A/N: Cheers to all of you who have pushed this piece to nearly a hundred (!) views out of one of the quieter corners of this site! The crossover section is so weird to navigate, and I want to thank all of you for making it here in the first place. By all means, drop me a line via review, I'd love to hear what you think. Don't worry, though: Frank is going to get back to his gunslinging roots soon.
[Press Play: Apocalyptica - "Deathzone"]
Morning found Frank Castle poring over the Jigsaw dossiers, sitting astride an iron cage that looked distinctly like it had been stolen- or at least, copied- from a medieval torture museum. John had groomed this particular crop of candidates to suit his criteria; every face leering up at him from the confines of the envelopes had a story attached to it, a half-dozen reasons why he shouldn't waste his time with a test, but instead suit up and clean house.
But that wasn't the goal, this time; he needed to send a message, both to the scum on the chopping block and to Jigsaw himself: a special layer of hell was reserved for the predators of Los Angeles, and there was no rock they could hide under to avoid the high-tech game of Russian roulette he (and John) had devised for them. Until he had counted all the moving pieces involved, there was no way to ensure he could root out every source of the Jigsaw killings-
So he sat, and planned, and honed his knives when the planning wouldn't bear fruit. Amanda had left a pot of coffee on the table nearby; by the end of his first hour thinking in- or at least, giving the impression of thinking in- John's terms, its contents had been emptied. Cheap coffee, cheaper maker; between the scorched, brackish taste and the errant grounds that had sifted through the filter, it was only half a measure worse than anything he'd drank in the sandbox- but it was caffeine, and warmed against the pervasive cold of the building, which was something.
After making yet another circuit around the workshop floor, picking idly through the scattered tools and other implements of mutilation with all the interest of a grocer gauging which tomatoes to dispose of, Frank made for the door.
He couldn't know where to start on a design without information on his potential target. Amanda tried to catch his eye on his way out, but he carried on past the bench at which she sat with a three-word explanation:
"I'm going out."
Before she could ask where- or whether he had any ideas as to their upcoming test- he was outside, heavy coat whipping stiffly in a frigid gust of wind.
City always tells you what you need to know, if you know how to listen. Frank set himself wandering, his pistols concealed beneath the folds of leather and kevlar that insulated him against the biting winter air of an uncaracteristically cold snap as he meandered through one back alley and into another, steadily working his way further into the guts of the city.
So far, most of the alleys he had passed through held signs of occupation by the homeless of Los Angeles: small shanty structures grouped in clusters; metal drums packed with newspaper and the splintered remains of pallets; even a few of their denizens, eyeing the vigilante warily as he passed. Even without his plate carrier, without any of the telltale signs of who he was, no one dared so much as make eye contact.
It had never been a particularly... friendly city, but this was a step further than usual. Making the same sort of journey through any of the boroughs of New York guaranteed at least a half-dozen vagrants asking for a handout, whether to make ends meet or to drink their problems under the table- but not so much as a single rattling tin? Someone had these folks scared.
That meant he was headed in the right direction. The deeper reaches of the concrete jungle were home to the sort of apex predators he was looking for- all it took was knowledge of how to read their prey to find his own. Find the stretches where no one gathered, and-
Sure enough, he had found what he was looking for. A weathered, reinforced steel door set into the wall of a building too well-maintained for its surroundings, with no visible access from the outside- but a grated viewport cut high into the metal. Strategic location for what was probably their only point of ingress and egress; as he circled halfway around the block, Frank confirmed that the inside corner in which the door had been set was accessible only from straight on.
Murder holes on the second floor, got them disguised as boarded-up windows. Clever. Whatever he had stumbled upon sat somewhere in the city's big leagues.
Whoever was inside was his perfect target. It was just a matter of putting the profile together; there was too much at stake, not the least of which being the impending heat from New York, to risk a frontal assault.
It was just a matter of knowing who he was dealing with. Striking his way back south a few blocks, Frank retraced his steps until he happened on what- rather, who- he was looking for: an especially worse-for-wear vagrant, huddled grimly against a guttering burn-barrel.
"How much for the poncho?" The man looked at him incredulously, one cataract-glazed eye staring far off into the void while his other narrowed with suspicion.
"Fuck off, it's not for sale." The man spat, his saliva trailing fine wisps of heated condensation as it spattered to the pavement between them. Frank simply reached into the pocket of his coat, grasping for a roll of bills he had seized from a dead dealer in Boulder and pulling them free of the rubber band that bound them.
"Three hundred." He counted out the total, watching as the man's expression shifted from distrust to outright shock. "I'll make it five if you tell me who's sitting in that building on Forty-Seventh."
Slowly, the older man slipped the blanket from his shoulders, gathering it in his arms as though it held more weight than the material it had been made from before his expression hardened once again. "You think I don't know what you're doing? I'm no fuckin' rat, man; they'd string me up if I told you word one about that place."
"Five for the blanket, you just told me all I needed to know." Frank pulled another set of bills from the roll; his informant snatched the money from his hands, shoving the garment at him and backing away a pace.
"Just like that, huh?"
"Just like that," Frank repeated, draping the thick blanket across his head and wrapping it like a loose shemagh. Even with some of its length tied up in encircling his head, it draped nearly to his knees; it was easy to see why the vagrant had been reluctant to part with it. Rooting through a nearby dumpster for a moment yielded the missing touch to his cover: an empty fifth of vodka, which he clutched between his hands as he adjusted his gait, stumbling back toward the stronghold he had spotted earlier.
Just have to get to the meter box, stick one of Micro's bugs there, pick it up in a few days. Should give a head count for shift changes, identify the power players here. Frank wandered languorously down the alleyway, poking through the small piles of debris that littered either side of his path. The dirtier his hands, the more convincing he would look at a glance if any guard happened to actually be paying attention.
Apparently, they were; before he had made it halfway toward the door, the door swung open, allowing a reedy-looking, rat-faced goon in a suit to make his way toward the vigilante-turned-bum.
"Hey, who the fuck you think you are? You can't go down there." Pinch of an accent somewhere east of the Iron Curtain, reaching- clumsily- for a piece tucked into a shoulder holster inside his jacket.
Definitely not the best or brightest a place like this could churn out. Time to see what he could be led into running his mouth about.
"It ain't your city- streets are still public. Besides, I got money," Frank whinged, affecting as much gutter-drawl to his voice as he could tolerate. "What, I can't get into your fancy little clubhouse?"
"Look, pal," the hench sneered, "you're not exaclty the kind of clientele we go letting into our... establishment. Buy-in's two grand, and I seriously doubt you're carrying that kind of cash." His beady eyes narrowed; judging by the subtle shift in his shoulders, Frank guessed he had finally found his piece. "I'll do you a favor, though; you give me whatever money you've got, I don't blow a hole in your stupid yokel skull."
Tough talk, no real way to back it. Probably hasn't pulled his gun more than a dozen times since he started working here. It's not a cook house or a gun shop, he's too much of a fucking amateur for a place like that. Got to be a brothel. He can scare an unruly john out the door, but that's about it.
"Whoa, easy man, I just wanted a turn is all." Frank unspooled and crumpled a pair of twenties, pulling them from his pocket and dropping them to the ground, seemingly by accident. "Shit, you can have it, just don't shoot!"
As the other man bent to pick up the cash, Frank shifted his grip on the empty glass bottle, bringing it down to shatter across his opponent's head as he ploughed into him, taking him to the brick wall- lock his wrist, don't let him draw- and burying the jagged neck of the bottle into the soft flesh of the man's jaw, twisting it downward and lacerating the length of his windpipe. He fell to the pavement, clutching feebly at his shredded throat for a moment before laying still in a fast-spreading pool of blood. Tossing the now-useless shard of glass aside, Frank staunched the bleeding with old newspaper. Going to need a way to conceal this. Can't show my hand too soon. Hiding the body would be easy enough; between the stretch of abandoned buildings in this block alone, dumping the dumb bastard off somewhere was a non-issue. But the blood? That was a different story. After stowing the corpse unceremoniously in the living room of a burnt-out row house- silently thankful that the streets down here were almost entirely devoid of traffic or other prying eyes- Frank set about gathering more detritus, piling it up like a rat's nest over the bloodstained ground.
Died for forty bucks. About all he was worth.
It was a moment's work to secure the bug on the bottom of the power meter and ensure its eyepiece had been angled properly toward the door; while not the best angle to pull a facial profile from any of the building's occupants, it would at least establish a head count for the compound's enforcers.
Shit. He was running late. Rigg had expected a status report on Chavez and his operation at noon- and right now, he had absolutely nothing to show for it beyond a single, obese dead Scorpion dope slinger of questionable importance to their overall operation.
A little misdirection could play out to his advantage, though. The cartels were eking out territory from under the Triads' fingertips; Micro had sent him west with a preliminary rundown of which local crews stood under which banner. Scorpions had been linked to Juarez, but Galindo had the controlling share of meth and human trafficking in the region...
The finer machinations of the cartels- as well as where to start dismantling them- gave Frank plenty to think about as he closed the gap to their rendezvous point. Rigg's cruiser was parked at the curb in front of the old fish-packing site; seeing it unoccupied, Frank swept around to the empty loading bay.
"Almost missed your window, Castle. Busy out there?" Unlike the last time they had crossed paths, Rigg was no longer wearing his assault gear; in fact, he seemed downright at peace given their location, trying to conceal his amusement at the vigilante's disguise- and almost succeeding.
"You could say that. Chavez isn't dead- not yet." He leaned against the rusted hydraulic lift, not bothering to look directly at his contact as he spoke. "In fact, you could say there's a bit of a... wrinkle, in terms of getting rid of him."
"Wrinkle? Doesn't sound much like you, if I'm supposed to believe the stories. It's not the kind of problem that irons itself out if you use enough grenades?" Rigg chuckled, taking a sip from a large, steaming styrofoam cup and wincing as the beverage singed his tongue.
"I don't have enough grenades on hand to go toe-to-toe with the Galindo cartel." Frank glanced over toward the lieutenant. "Been following a couple of their guys who stopped by one of the Scorpions' little rat holes. Trail ends with a fortified building on Forty-Seventh and Ollis."
"Hold up, you said Galindo?" Rigg gripped Frank's shoulder. "Intel we had put them in bed with Juarez-"
Frank's lip twitched into a cold smirk. "Go figure, huh? A couple of half brain-dead bangers think they're hot shit because they've got two cartels throwing money at them, never even stopped to think what happens when they get found out for playin' both sides. That problem's gonna solve itself."
Rigg exhaled a terse breath through his teeth. "I really hope you're wrong about that. Cartels start bumping up against one another, sooner or later it'll reach a breaking point. That war's gonna turn every street in this city red if it kicks off."
Frank nodded; the war was inevitable, just not quite as imminent as Rigg suggested. Scorpions were one of a few pins holding the cartels away from one another's throats, but as the pressure mounted, they wouldn't be able to last. "Good reason to make sure the offer never hits the table. I need what you've got on that building."
"That part of the industrial district is mostly Triad territory- Russians have a whorehouse down there, they pay their share of the racket to keep the Triads smiling. I wouldn't be surprised if they're who you're looking for. Kovalyov's only loyal to one thing: cold, hard cash. Cartel can probably get him more girls, fluff his business volume a little."
Dimitri Kovalyov. Makes sense. Former Vory shot-caller, went to ground after flipping on most of his competition in Amsterdam. Paranoid, resourceful, and opportunistic as they came; during a joint operation with Interpol, he had crossed Frank's path and proven himself quite the capable bastard. If you could shoot it up, fuck it, or gamble on it, Dimitri was the man with the connection, building a dozen disposable empires at a time using local talent and letting them sink or swim when they no longer entertained his purpose.
Probably doesn't know Viktor Astrov is dead... or "Otto Krieg" either. The roots of a plan had begun to take hold. "Kovalyov... I know that name. Interpol couldn't make anything stick, six years ago. Same guy?"
Rigg nodded to the affirmative. "He's a sick fuck, definitely the type to gamble on the cartels fighting." The lieutenant sighed, staring into his open cup of coffee. "You ever stop and think, 'what did normal people ever do to deserve getting caught up in shit like this?'" He caught himself a moment too late. "Rhetorical question. Didn't think about it."
"It's fine. Go on." Frank had drawn one of his smaller knives, using the tip to dig a fiberglass splinter from his thumb.
"Just thinking out loud, I guess. Whole city's going to hell- gang war about to kick off, pumping the streets full of meth and who even knows what kind of designer-drug shit of the week, Jigsaw-"
"Other reason I've been busy," Frank interrupted, the knife in his hand skipping ever so slightly at the mention of his erstwhile cover story. "Our... mutual source has been running some numbers. Figures there's no way Jigsaw is getting away with everything he does without help on the inside."
Rigg's brow furrowed together in suspicion. "There's no way. I've been in this precinct nine years, whole place is keyed tight as a drum. You even think the word 'Jigsaw' in there, it's like ringing a dinner bell. Everyone's ears just shoot up."
"And yet, he's been at this almost a year now, and except for two off-duty detectives who wound up dead because their hunch was right-" Frank wiped the bloody tip of his knife clean on his leg, sliding it from memory back into its sheath- "no one's turning anything up. Think about it."
"I have." Rigg's tone turned steely. "And I'm telling you, there's no-"
"Not a single person on the force who thinks maybe one of his 'victims' got what they deserved? Come on, Lieutenant, you're following the case too. Steve Velasquez? Serial rapist?"
"That- that's beside the point," Rigg countered. "No one deserves to get hacked up the way this psycho goes about it."
Even as he said it, Rigg found himself second-guessing the statement. Velasquez had been a real piece of work- he'd taken the collar for the bastard himself six years ago, but with the prisons over capacity, he had been remanded to a psych center, where he'd promptly toed the line and claimed he'd been "fixed." Eric had been the first to find out, had suggested they make a stop at the stockyards and "acquire" a blade to castrate him.
They had laughed... but he couldn't deny part of him wanted to turn the joke into reality. Castle would have done it without flinching. Jigsaw had actually done it.
What if Tapp and Kerry were right? What if there was some kind of "code" driving this freak? No one had batted an eye when Seth Baxter had turned up split across his middle; if anything, Hoffman had seemed almost disappointed. He'd probably been planning to put him down himself- maybe let Eric set it up to look necessary, snag another commendation for "doing what was necessary in the line of duty." He'd pad his career, Mark would avenge his sister, they'd get a murderer off the streets- help themselves while they made the world a little better of a place. Nothing wrong with that.
"No. Probably not. But he's dead, and neither one of us is pourin' out a drink for him. Odds are, someone else on the force thinks so, too."
Rigg heaved another sigh. "Fine, I'll humor you. Say someone's sympathetic. How would they even know how to contact him?"
"How did you find me? There's always a way. Point is, if they are, they're feeding him targets. They only show up every once in a while, he's got to keep it from being too obvious."
That's the problem. For every one dyed-in-the-wool scumbag Jigsaw had separated from their vital organs, it seemed like they were making more and more house calls to the deceased's next of kin. Decent people, for the most part- dealing with their own shit their own way, maybe, but...
Too many of the victims were just that: victims, not targets. At least with Castle, that wasn't an issue.
"So what's your plan, then?"
Frank turned his attention away from Rigg, focusing- or giving the impression, at least- on some point off in the distance. "Track my leads, see if any of them take me to the source. Once I'm there-" he chuckled. "You already know what happens then."
"You want me to come at this from the other side?" Rigg asked, stepping into Frank's forward arc of vision again. "Think about what you said, man. This guy's not all that different from you and me-"
"He is." Frank shifted back to face Rigg directly. "He's okay with the rest of Jigsaw's body count if it means his targets get thrown in the mix."
What's that make me? he found himself asking no one in particular; what felt distinctly like his reptile-brain replied without missing a beat. You're Simmons, when he picked up that PKM and cleaned house along that whole flank. Tools of the trade don't know what their history is. Jigsaw's just how you're doing work right now.
"I... guess I can't argue that," Rigg admitted. "Besides, you're better at this covert, observe-and-report shit than I ever was."
Frank hummed tunelessly in response. "Took a long time to learn how. Guys like us... we're really only meant for one thing. Sheepdog don't look much like a wolf." He clapped Rigg on the shoulder. "I'm gonna go sit on the Russians for a bit. See what peels off."
Rigg nodded, spirits faintly buoyed by Castle's momentary pep-talk. It didn't shed any of the gravity from the rest of their conversation- but if he was right, and someone on the force was keeping Jigsaw one step ahead of everybody, it would be tough for him to really root out who it was. Everyone else liked him fairly well, it wasn't a stretch to get anyone to confess wanting to break out a little old-school on a deserving perp who managed to walk free. They knew he'd back them.
Maybe he was too close. He'd overlook the right people, suspect the wrong ones- or worse, he'd come off as needing to save his skin with Internal Affairs, looking to offer someone up in his place.
Castle was gone by the time the realization had sunk in.
As he hauled himself over a dilapidated wooden barricade blocking off another alley, Frank allowed his mind to deconstruct every piece of information he knew about Dimitri. He was smart, ruthless, willing to play the angles- also unabashedly hedonistic, vain, and cutthroat when it suited him. His status made him arrogant, as well; it wouldn't be difficult to box him in, but ensuring it was a "good test" might be a different story.
What mattered to him? What was the stitch that would take him apart if pulled? His current setup wasn't nearly as opulent as any of his dens in Amsterdam; even the one in Barcelona had been nicer. All the double crossing might not leave him with a leg to stand on, Frank considered. Someone had to be bankrolling this little project; he always had someone else foot the bill when it came to building his newest venture.
Pull the keystone, the whole tower collapses. That was the choice he'd need to make- and one he wouldn't be able to.
Plug his cash cow in front of him? No. Make him do it himself.
There was one problem: the brothel. As long as it was standing, Dimitri had capital, had a way to disappear after his test- assuming he survived. He'd need to take it out.
Lose the muscle, the girls will run. Lose the stable, you've lost your meal ticket. He had cleaned house the same way at least a dozen times in New York.
Without knowing anything about the building, he couldn't risk a frontal assault. Panic rooms, security countermeasures- hell, even something as simple as choosing wrong between a left and a right turn could mean letting his mark slip past. Besides, he had two targets to keep track of. It was far from impossible- but somehow, he doubted that John would accept it as a "fair test" if one or both of the test subjects showed up with a shattered kneecap.
He'd need to infiltrate the building- and he'd need help.
A flurry of movement out of the corner of his eye called Frank's attention to-
Rats. At least eight of them, now scampering for cover, their meal interrupted. The body lay slumped against several ruptured garbage bags that hadn't made it into the overfull dumpster against the opposite wall, eyes staring-
Eye. One good eye, one milky and sightless. Frank crouched beside the body, examining him for wounds.
Stabbed multiple times- he rifled through the dead man's pockets- goddamn it.
The money was missing. Had he put this poor bastard in someone else's crosshairs, buying the poncho off of him?
He felt... constricted. Too warm, too bulky. The wrap was stifling him. He shed the garment, draping it over the dead man solemnly.
There would be no good way to find the killer. This guy, people like him- they were either invisible to the world, or an uncomfortable eyesore to people who didn't want to think how easily it could have been them. Anyone in his situation wouldn't talk to someone they assumed had a home to go back to at the end of the day- but if he pulled his Colts, every single one would cop to the kill.
He needed to get back.
The sun had worked its way low into the sky by the time Frank returned to the Gideon building, fingers stiff from the chill that no amount of habitual flexing would remedy. Spotting both apprentices working a few benches apart- Amanda fervently oblivious, headphones in ear; the cop, obviously keyed-up, jumping when he heard the door open- he stepped into the edge of her peripheral vision, eliciting a yelp of surprise.
"Goddammit, Castle!" Amanda winced as she raked the back of her hand raw across an edge of the contraption she had been elbows-deep in, breath coming in short, hissing bursts. "Don't fucking sneak up on me!"
"We've got work," he replied, absently grabbing a mostly-clean rag and passing it to Amanda. "All of us."
"So you're calling the shots now?" Hoffman asked, glancing sidelong at the newcomer to their ranks.
"He is on this one... John's orders, remember?" As she wrapped her oozing hand, Amanda felt a familiar mix of anxious dread and excitement course through her system. He had set off a few hours ago with no game plan, no real understanding of how to choose a test subject- and now here he was, saying they had a lead?
"Fine. I'll bite. Who?"
"Dimitri Kovalyov. Vice king, used to sit on Interpol's most-wanted list, ducked the hammer about half a dozen times." Frank paced down the length of the tables, examining the supplies at hand. "He's been off the grid for a while, just starting up again- which means he has a partner fronting him cash." He turned to the detective. "You're gonna find out who his pipeline is."
"And how exactly are you thinking I'm gonna do that?"
"Use your imagination. Ought to be able to find something in the database- known associates, surveillance footage, the works. I've seen the files around here, you've got access."
Hoffman opened his mouth as though to say something, but thought better of it, instead simply nodding. He shouldn't have been surprised that Castle knew he was a cop; there were certain things that would always show up to the trained eye. "And if this guy has the history you're saying he does, what's going to stop the Bureau from looking into it when he turns up dead?"
"If he turns up dead." Amanda corrected, turning back to Frank. "He's got a point though. Usually the people we look for... they're not exactly-"
"Then we need somewhere they won't be found. Or something that won't leave anything behind when we're done. You let me handle the grab. Got a few ideas how to cover our tracks." He reluctantly pulled a silver flash drive from his pocket, sliding it across the workbench to Hoffman. "Little bit of black-hat code. Buy you about five minutes of privacy, access to every alphabet-soup agency you could want. Get my intel."
When the other apprentice had left, code in hand, Frank relaxed slightly. Whoever he was, this guy put his teeth on edge. The sooner Duka showed up with that intel, the better.
Amanda found herself speechless. In less than five minutes, Castle had completely taken charge of the situation despite no actual idea what he was walking into, shut Hoffman down at every turn- and then sent him away with a laundry list of things to do.
It was kind of impressive, honestly, if for no other reason than that it got the bastard detective out of her hair for a few hours. All he had done since his arrival a few hours ago- after checking to make sure Castle was nowhere to be found- was snipe and criticize her work, or state the obvious: that Frank didn't belong.
He had more of a test than you did, she had considered saying. The way he carried himself, dealt with everything- with John- screamed it. He had never been tested. He was here for some other purpose all his own.
In that much, she was fairly sure they were perfectly alike. Maybe that was why they seemed to hate each other from day one; they both recognized the other one for what they were.
Then again, here he was. He had something. Might as well vet it.
"So... this is the guy you want to test, this Kovalyov? Why?" She wanted to field him an easy question at first before digging into his real reasoning. The nature of the test would tell her more about his state of mind than just his target.
"He's the kind of scum you said deserves it. Preys on others, no regard for human life. I ran into him in ninety-eight, shut down a brothel he kept running with girls he bought off some Russian dirtbags. Kept 'em dumb and docile with heroin."
Amanda's breath caught, and for a moment she looked ready to recoil from the vigilante a few feet to her right. The mention of her former drug of choice set her veins itching; between the sensation and the barrage of washed-out memories, she wanted to throw up. She could tell Castle knew he had struck a nerve; he was actually paying attention, watching her every movement. Less than a day knowing him and she could tell that much.
Turnabout was fair play, she supposed. "Good choice," she forced out after a moment. "But why not just him? Why are you having Hoffman follow the money?"
Hoffman? No, there was no way. Fucking coincidence, it had to be. "Gonna make him choose between his own life and his business. We grab both of them, Dimitri gets a choice: he lives, his source dies- takes his business with him- or he dies. Needs to pay more of a price than just that, though..."
Castle was astute. His grasp of things was a little rough around the edges, but there was potential. Dimitri was a good target. Forcing him to hobble his work was a smart move- and if what he was saying was true, the world would be a better place whether their test subjects lived or died.
Either way, he comes out ahead. He was working his own angle into this- but hadn't John expected him to, assuming he stayed? She had heard their exchange the night before, had heard the condition Castle had laid down: his targets, for John's tests.
Her eyes settled on the reverse bear trap, over on a far table. "He needs a more permanent reminder. Yeah. I'll work something out, it'll be-"
"We've got two days, maybe three. I've got a bug planted on the building, should give us an idea what we're up against- but the longer it's there, the more likely one of his goons is gonna notice it. That happens- whole thing goes to shit."
Dimitri doesn't get away again.
"Shit. All right, so it'll be kind of quick and dirty, what can we work with?"
"Got some plastic explosive. I shape it just right, we wire it up, it won't leave much of a body to worry about anyone finding. It'll make a hell of a bang, though. Need somewhere to set up that no one will touch."
Amanda smiled wryly. "I've got a place we can use. There's miles of dry sewer, and no one's ever down there. They never have a reason to be, pretty much the whole area's gone under. John said it all got bought out about six years ago, they just never did anything with it."
Plastic explosive? As in, C4? The man was insane- or was he? As long as Hoffman did his part right, they didn't have anything to worry about... but it never hurt to make more sure. Maybe dropping a whole section of sewer on top of Dimitri if he failed wasn't such a bad idea after all.
"Good." Frank dragged a mostly-empty sheet of paper to a clear section of workbench and began to sketch an overhead view of Dimitri's building and its surroundings. "Did a little recon earlier. Only ingress point I found is the front door-" he marked its location. "Security was light this afternoon, probably don't see a lot of business til the sun's down. No guarantee they'll both be there, but I've got an idea how to... create the opporutnity. Building's big, probably a dozen, maybe two dozen grunts. Be easy to lose the marks in there."
Amanda's brow furrowed as she studied Castle's sketch. She could see his point- it would be too easy to lose track of Dimitri and his partner, especially if they were both there. Between the size of the building and the opposition Frank had described, it was starting to sound impossible to pull off with their normal approach.
As though he could read her thoughts, Frank returned the wan, lopsided smile, producing a wrapped roll of twenties. "We're going undercover. Get somethin' nice."