hers.
Tim needed to get his hands on his weapon, but it was all he could do to keep her forearm off his throat, and he had no time to draw.
"Deputy Gutterson!"
The brief moment of distraction hearing his name brought with it was all Delia needed; she turned him so his back was to her, snaking her left hand under his armpit and then behind his head to clasp her right bicep, which she'd used to pin his shoulder in a painfully twisted position with his right arm raised high overhead.
Now Tim's body was between hers and Reed's gun.
Reed, for all that he was trying to help, had made Tim a hostage, and Tim was pretty pissed about it.
"Why didn't you just shoot her?" he asked, irate and still bleeding into his eye, so his vision was obscured on the left side.
"We can't all be as good a marksman as you, I'm afraid. I didn't have a shot." Tim knew maybe he was being paranoid, but something in Reed's voice made him think this was an exaggeration; that Reed hadn't shot her not because he couldn't, but because he didn't want to.
Tim remembered Delia was worth more to Reed alive than dead. He wondered if the same could be said for himself.
"Now, Ms…"
"You can call me Delia."
Reed nodded, "Ms. Delia, I'm gonna have to ask you to let Deputy Gutterson go."
Tim didn't need to see her face to hear the sneer in her voice. "That's not going to happen, Agent Reed. Mr. Gutterson and I,"—man, she spat his name out of her mouth like she'd swallowed a fly; Tim almost laughed at the ferocity and the accusatory tone—"have some unfinished business to attend to." Except he remembered he was too busy hoping not to die to really be amused.
Tim wondered if Reed recognized her from the grainy black and white photo. He wondered if after she killed him, the weird FBI Agent would be able to figure out exactly why. Reed was clever, so Tim decided to have faith in his sleuthing abilities. It was a small comfort in his current predicament to know his killer would one day stand trial.
Tim could hear the shuffling of other Agents and Marshals as they surrounded Delia. He was not happy in the least that he was at the center of the clamor. He should have stayed out of the way and waited for his shot instead of running back into the fray.
His desire to check on Kathryn was probably what was going to get him killed. Or at least maimed.
Everyone stood in tense silence. None of the LEOs here had Tim's eye, and he knew they would all be too chickenshit to pull for fear of hitting him instead. Delia was surrounded, now, and he didn't want to think about what that meant for his own well-being.
She didn't seem like the type of person to go down without a fight.
Tim's assumption was proven correct as she pulled his gun from his hip holster and brought it up to his chin, his head and left arm still held tightly in place so he couldn't escape.
"Unless you'd like to see Deputy Gutterson's face blown off, I suggest you give me a clear path out of here." Tim had to admire Delia's calm intonation. There were few people who could sound like they were ordering a sandwich while they were threatening to murder someone at point blank range.
Tim thought he heard something rustling behind him, but the sound was so quiet he couldn't tell what it was. Maybe it was just the early stages of his concussion practicing the auditory hallucinations he was sure to enjoy for the next few days.
And then it happened.
He felt the jolt of Delia's body as something forceful turned it, and when her grip loosened, he spun around to disarm her.
The bullet in her right leg had already done that for him, however, and so he ended up simply catching her body as it tumbled forward and she grabbed at the wound, screaming. Reed and Art and Rachel descended on the pair, tearing Delia away from Tim and slamming her face onto the hood of the nearest vehicle as they restrained her.
Tim looked behind him, and there she was.
Kathryn, twisted on the ground in a puddle of her own blood, holding Delia's gun in her hands.
There were tears streaking through the sticky red mess on her face, and it made Tim feel like a failure and a dipshit because he'd been unable to keep her from harm. Because she'd had to save him, instead.
Because she'd been forced to betray the only person she loved in order to do it.
#
When the EMTs finally got the clear to come up to the parking level they were on, they had to start giving Kathryn blood right away. Tim watched the crew work furiously over her, and his heart sank into his toes.
Her consciousness had only lasted a minute or two before she'd passed out again. It looked like she'd hit her head pretty hard when she'd gone down the first time, which was likely why she hadn't moved.
He tried to find solace and humor in the fact that they'd sustained matching head wounds. And that his stupid mistake hadn't quite killed her.
At least not yet.
She'd taken the bullet to her left shoulder, and her prognosis, though not necessarily dire, was also not good. Recovery from that wound could never be assured, and as they rushed her away in an ambulance—sirens blaring—Tim felt a strong desire to go with her, even as the EMT in front of him worked to close the gash over his eye with a butterfly bandage.
"You're gonna need to undergo a concussion evaluation," she said, and Tim made a noise that might have sounded like acquiescence if you didn't think about it too much.
When the tech moved away, Tim's hand flew up to the bandage and pressed on it. The sharp zip of the sting shot through the whole left side of his body. It made his fingers tingle.
"I don't think you're supposed to poke it," Reed said, smirking at him with more amusement than Tim felt was strictly professional.
"You a doctor, now?"
Reed leaned against the car next to Tim. He didn't say anything, but he was chewing the inside of his lip like he was eating lunch, so Tim figured if he waited long enough, something would come tumbling out of his mouth.
"So Geller took a bullet from Dawson for you, and then she shot that woman."
Tim swallowed and nodded.
"But you're still telling me the two of you only worked together once, with Romero?"
Tim nodded again. He knew Kathryn would be pissed at him if he deviated from their story now.
"And she pummeled Chad Anderson, a man twice her size, with her fists until he nearly had to be put on life support."
"Can't judge a book by its cover, Agent Reed. Or a person's strength from their stature." Even as he said it, it sounded dumb. But it was, technically speaking, quite true.
It was Reed's turn to nod, and the quiet little smile he sported gave Tim hope that maybe this was all going to be okay, in the end.
"I'll do what I can for Geller."
"Assuming she lives." The words felt like barbs wedged painfully between Tim's teeth, but they were necessary. Because it wasn't a given that Kathryn was going to make it. And if she didn't, the responsibility for her death would lie squarely between Tim Gutterson's shoulders.
Although… and he wondered if it was too much to hope for.
"Yes," Reed conceded, "If she lives. Between what happened here today and her cooperation with Vasquez, and with Anderson dead already… I don't think she'll be in for much time, at least. Might even be able to keep her out altogether if David will work with me."
Tim looked Agent Reed in the eyes, and his gaze was level and serious. "If she dies, though…" he trailed off, kicking his toe into the ground, "No charges, no… anything." He watched as Reed considered his words, brow furrowing comically as he did so, and Tim wondered if the man understood what he meant. Reed was still a strange guy—and a smart one—so Tim decided to believe there was a chance. "You still want to recruit her?" Tim asked, shifting the subject.
Reed clapped Tim on the back, smirking. "We can't tell what the future holds, Deputy Gutterson, we've just gotta roll with the punches we are dealt today," he paused, "or yesterday, as the case may be."
Tim watched Reed walk off to speak with one of his Agents, and the weary sniper pinched his shoulders together to crack his back. He swept his eyes over toward the second ambulance, the one with an injured Delia strapped down to a gurney. Their eyes met, and the vitriol in her stare made his nape go cold.
After all Kathryn had done to keep Tim's head above water, he knew Delia could plunge him under the tide with relative ease.
It seemed Kathryn was not the only one with an uncertain future.
Reed made his way over to the transport and climbed into the back much too gracefully, giving Delia a patented Stanford smile. The fact that he was accompanying Delia wherever they were taking her did nothing to assuage Tim's concerns. He was grateful when they closed the doors and the ambulance drove away without its lights on.
It was barely past 8 AM and already Tim Gutterson needed a stiff drink and a nap.
