Promises broken, promises kept.
Black Claw is on the ropes, but now, Judge Stancroft has a problem.
After Grimm S06E03, O Captain, My Captain.
I had this rolling around in my head, and then the Writers Anonymous Forum decided on a Night Owl Challenge. I fleshed it out and got it written, then realized the Night Owl Challenge has a maximum length of 4K words and this is right on the nose of 7k.. Oh well, such is life.
-/-/-/-/-/-
Judge Stancroft's black Lincoln lurched to a stop inside the concrete expanse of his garage, marking an end to a very long day at the end of a much longer month. The last orange embers of dusk had long since smothered in the early spring mist and extinguished in a last flush of reds before dying in a haze of purples below Portland's skyline flickering with the glow of electric lights. The warmth inside held the promise of driving off the permanent chill soaking through his coat and pants like the freezing sea fog drooping the spruce and fir boughs.
He pulled three brown paper bags out of the passenger's seat and let the bouquet of dry aged beef waft into his sensitive nostrils. The perfectly marbled ribeyes, salted liberally and pan seared medium rare, would pair perfectly with the big Idaho baked potatoes topped with butter, cheddar cheese, sour cream, and fresh chives, and the bottle of Willamette Valley Merlot. He could almost taste the rich beefiness of frying steaks and the cakey scent of potatoes baking.
Becky wouldn't be home for another two hours. The potatoes would be done by then.
A chill ran up his spine. One he hadn't been able to shake since the grand jury.
That damned Renard. Why did he have to listen to those God damned European crazies and send his own Grimm, the one which until a month ago was in his back pocket, raging after us. It's like the fool had forgotten Rule One of being Wesen: You don't bring the axe on your own head.
Yes, THAT Grimm, the one Renard had made a public spectacle by kidnapping his girlfriend AND son... The same one who had then killed every Black Claw operative associated with The North Precinct, all the rest of Black Claw's henchmen, AND murdered Bonaparte in one night, and then defeated Portland's entire SERE team, singlehanded, the very next day.
And now The Grimm knows the name of The Honorable Judge Stancroft. My signature is the one plastered all over dozens of warrants, like the one nailed to the front door of the Grimm's now-ruined house, not Renard's.
That's why parents teach their kids Grimm stories. You don't thumb your nose at a hurricane, cliff dive into a volcano, and you don't fuck with fucking Grimms.
Or their women and children... Seriously. Stupid. Especially when that woman is an actual witch who is spiteful and crazy as the day is long. I mean come on... It's not enough to mess with a Grimm, sure, let's go after his Hexenbiest girlfriend while we're at it.
His mind drifted. Renard still swore Black Claw's entire downfall was her fault... There he was, stuck in his chambers with Renard railing on and on about them dragging her onto their side, yet unable to voice a word of it. You couldn't say anything to Bonaparte, any of them really. True believers.
The Bastard firmly believed that their fate was sealed when they carried the cursed thing into their camp. Chaos incarnate... She was entropy, the irresistible law of nature which dissipated the powerful and decayed kingdoms... And if that wasn't enough, kidnapping her turned the Grimm into the black horse of the apocalypse, and whipped him into a white hot killing rage.
And that was their actual plan? You couldn't tell those crazies anything. Now, they're gone and we're left holding the bag.
His hands were shaking as he poured a second tall bourbon over four ice cubes.
His eyes drifted closed as the oaky, sweet, nutty flavor washed over his palate. It's scent slowly banished the stink of justice from of his sinuses. And because he was Wesen, he got the Unwashed Skalengeks, Klaustreich, Lausenschlanger, and the rest of their kind, reeking of sweat, urine, sex, vomit, stale beer, and disinfectant spray, dragged out of holding cells one after another to stink up his bench. Every one of them accosting his poor nose.
Enough of that. Dinner.
Soon, the potatoes were salted, wrapped in foil, and stacked on the four-hundred degree oven's middle rack. He ambled out back, scissors in hand, and returned with a bunch of tiny green wisps that left his fingers perfumed with the savory, fruity scent. True chives, not garlic or onion chives were his favorite.
Next stop, two hours of peace and quiet. The brown La-Z-Boy recliner nestled him in the quiet darkness of the living room. The gentle scent of hardwood ashes, leather, and bourbon soothed his frayed nerves as he sank into the cushions.
His eyes dipped shut, savoring the darkness, as he sipped and then exhaled the tension out of his shoulders. His eyes drifted open and shut two more times, as he smelled for the potatoes. Plenty of time.
His eyes drifted open a third time, and he froze at the blurry shadow, sitting quietly in the great chair in the opposite corner of the room.
"It's a nice gesture, I do appreciate a good steak."
He transformed, sheeting his body in brindle fur. His nose and jaw elongated into the black tipped canine snout of a Hundjager. His lip perked, baring a white fang as a low grumble rolled out. He scented the air, but his sinuses were still wrecked from the abuses of the day. Cops, prisoners, cheap perfume, and burnt coffee. He shuddered at his own reflection hovering in the infinite abyss of the Grimm's black eyes. "Are you here to kill me?"
The shadow waited for a moment. "I guess that depends."
"Please, you've got me. Don't involve my wife and children in this."
"You went after my family."
"Bonaparte was an animal. You don't know what he did to the children of people who didn't go along. He made us watch. They say you killed all of them."
The shadow nodded as he transformed back into his human form.
"And him."
The shadow inhaled slowly then let his breath trickle out, sending the odor of stale coffee floating across the room. "Do you need to keep it that way?"
"Do you?"
The Grimm grinned. "Some people have their reasons. I could care less, but I was there."
His eyebrow quirked. "Who then."
"Think about it."
He scratched his chin.
"There was only one other person."
"Renard?"
The shadow shrugged.
The corner of the judge's mouth perked as he nodded. Renard needed a scape goat, and they were holding his daughter. "So what are you here for?"
"Rule of law. Look, I'm no Batman. I've got no illusions. For all his supposed heroism, Gotham was a worse place with him than without him. He undermined the police and destroyed people's faith in the systems of government. We need to get law and justice working again, for everyone. People need to believe in the police and in the courts."
A snort escaped before he caught it. "The irony... Coming from a Grimm."
"I've stood before your bench hundreds of times, briefing you for oversight. You issued the warrants. Nothing was done in a vacuum."
"So, what about us? Wesen? Are you going to kill us?"
"I'm as much a part of the Wesen community as you are. We need people who know the truth about the world as it exists, who understand it, and the challenges we face."
"We?"
"The Wesen Council was assassinated and we need to reestablish oversight, at least locally. I'm guessing a solid two years to elect representatives and seat another council. Then, of course, the question will be, where."
His forefinger and thumb touched his chin as the words soaked in. Reestablishing a new Wesen Council hadn't occurred to him... But nature abhors a vacuum, and all. Chaos and infighting were bound to crop up in it's wake. They would need local leadership, and now, the offer had been tendered.
He squinted into the darkness at the new revelation. The Grimm hardly looked like the force of nature sort, more like a bank teller. It didn't make any sense, how did this guy manage to take out their SERE team? So much for Renard's assurances.
The grating screech of metal on rock broke the silence. The reflection of the kitchen counters shined in a pair of thin, semicircular arcs.
The back of his throat was itching and the air laid thick in his lungs. The smell of old leather, steel, and wood wafted into his nostrils, and then another scent, blood. His heart was pounding inside his head.
The Grimm's axe loomed large, in case the message wasn't clear.
"Can I count on you?"
He stared at the mantle clock. An eternity had passed, yet the black minute hand barely crept across the next Roman numeral.
"How's Julia doing at OSU? Marketing if I remember."
"Leave my daughter out of this."
The shadow looked up at the clock and queasiness settled into pit of his stomach.
"We've got another half hour, then we can sit around and discuss the situation over those dry aged steaks. Maybe your wife wants to offer her perspective."
He couldn't detach his gaze from the brown pock marks dotting the old battle axe. Blood pits. The lump was back in his throat as the minute hand swept past another numeral. Quit stalling. The last thing you want is Becky to show up while the Grimm is here.
"They took Julie."
The Grimm nodded, knowingly. "And if you had your daughter back..."
His breath hitched as his eyes lifted. He had all but given up hope. "That would give me significantly more... Leeway."
"Where?"
He sighed and scrubbed his thumb and forefinger into his eyes. "Supposedly Seattle. I don't know for sure. They wouldn't tell me."
"Typical. Keep you cooperating while they use her to attract and hold the men which fill their ranks. Women bring the promise of a real life, not just some nut job sausage party."
He bristled at the notion that his daughter was simply bait or a prize... But it was better than what they used some women for.
"I'm going to need all the information you can get me. Photos, friends, drivers license, emails, phone numbers, social media accounts. Everything. Both for her and Black Claw. Talk to your wife, get her phone number."
"That will take me a few days."
"You don't think they won't run some sort of Jim Jones or Waco stunt? Our window of opportunity is closing quickly. And when they contact you, for any reason, I need to know. Immediately."
"They will kill her if they find out."
The Grimm shrugged. "Their ship is sinking."
And that doesn't make her chances better.
He waited, but the Grimm didn't offer anything else. "How do I contact you?"
White flickered in the man's fingers. A small paper rectangle. "If any word of this gets out... Not Renard, no one." The axe sang a surreal melody as the Grimm scraped and drummed across it. With that, Detective Nick Burkhardt ambled past him and out the front door.
His heart was stuck in his throat as the axe passed by. It was giant in the kitchen's dim glow. The scent of blood was fresh as the Grimm tucked the business card into his palm.
-/-/-/-/-/-
No amount of bourbon would erase the vision wrecking his mind. He had paid an IT man from Homeland Security, reputed to be the best, to dig up everything they could. They hacked every single laptop, tablet, and phone camera in five blocks of Seattle apartments, recorded their live feeds, and hit the jackpot.
The green striped linoleum floor gave way to yellow stove and refrigerator. There, in the middle of the room, sat a raggedy girl.
A tear rolled out of the corner of his daughter's sunken eyes, following a wet trail down the side of her nose to her purple mottled chin. Her broken lips trembled as a stout woman, wearing a permanent scowl, sewed a white cloth vest, full of empty pockets, around her chest. Soon they were stuffing it full of gray paste shrouded in nails, washers, bb's, and then stuffing pencil sized metal tubes connected to electrical wires into the gray paste. She was begging now, but the only answer was the crack of the brown haired man's knuckles across her flushed cheek. "This is your most important mission. Your name will live on forever when Wesen remember the sacrifice paid for our freedom."
Damned Petrovitch, he swore they would protect her!
She jerked to run. Petrovitch grabbed her by the hair and slammed her back into the wooden chair while the woman straightened her arm, cinched a rubber tourniquet, and injected a syringe of buff liquid into the crook of her elbow.
Heroine.
The smooth brown hair that had once draped her shoulders was matted, sticking to her neck. The girl's lazy eyes drifted shut. She mumbled as they connected red, blue, yellow, and white wires to the brass terminals of a black box the size of a deck of cards.
-/-/-/-/-/-
He sat in his big Lincoln with the headlights flashing off a half dozen mailboxes. The events of that day replayed. Why did his bailiff's hands suddenly smell like kerosene? Why had his court reporter stopped to oil her machine. He froze behind the wooden ramparts of his bench when the defense attorney jerked a can of hairspray from her purse, and he nearly shot a hole in his door when Judge Clay banged, beckoning him for their Wednesday afternoon liquid lunch.
He gawked at the headlights of every single passing car, scouring his brain for scant traces of familiarity. He stared at the shadow of the pink scooter's rider, trying to decide if she was the purple haired girl on the bicycle leaving the courthouse. He circled the block twice, watching the outline of a cable guy through the fog. Why was he out so late? Was he unhooking his ladder from the thick bottom wire, or doing surveillance? Was that actually a clip board or was it a bomb? The neighbor and his brown dog appeared out of the night. Why was he wearing an orange sweat shirt, he always wore blue. Was that some sort of code?
He wasn't going to slow down at his driveway. He really wanted to be some place empty and open. Maybe a cop bar where everyone's face was familiar. Instead, craning through the darkness for flickers of motion inside was giving him a headache. The Lincoln coasted across the bump at the curb, crossing the line of drooping spruce and fir trees, past the bushes lining the brick walkway in front of his picture window. His fingers found the orange button on the console beside the visor, and the garage door lurched upwards. The welcoming glow beckoned him out of the endless dark mist, but his knuckles were white against the pistol in his lap.
He rubbed, folded, and straightened the Grimm's dog eared business card. It was now smudged brown and the name smeared.
His brain itched. He had to break free of the visions wracking every waking second, to bring his daughter home.
He was rocking in the seat as the cellphone slid into his hand. The card flipped over and over as he tapped out the number and the phone rang. Once, twice, and then a man's voice.
"Your honor."
"I have to get her. I have to come along. She needs me."
"The less you know right now, the better."
"I haven't slept in two days. I can't shake the sight of them jacking her full of heroine and sewing bombs to her."
Gnawing silence answered him, and then he blurted out, "Just tell me. If you can't do it, I'm leaving now."
"Two dead is worse than one."
"This is my daughter. I'm leaving, with or without you."
"Why this, now?"
"I pulled every favor and string I had... FBI, Homeland, private investigators. I got more... Information."
"And?"
"It's... Shall we say... Compromising."
"Meet me in half an hour. Just you, and everything you have."
-/-/-/-/-/-
Moonlight was cutting halos in the freezing mist crusting on his hair and overcoat. Each cloud of breath assimilated into the night fog. His eyes twitched. Two taxis, ambling through a bar, and hopping a trolley should have thrown off any tails on the way to the meeting in the inky black night.
He surveyed the surrounding park from his perch on the white bench. The scent of marijuana smoke and stale beer wafted past. He groaned. Ridiculous. I'm stuck in the middle of every low budget detective movie, waiting for the secret meeting. His fingers brushed over the manilla envelope and then shook white dust off his coat. If that went public, there would be no more career, much less as a judge.
His stomach knotted as the hands on his watch glared back at him. Just go. Waste of time...
Ok, ten more minutes.
The refrain repeated three more times, and then he scowled and drummed his fingers.
He stood, nearly knocking over a police officer patrolling the park.
"Whoah! Sir, we've had some reports of illegal activity going on. I'm going to need to see some ID, please."
He looked around, confused, and then fumbled for his wallet. "Oh, of course."
The manilla envelope slid through his fingers as the wallet came out. He jerked down and the officer held out a hand. "Please, sir."
His throat was closing fast as the officer flipped through several pictures, and then stared at the ID. "Judge Stancroft? Please turn around, spread your legs, and face the park bench."
"I'm sure there's been some misunderstanding."
The officer's hand closed on the revolver in his pocket.
"I've got a permit for that."
"Then you already know carrying a firearm within three hundred yards of a public school is a felony."
Julie's bruised face flashed before his eyes and he lunged to free himself. Within a second, his face slammed into the cigarette butt and beer stained mush. The officer was twisting his arms into hand cuffs. "Do you know who I am? I'll have your badge."
"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and..."
"Do you know who those pictures are? My daughter. She's in trouble, and I.."
"Save it for the judge... Ha. Get it."
He shook and groused several more times before being stuffed into the back of the police cruiser. "I need to call my lawyer."
"I'm pretty sure you know the process. There will be plenty of time for your phone call after booking."
"Do you understand? My daughter."
"Sir, This would be a good time to practice those miranda rights..."
He groaned against the protest of his wrists and shoulders as the darkness swallowed him.
-/-/-/-/-/-/-
The lights of Portland were sinking into the distance as freezing sea fog etched shadows onto the windows of the police cruiser. The street light filled neighborhoods gave way to the endless shroud of black fog as they clacked over the Willamette river bridge.
He squinted and struggled against the steel cuffs. "I-5? We're going the wrong direction."
"There's a crash in The Pearl."
Soon, they passed into the concrete jungle of the Columbia River port. Barges sounded their horns, ominous, loud and low, as the patrol car rumbled past endless acres of corrugated shipping containers. He squinted, and his throat started closing.
The turning basin? We just crossed the state line into Washington.
Shit.
His mind flew a thousand miles an hour as the steel claws of reality pierced his rib cage. There was a leak somewhere! How? Who sold me out?
"I need to speak with Detective Nick Burkhardt.."
"No problem... I'll see if he's available."
"It's about time."
"Once we get to the station."
Weight smothered his chest. The only person he told was his wife, Becky. Why would she have given him up? He held her close, nestled her into his chest just last night. She was hopeful at the prospect of recovering Julie, and promised she would not tell a single soul. Who got to her? Who was left?
They don't cuff you to give you an award. Think! Make small talk. You know most of the police in Portland.
"Officer, I didn't catch your name."
"Wu."
Was Wu Black Claw? He remembered a rumor that he was some sort of weird Wesen nobody had heard of. Was Renard calling the shots with Petrovitch at the helm.
The black and white was now cruising at a solid eighty up I-5. Green flashes of Washington exit signs rolled by. Arnada, Shumway, and Hazel Dell. They were heading North, past shining suburban neighborhoods full of houses and strip malls. Gone were the broken shambles of Black Claw's failure in Portland. They were headed straight into the jaws of their stronghold in Washington.
An hour later, the bright strip malls on the Washington side of Portland gave way to the cliffs and lush expanse of the Columbia river corridor running up the border. Black night shrouded them on both sides with only the occasional glint of moonlight off the white capped river below.
Every bump jarred his wrists and shoulders as they crossed out of the river gorge into the endless miles of farmland and commercial timber. Exits were far apart in the empty country. The night had long since banished the endless swarm of dinnertime car traffic. Their only companions were over road truckers chugging along for their early morning deliveries.
"Hey, I gotta hit the head. You mind stopping for coffee? I'll buy."
The Sergeant nodded, and soon they were coasting off a ramp and lurched to a stop under the flickering greenish hum of a convenience store awning.
The gray restroom door creaked open and the stink slammed his face. The odor of damp ammonia and bleach washed over him, wringing his nose, as the officer escorted him into the middle stall. The single lamp slowly flickered, throwing shadows that left him wondering how much more nasty the bathroom really was. His breath hitched at the graffiti which appeared and disappeared with each shudder of night. Four jagged lightning bolts. Black Claw lived here.
He was stretching across the bench seat when the officer came back out with two large styrofoam cups. The Sergeant adjusted the pistol on his hip, "Are you going to make me regret this?"
He shook his head. The officer unlocked the cuffs and handed him the coffee.
His wrists and shoulders were stiff from an hour in restraints. He rubbed them as the warm coffee soaked through the night time chill.
A Washington State Trooper pulled up next to them. "You guys lost?"
"Transporting a prisoner. Wanna trade? I'll head home."
"Violent?"
"Nah. Impersonating a judge. Chief wants him out before one of our guys offs him. I drew the short straw."
"That bad?"
"I got ten years of warrants and convictions with this clown, myself."
His heart sank when the officer passed a stack of paperwork to the trooper.
Where did they get all that? Who signed off on this?
"I see how it is. You Oregon boys come sneaking across the border at night, and dump all your problems in our lap."
"Every chance we get."
The trooper chuckled before shaking his head and returning the pile. "SeaTac? That's three hours there, and another three back. No thanks."
"Pretty please. I'm already way outside my jurisdiction."
He pushed his face into his hands as the trooper rapped the roof of the car and disappeared into the night.
Soon, their headlights were bouncing across empty fields and rows of trees as they ate up the miles.
SeaTac? That's a Federal detention facility. Think! What's your plan? He scrubbed, trying to force his eyes to focus on the dash clock. Sixty-six hours awake isn't doing you any favors. The warmth of the coffee made his eyes dip again. Think. What happens to Becky now? Does she know? Would anyone have told her that I'm about to be in Federal Custody?
He knew how the system worked. The answer was obvious.
I need A lawyer. A good one. The best. His mind flew through faces of attorneys before his bench. Five names came to mind, but he had to get ahold of Becky to get the ball rolling.
His stomach knotted as a worrying thought floated past. That Hasenfussige baker guy, Carl or Jim.. No, his name was weird... Something Spanish. They ripped his throat out in jail cell Kamikaze attack. Certainly, Black Claw had people inside SeaTac, prisons were one of their primary recruiting grounds.
And I'm a judge... They are making an example.
Why had they abused his daughter like that? Surely they had to know kidnapping and blackmail is only useful when the victim is alive, and now he was off the bench.
Why hadn't Black Claw reached out to him, threatened him about his daughter to keep him in line? What's their end game?
Portland went silent the second word of The Grimm's victory got out. Every single Wesen vanished into hiding... Except The Grimm's friends.
Petrovitch is running the show now. He's not the sort who disappears quietly when things go south. His endgame is to burn the house down around them.
The Grimm. I need to get ahold of the Grimm.
-/-/-/-/-/-/-
Just cooperate, don't make it worse.
That's what they kept telling his daughter in the hacked footage.
Sadness was soaking through the depths of his soul. Weariness permeated him as tears ran down his face. At least they are leaving his wife out of it.
The moon hung high in the night sky. It laid alone in billows of thick fog whitened by the endless city lights. Defeated and wearied by three and a half hours in the hard back seat of a cop car, his eyes drifted closed.
The car lurched to a stop and his eyes jerked open. Ahead of him stood a sprawling concrete guard shack bathed in the shadows cast by orange street lamps. They were surrounded by the silhouette of twelve foot tall fences capped with rows of spiral razor wire. The gates of the Seattle Tacoma Federal Detention Center beckoned.
The officer rummaged his paperwork. "Lucky me. I got two hours till they'll take you."
The door of a black SUV popped open and a man in a dark suit stepped out. He squinted at the police car and ambled over.
"You boys lost?"
"I pulled the short straw."
"Who brings you up here?"
"Guy claiming to be a judge. The nut somehow ended up on the bench. Now, we've got ten thousand cases headed for mistrial."
The agent squinted at the paperwork against the halos of the street lamps shrouded in damp darkness, and then bent down. "Stancroft?"
The contours of the agent's shaved head and inquisitive eyes sunken into thick eyebrows came into focus. "Saunders?"
"Fuck me! I've got ten warrants outstanding with your signature on them. The drug lord case? Our human trafficking bust?"
"You have to believe me. I have no idea what this is all about."
The man scrubbed a square hand across the stubble on his head and patted the roof. "Officer, I'll take it from here."
"Remanded to federal custody. Music to my ears. Sign on the dotted line and he's all yours."
-/-/-/-/-/-
He was now sitting in the front seat of Saunders' black government SUV with streetlights burning orange dots into his vision. The agent flipped through the stack of incarceration paperwork. His manilla envelope, revolver, wallet, keys, cellphone, and Detective Burkhardt's card were piled in a Ziploc bag under the agent's arm.
His eyes fluttered and his head dipped. It was now half an hour past one and he had been up the better part of three days. "Joe, you mind letting me make a call? I was working on a case with Detective Burkhardt in the Portland Police Precinct. I was supposed to meet with him when they arrested me."
"These are Federal charges. You want me to believe this whole thing is cooked up?"
"The case is big. Do you remember that mayoral candidate that got assassinated?"
"You mind sharing, If it's this big, it's going to be Federal, and I'd like to break it."
He pushed his hands into his face. Think. I'm pretty sure Saunders is clean. I've known him for ten years and he was never on any of the rosters I saw... "I need to know I can trust you."
The empty guard shack drizzled a greenish glow across the black haze frozen to the windows. No one was here to learn their secret.
He twisted his head in the dark and transformed, sheeting his body with brindle fur. Pointy ears and a canine snout capped with a black nose formed. The agent likewise twisted his head, revealing nearly identical, though stockier features. They both transformed back to their human forms.
"You've always been straight with with me and I've always trusted you. If you said a deal was bad, I signed your paperwork. Have you ever seen a gang tag that looks like four black lightning bolts."
The agent nodded.
"It's not a gang, it's a semi-domestic terror organization. All the upper leadership is European, but their local organizations are domestic."
The agent waited.
"I have significant information about their operations and leadership structure. They kidnapped my daughter and have been blackmailing me."
"And you really think they would have this much swing?"
"You see that manilla envelope? Open it."
The agent rolled his eyes, slipped the envelope open, and paged through the pictures and documents, before running stubby fingers over the stubble on his face. "A lot of high rollers are going down. What's the deal with the suicide bomber? We gotta get on the horn with Homeland."
"That's my daughter. Check the jump drive. Watch the video."
The agent watched in silence. "My god, what did they do to your Julie? This was today?"
He nodded.
"You had any dinner? I gotta review this and figure out our next move. This is big and I don't want it to slip."
"Do you mind letting me call Detective Burkhardt?"
-/-
The Denny's sign burned like a midnight sun, sending red and yellow flashing through the SUV's frosted windows. The icy fog bit his face as they left the warm SUV for the promise of food. Soon hot coffee, buttery pancakes, savory bacon, and over-easy eggs greeted them. He hadn't realized how hungry he was until he wolfed down everything in front of him, but creeping weariness was now slithering over him and he started nodding as he explained Black Claw's leadership structure and then the situation with his daughter.
Half an hour later, they were back in the SUV and the agent relented for his call to Burkhardt.
The Grimm's baritone voice echoed through the speaker phone. "Where were you tonight?"
"I was at the park when we agreed. I got arrested by one of your Portland boys and hauled off to Seattle. I'm with FBI agent Saunders now, but I'm due at SeaTac in an hour. Any chance you can help sort this out."
"You're in Federal custody? I know Saunders pretty well, but they don't usually share with us."
"Look, I honestly don't care what happens to me. I just need to know my daughter is safe."
"I needed that info you were supposed to bring me tonight."
"Saunders has everything. He says it's going to be a big Federal case."
They talked a bit more before the judge handed the phone to Saunders. He pressed his hands into his face as the agent gave Burkhardt the business, bickering about Federal Jurisdiction and cooperating with the agency.
His hopes were evaporating faster than the freezing mist on the windshield over the defroster vents. "These animals are going to splatter my daughter all over a city bus in a few hours and you two are arguing about jurisdiction and administrative protocols. My God! Drop me off at 1321 North Peach and I'll take my chances."
The agent only paused for a moment. "This isn't Portland, we're in Washington. That makes it FBI jurisdiction."
Burkhardt huffed and hung up the phone.
He pushed his head deeper into his hands.
"Well, that was fun, but it's time for you to check in."
The big SUV lumbered out of the parking lot. He squinted as each street lamp shot a yellow halo through the frosty glass. He was a few hours shy of being up seventy two hours straight. The darkness left his eyes burning and his body aching for sleep. It doesn't matter anymore.
He slumped against the window and let his eyes drift shut.
His head bounced and his eyes fluttered against the flash of headlights and the blur of traffic lights, and then shut. His daughter was pleading, battered and bruised. They slid bombs into the white vest. His head bounced the window again. Icy chills blasted through his face, wracking him out of the nightmare. "1321 North Peach. Give me the revolver and let me get my daughter back. Then, I'll do whatever you want."
The brightly lit strip malls and restaurants had long since morphed into dingy rows of brick apartments, a radiator repair, an axle fabrication shop, old mechanics shops, and the boarded up remnants of clothing stores and cafes. He squinted at the signs, but his eyes wouldn't focus. "Where are we?"
"Short cut."
The fog in his brain was sucking the universe into it's black vortex. His mind ached every time he tried to think, leaving him full of aimless jumble, and his eyelids were stuck to his eyes.
His shoulder rocked twice. "Mmrr. Huh?"
"Wake up, I need you to sign something."
"Mmmm huh, What?"
His eyes strained to find the glowing guard shack clothed in layers of concertina wire, but they were sitting in the dark on a side street, surrounded by a beehive of black vans.
The agent shoved a stack of paperwork in his lap and stuffed a blue ink pen into his hand. The console lamp threw dim light onto the jumble of tiny letters before him. "It's already marked. Right here on the yellow highlights."
He shrugged, nothing made any sense, so he scrawled his name each time the agent pointed. The end came and the agent slid out the door. "Stay here. I gotta see what's going on." With that, Saunders disappeared into the inky fog.
He mumbled and nodded, but the agent was already gone.
He quirked his eyebrows when Saunders muffled voice declared, "We've got the warrants."
Black figures poured out of the vans and streamed like ants into one of the buildings. A crack-bang echoed, shocking him fully awake. He fumbled with the door and stumbled out into the slick darkness. His feet slid on the frosty asphalt as he tried to make sense of the scene, which was now filled with twenty-thousand flashing blue and white lights blasting off every surface like a haunted disco.
A pair of shadows were dragging a brown haired man out the door. The man transformed, revealing black and white striped fur and gigantic saber fangs gleaming in the night.
His mind roared into instant, perfect, crystal clarity. A tidal wave of fury roared through every scrap of his existence.
Petrovitch!
He was running, closing on the Mauvais Dentes as it threw one man off and slashed the second. He twisted his head, sheeting his body with brindle fur. His canine snout extended and his fangs bared with a low growl. He lunged as Petrovitch swung claws. They bit into his chest, but his entire universe was focused on one thing. He clamped his jaws on Petrovitch's arm and shook. His mouth was now full of fur and flesh as his teeth ground deeper and deeper. Petrovitch flailed against his locked jaws, and then latched the claws of his right hand into his shoulder.
He punched and beat everything he could get ahold of. His jaws were snapping inches away from Petrovitch's neck when the saber tooth Wesen pushed his bloody arm back into his mouth. He bit down with all his might, chewing, crunching, and shaking against the flashing claws raking him.
There was only one thing. Kill the bastard who wrecked his daughter. His knees sagged as Petrovitch clawed his face. He bit into Petrovitch's hand and crunched bones as his body slid towards the pavenent, but a flurry of knees in his ribs jarred him loose.
Petrovitch raised his claws high. A white fanged smile and bright yellow eyes sliced through the darkness as the saber tooth monster licked his lips. A crack like a gunshot split the night and Petrovitch sagged. The saber tooth Wesen was up in a second, wobbling, and his white striped face was bloody. His head shook, revealing one of his saber teeth was missing. An officer suited in black SWAT gear pounded another haymaker into Petrovitch, sending him to the ground. The officer straddled Petrovitch, raining an endless deluge of blows crashing into the Mauvais Dentes face, until the striped saber tooth Wesen's head flopped and he transformed, glassy eyed, back into human form.
The officer rolled Petrovitch over and cuffed him hand and foot.
His brindle reflection floated in two endless pools of black. It was The Grimm. He squinted and transformed back into human form. "Burkhardt? Wow, I'm glad to see you."
Detective Nick Burkhardt's baritone voice rang out. The man's mouth was moving, but he couldn't make any sense of the words over the ringing in his ears. He started asking questions but a slurred mumble dribbled out. Burkhardt and Agent Saunders hauled him to his feet and supported under his shoulder. The entire world swirled, lurched, and evaporated into a shower of white sparkles an instant before everything went black.
His eyes flickered. He groaned and held his hand against the white lights glinting off everything until the screaming pain in his chest demanded his hand back. Two rubber gloved men dressed in hospital uniforms were poking, prodding, and jabbing things into him. His head was swimming, but he finally understood that he was laying in the back of an ambulance.
"My daughter?"
He sat halfway up but the flashing lights blasting out of the darkness intensified the roar of pain in his ribs, making the world slowly list. Nausea overwhelmed him. The paramedic put a hand on his arm, settling him back onto the stretcher, and pushing a bottle of water into his hands. There, he caught the reflection of the bloody mess staring back at himself in the stainless steel cabinets.
-/-/-/-/-/-
Four men dressed like haunted Michelin men waddled out of the night, escorting a wobbly waif to the ambulance.
The world was swirling in and out. Darkness sloshed through the flashing lights and searing pain. His daughter's mumbling shot into his brain like a lightning bolt. He sat up against the screaming protest of his chest. The spaghetti of IV's and sensors pulled and burned, but he wrapped his arms around her. "I love you, baby. It's going to be ok."
She was crying as he pressed kisses into her forehead. Her eyes were sunken into purple bruises and heroine tracks criss crossed her pallid arms. Her hair was a sticky, matted mess that clung to everything, and she stunk, but his little girl was alive.
A few minutes later, they settled her into the ambulance next to him. Detective Burkhardt ambled over and tucked something long and white into his cold fingers. He examined the object through blurry eyes - it was a six-inch long curved fang, Petrovitch's tooth.
Agent Saunders was next to him. "I hope you understand. We had to make sure you wouldn't contact anyone. These things go south when the family of the victim tries to bargain with kidnappers, and tips them off."
"You should have killed him."
"We're taking him in for interrogation."
"Bastard won't talk."
"They always do."
His brain was crawling with cobwebs and awash in the rib pain jabbing straight into his skull. He wrapped an arm around his daughter. She was shaking and mumbling, lost to the murky depths of delirium. He had no illusions. Her rehab was going to be expensive and take a long time. Even then, Heroine was nasty stuff and there were no guarantees. But still, his little girl was dead an hour ago, splattered all over the burnt hulk of a city bus, and now she was alive. It was time to savor the moment.
His head bobbed as her scent floated into his nostrils. The morphine was kicking in. His ribs hurt but he didn't care. He was losing the fight against the gaping maw of weariness. His drooping eyes protested the endless abuse of blue and white flashing through the first hints of yellow burning in the black skyline.
"It's going to be ok, baby. I've got you now."