Disclaimer: I do not own Castle or the recognizable characters who appear in this story. Any other names, for characters or businesses, are fictional, uncompensated, or are in the public domain. In addition, for this chapter and the one before and after, there'll be text from the Cops & Robbers episode, used directly or with slight modifications.
The next minutes bring a unique kind of pain to Beckett. She can't leave. The boys are tracking down whatever information they can find on the owner of the safe deposit box that seems to be at the center of this situation. Castle's inside, doing whatever it is he usually does – probably something irritating, insightful, and helpful. And she's shackled to this chair, knowing she can't do anything but watch while time ticks away. She's never been one for sitting and waiting, even when she knows it's the best choice.
The ringing of the line dedicated for incoming calls from the bank jars her in her chair. She feels a momentary thrill at the prospect of some change until she realizes what the call might mean.
"Beckett," she answers crisply, ignoring her apprehensions.
"Look, Kate," Trapper John begins immediately, "one of the hostages had an epileptic fit and passed out. Now, normally I wouldn't care," he offers cavalierly and Beckett believes him, "but it's starting to upset the other hostages and I don't want anyone trying to be a hero. So, here's the deal: you're going to send in one paramedic to get him, and in exchange for this generosity, you're going to have my bus right outside in twenty minutes."
Peterson's already shaking his head. He points to Monfriez, who's wearing headphones as he runs down the bus. First the officer flashes three fingers, then five. Thirty-five minutes – nearly twice what Trapper John demanded.
"That's not enough time," Beckett replies into the phone.
"It is for me," Trapper John replies easily. "Take this guy now and get my bus outside in twenty or I'll start popping hostages." The line goes dead.
"You think you can get some time from him?" Peterson asks of Beckett, looking doubtful.
"He's not gonna go for it," she predicts, thinking about their interactions so far.
"Then we're going to storm the bank."
The line might as well have been plucked directly from Beckett's nightmare scenario. A blind approach against reinforced perpetrators with hostages behind whom to shelter? It'll be a bloodbath. She won't gamble life like that, especially not Castle's.
"We can't storm the bank," she argues. "We don't know where anybody is in there. If we go in, hostages are going to get killed. By them," she adds ominously, "or us."
"Listen," Peterson replies, annoyed at being questioned by someone who's obviously compromised, "if we're going to save any of them, we have no other choice." With that, the captain starts to turn to make arrangements.
"Maybe we do," Beckett argues, a plan forming, one that plays to her strengths. When Peterson turns back her way, she lays it out. "We can use the sick hostage to our advantage. Instead of sending a paramedic, we send in a cop with tactical training. That cop gets intel for when SWAT goes in to breach the bank."
Peterson looks pensive, wondering if he's being played. "I'm guessing you have a cop in mind?" he asks leadingly.
"No cop."
Heads swivel to the door of the trailer. There, standing unassumingly in the doorframe, is a newcomer, neither NYPD nor paramedic. He looks average in nearly every respect – height, weight, build, even his brown hair and eyes seem nondescript. But he holds himself with the confidence of command. He's a king surveying his kingdom; whether it lives up to his expectations is something he'll offer only by choice and his look is inscrutable.
"Who the hell are you?" Peterson asks as Monfriez rises to intercept the newcomer.
"You can call me Lynch," the man offers with a calm voice and small smile. "I'm assuming command."
The unexpected answer causes Monfriez to pause and exchange a look with Peterson. In the time that takes, an attractive young black woman appears behind Lynch, unable to enter the trailer due to the press of bodies. She passes an official-looking document to Lynch.
"Thanks, Shipton," he says in reply. "You need to be a paramedic. Go suit up. Send the real paramedic to me. And if the sergeant's back, send him in on your way out."
As she departs, Lynch turns back and hands the paperwork to Peterson. But whether he's officially in charge or not, Beckett's unwilling to stomach the change in plan.
"Look, Lynch," she offers somewhat aggressively but earning only a slow turn of his head, "it needs to be me. Your… agent, Shipton," she says questioningly, glossing over the title and name of the woman who was here and gone in a blink, "she doesn't know what's going on, doesn't know…"
"Shipton knows more than you can imagine," Lynch cuts her off. "And even if she didn't, there's no way I'd send you in."
Peterson drops the paperwork atop a nearby keyboard, apparently admitting that he's been superseded. While she notices, Beckett doesn't care.
"Why the hell not?" she fires back, drawing herself up. His concern obviously isn't based on gender, given who he's sending in her place, but she doesn't know why he's set against her in particular.
"One," Lynch says, turning in place to survey the trailer's communication array, "Trapper John knew you were connected to Mr. Castle. He's already heard – and commented on – your 'bedroom' voice. Do you really think he wouldn't recognize the way you look or the way you sound just because you dressed like a paramedic?" he asks, turning a look her way.
"Wait a minute," Peterson interjects. "How do you know about…"
"Your communications are hardly secure," Lynch replies, batting away the observation with the flick of a hand. "Two," he continues, going back to the reasons he's displacing Beckett with Shipton, "You're compromised. Considering recent events," he offers vaguely, "I prefer not to entrust the outcome of this endeavor to the vicissitudes of your partnership."
Son of a bitch, Beckett thinks. Who the hell is this guy who walks into an NYPD operation, displaces the staff, and knows that Castle isn't her partner anymore?
Peterson and Monfriez, meanwhile, are trying to surreptitiously determine how Lynch hacked into their communications. Lynch flicks a quick glance at them and offers Beckett an eye roll in reaction to reveal his feelings about their stealthiness or likelihood of success. It's an odd moment of camaraderie given his dismissal of her.
"Third," Lynch continues, recognizing her confusion, "I want you in charge here when I need to step out."
"What?!" Peterson calls out, his attention immediately caught. "Her? She's Homicide. What the hell am I here for if she's running the show? I guess I should just pack it up, then, and call it a day?"
"Don't be petulant," Lynch scolds. "Detective Beckett's in charge while I step out because I trust her not to engage in the folly of storming the bank," he offers, keeping his voice even but still managing to convey his exact thoughts about that tactical option. "In fact," he continues, swiveling his head back to her, "I trust her to shoot anyone who suggests it."
A knock on the door to the trailer relieves the NYPD members from the need to reply. "Beckett?" Esposito asks as he pokes his head in the door. But it's not Beckett who replies.
"Sergeant," Lynch greets him with a nod.
"Ah, no," Esposito replies, casting a quick, confused look to Beckett. "I'm a detective."
"At the NYPD," Lynch allows, "but not in the Forces. I need you to commandeer the ESU vehicle. I want it parked right next to me, back open and cleared out. Go."
But Esposito remains in place, look shifting from Lynch to Beckett and back again. Beckett's about to nod and affirm Lynch's orders when she decides to remain still. Perhaps this new situation will provide some new information on their mysterious new leader.
Lynch, however, looks unamused by the delay. "Sergeant, this isn't Khandahar and I'm not sending you after an ICV. Get me the damned van. Move."
Something in Lynch's tone resonates with Esposito. With one last, quick look at Beckett to see if she'll call him off, Esposito turns and heads out, apparently on his way to 'appropriate' ESU's van. In his haste to depart, he nearly bowls over an incoming paramedic. Already upset about losing his shirt, the paramedic looks less than pleased about being jostled around.
"Name?" Lynch prompts as the young, wiry man is opening his mouth to complain.
"Ferguson," the paramedic replies, stifling his complaint. "Tim Ferguson."
"Here's what I need, Ferguson," Lynch explains without waiting a beat. "Bring your ambulance around. We'll be pulling a patient out of the bank in a few minutes. As soon as we get the gurney over here and he's out of sight of the bank, I want you to pull out with lights and siren. Go three blocks, pull over, and wait for my command."
"But…"
"I need the people inside to think you're taking the patient to the hospital," Lynch offers with a raised brow signaling the end of his patience.
Ferguson doesn't notice the warning sign. "But where will the patient be?" he asks in confusion.
"In Interrogation," Lynch offers with a lupine smile. "If his medical condition is legitimate, you'll clear the way for his trip to the hospital. If it is not," Lynch continues as his smile turns dark, "then stabilizing his health will not be my top priority. Do you understand your role?"
Ferguson gulps before he answers. "Yes, sir," he offers fearfully.
"Then get that ambulance over here," Lynch commands before releasing the cowed paramedic to flee the trailer.
"Interrogation?!" Peterson ejaculates as soon as the door bangs closed.
"Peterson, Jonathan Davis," Lynch says as if reading from a file. "Twenty-one year veteran of the NYPD, following four years in the navy. You seem a capable captain," Lynch offers casually. Oddly, what might sound like a slight from someone else instead sounds like a mark of respect from Lynch. "I do not fault you for your lack of experience. But there are lessons you still need to learn."
"Look, I've got my twenty, I don't need this shit," Peterson replies, clearly uncomfortable with having been replaced and now lectured.
"Then perhaps Officer Monfriez will benefit from our discussion," as Lynch turns to watch the monitors that show his agent entering the bank disguised as a paramedic. "Saigon. Tehran. And a host of other places with names buried in secure documents. Do you have any idea how many hostage situations the US deals with internationally?" he asks rhetorically. "Detective," he calls out, surprising Beckett by title and Peterson and Monfriez by the apparent digression. "A wife turns up dead. Who did it?"
"Most of the time," Beckett answers, "the husband."
"Just so," Lynch agrees. "That is what statistics and training tell us. When Americans are taken hostage in foreign lands, who is involved?" he asks rhetorically. "Most of the time, a local – a member of the support staff, a confidant, or someone who just happens to be 'visiting' that day. That's what statistics and training tell us. So," he says while pivoting away from the monitor and surveying each of them in turn, "when I arrive at a scene like this, where the perpetrators are organized, efficient, and capable, I find myself wondering where such training could have occurred. And when I learn that their leader broke from his established demeanor to allow us to remove a hostage, I find myself wondering about the true circumstances."
"He didn't give up the hostage for nothing," Peterson replies, though he's clearly thinking about Lynch's approach.
"How much time did he demand for his 'generosity'?" Lynch asks. "Twenty minutes. Let me guess – that was much faster than you could've complied with his demand?" He pauses, waiting for the nods of confirmation. "He even told you he didn't need the time. Because he doesn't need the bus. He's got a different exit strategy."
"From there?" Monfriez asks. "If we can't get in, he can't get out. If not the bus, how's he planning to leave?"
"That's what I'm going to find out," Lynch answers, turning back to the monitor.
The three members of the NYPD release a sigh as the monitor finally shows Shipton exiting the bank with a man on a gurney. Lynch doesn't react, apparently unsurprised. They watch her progress until she leaves the frame of the camera, at which point Monfriez pushes open the door so they can watch her approach. As soon as the gurney is out of view of the bank, Shipton cuffs the patient to the gurney. She takes no chances, securing both wrists quickly.
The handcuffs apparently have curative properties as the patient's trembling noticeably subsides after they're applied. His look changes from one of mild discomfort to alarm as he's wheeled into the ESU van rather than the ambulance. Beckett can only imagine his reaction when the ambulance's sirens start blaring and the vehicle departs without him.
"Excuse me," Lynch says, clearing the path to the trailer's door. "Detective, keep the peace. I'll return shortly." His words prove truer than he thought, since he doesn't even enter the ESU van before a short, whispered conversation with Shipton has him returning to the trailer.
"There's C-4 inside the bank," he informs them quietly after pushing back into the trailer.
"C-4?" Peterson echoes, eyes wide as he reconsiders Lynch's earlier comments about training. "No way."
"If my people say it's there," Lynch replies, "it's there."
"Well, that means a breach is out of the question," Peterson admits. "I'm not going to send my boys into a bomb fight. We're going to have to take these guys out a different way."
Beckett shakes her head, starting to understand Lynch's comments about Peterson's lack of experience outside his narrow area of expertise. Because Peterson's missed two big problems. The first – Lynch said 'his people,' plural, but only Shipton went in. Which means Lynch has someone on the inside. Who could it be other than Castle? Which means Lynch and Shipton are some of the 'help' Castle said he's arranged for his private efforts to protect Alexis. Who in the world are these people that they could be here so quickly? That's food for thought. She still needs to address the other problem Peterson missed.
"The bus is still 20 minutes out," she reminds them all. "His deadline is in five. He's going to start killing hostages."
"Then you need to get me more time," Lynch answers, speaking over what looked like an incoming comment from Peterson. "I don't need much, Detective," he promises while looking back in the direction of the ESU van.
"I'll get you what you need," Beckett promises Lynch. And herself. And Castle.
"Where's my bus?" Trapper John asks without preamble.
"It's on the way," Beckett replies, again reaching to sound reasonable and wishing she had more practice. "It'll be here in twenty minutes."
"A hostage will be dead in two," Trapper John replies. Waving aside Beckett's excuse about traffic, he turns to chastising her. "We have rules, Kate. I said I wouldn't kill anyone, you said you'd get me a bus. I lived up to my end of the deal."
Already shaking her head, Beckett can feel the conversation slipping away from her. "And I'm going to live up to mine. It just…"
"I warned you not to jerk me around," Trapper John growls, growing impatient. "I was clear about the consequences. Do I have to prove how serious I am? Is that it?" When Beckett again tries to interject and calm him down, the only reply is the sound of a gunshot.
"What was that?!" Beckett asks, steeling herself for the answer. If he did anything to Castle, she'll…
"A warning shot, Kate," Trapper John growls. "The next one's for the kill. The next one's going to make pretty red stains out of your writer, Kate. I got my gun to his throat and I'm going to paint a Jackson Pollack with his insides."
"You need to calm him down," Peterson needlessly reminds her, just before Beckett gives him a look that promises a slow, painful disembowelment.
"You listen to me, jackass," Beckett seethes into the phone, her cold fury dropping the temperature in the trailer. "I do not control traffic so you're going to have to give me twenty minutes."
"Now you've got one."
"No! I've got twenty. Do you hear me? Twenty! Because if you pull that trigger," she promises in a voice laden with grim shadows and silent screams, "I will walk through those doors and personally put a bullet through your skull."
Peterson and Monfriez stare at her with mouths agape. Beckett doesn't notice, focusing every particle of her being on the electronic connection with Castle's tormentor. She wasn't here this summer, but she'll be damned if she backs down now.
"Okay, Kate," Trapper John replies, voice somehow back to normal. "You've got twenty more minutes."
Beckett waits until the line goes dead to let out a long sigh. She's just raising her hands to rub her temples when Peterson speaks.
"Well," he utters in sheer incredulity, "that's one way to negotiate."
A/N: The Dustjackets transcript was obviously very useful for chapters ten-twelve. There's a curious discrepancy between the transcript and the IMDB entry for this episode, though, with different names for the captain handling the hostage situation at the bank: Peterson (transcript) or Johnathan Davis (IMDB). So, I've just jammed all the names together.