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.
"Sleep," Castle says in quiet command. "While you can."
"Too keyed up," Beckett replies from her seat beside him. Bracken passed out more than an hour ago. They'd say he's sleeping soundly, but it might be that he's just is a stupor with his eyes closed. "Besides, we've gone without sleep before."
"True," Castle replies as the runs his thumb over the back of her hand. "But is it really nerves, or is there some guilt there, too?"
"Over him?" she asks, with a nod toward Bracken. "Not really. I was pretty harsh, but I'm not gonna lose sleep over it. I think I gave up my rights to the wringing-my-hands-in-anguish thing back when I signed your dad's papers. Besides," she adds with a nudge to his shoulder, "that conversation is hardly the worst we've done."
"No need to remind me," Castle replies with a grim note of melancholy. "Still, you surprised me."
"Oh?"
"Hey now, don't sound worried. I wasn't disappointed or upset. I just thought you were going the Princess Bride route. With your version of the six-fingered man over there," Castle explains with a nod to Bracken, "I thought you were going to tell him…"
"'I want my mother back, you son of a bitch,'" Beckett finishes the altered version of the line from the movie. "I thought about it," she trails off, not sure how to explain her decision to taunt Bracken. It's starting to worry her, how disconnected she feels from her actions. "What's wrong with us, Castle? I want you to be upset with me, with how grim I am. But you're not. You're just as dark, maybe darker. What happens to us when this is done?"
Castle sighs as he runs a hand through his hair, buying time as he thinks about the question that's long vexed him. "Well, I'd like to say that we work hard to get back to normal – life in the precinct, catching regular, boring killers, and worrying about Alexis and mother…"
"But…"
"But maybe that's naïve," he admits with a sigh. "Maybe our struggles will help us appreciate what we have. Or maybe they'll make us jaded, disconnected, and prone to judicious violence," he offers with an affected shrug. "All I can say is that we need to finish this before we worry about what follows, and I'll trust in our resilience to take care of what happens afterwards."
"Trust in us," Beckett summarizes, nodding. "I like that. Maybe Burke could help us," she ponders, before huffing. "If he's still seeing patients, or me, after what's happened…"
Crackling static from Castle's communication device interrupts Beckett's ruminations. With a quick look at each other, the partners insert ear pieces while Castle grabs the device and types a code and activating the line.
"Company's here," Esposito's voice sounds across the line. "They're getting' ready quick. Looks like standard four-by-four."
Castle's about to press for details when a new voice on the line interrupts him.
"Composition?" asks Lynch. When Espo pauses at the sound of an unexpected participant, the voice returns, annoyed. "Sergeant, I took the comms at the bank heist, so you shouldn't be surprised I took this line, too. Now, I'm running intel on this action, so report!"
Hearing no objection from Beckett, Espo complies. "Standard teams: one munitions/entry specialist on point, two with light arms, one heavy gunner. Looks like two teams are leading in a pincer action, the other two are holding at the fishpacking warehouse."
"Concur," Lynch replies tersely, making it clear that his communication set-up has also spotted their opponents. "Do not engage yet, Sergeant. Let the entry men do their job. But as soon as they blow the doors, you take out the heavy support."
"No, sir," Espo replies, surprising everyone on the line. "I'm back-up," he explains, apologetically. "I've got no clearance to engage."
"Sergeant, you signed the same forms Beckett did. You're clear."
"I did?"
"You must have," Lynch assures him, "since I have forms with your signature." Meanwhile, Beckett and Castle look at each other, wondering what the hell's going on, whether Espo will trust this offer of protection, and whether they should encourage him to leave or get on board.
"Sir, yes, sir," Espo barks before either Castle or Beckett can weigh in. Either Espo's response to military authority is deeply ingrained or he feels like rolling the dice. Whatever the reason, Beckett breathes a little easier knowing they've got friendly support.
"After breach, you're weapons free. You see a hostile, I want him gone. And Sergeant?" Lynch adds, just as it sounded like he might be signing off. "Keep an eye on our friends from the New Amsterdam. They look at anyone cross-eyed and I expect you to put them down, too. Out."
Well, shit, thinks Beckett. As if there aren't enough moving pieces already, wondering about the allegiance of their colleagues is just one more thing that can go wrong. Anything else to worry about?
On cue, Bracken struggles to wakefulness.
"What's going on," the ex-senator asks, picking up on the tension in the room even as he shakes off the last holds of his fitful sleep.
"Your friends are here," Castle answers as he moves to a corner of the room while gesturing for Beckett to do the same. "They're about to knock on the door and ask you out to play."
Bracken looks confused, a mix of fear from his impending demise and doubt that Castle's being honest. But the concussive sounds of tailored explosive charges quickly erase the doubt.
Barely discernable in the oral confusion following the blasts are the short reports of a distant rifle. Before either partner can ask, Esposito chirps into their earpieces again.
"Three down," he reports tersely, "both heavies and one light. Winged another light, but he's still a factor," he says with a tone of disgust, obviously unhappy with his performance.
"Disengage," Lynch commands. "Our teams will engage from the rear while we prevent them from penetrating far into the building. But keep your eye on things."
Sounds of shouting and the pops from small-arms fire punctuate the ensuing silence. From what they can hear, it seems as if the plan is going well – the breach teams are pinned down between the guards within the building and Lynch's teams outside. Within their room, Castle and Beckett are in opposite corners, tensed and waiting, while Bracken is bound in the middle of the room and looking increasingly panicked.
"Beckett," Castle calls out, "we need to cover the door."
With a nod, Beckett moves to join her partner. Only as she passes him does Bracken realize they don't intend to take him with them.
"You're leaving me here?!" he calls out frantically. "You need me! I'm the bait!"
"The mouse is here," Castle shrugs as he moves to the door. "No more need for the cheese."
Bracken whimpers as the partners move to the door. Their progress is halted, however, by another squawking report from their earpiece.
"Bracken's detail, disengage," Lynch's voice states calmly. "Fallback dockside immediately."
Wondering about what's going on, their questions are answered by Esposito, who provides a more colorful sit-rep.
"Shit, shit, shit!" the sniper barks out from his location. "The reserve team has RPGs and are ready to use them. Get down!"
Beckett and Castle dive for the ground as the building shakes under the pounding of the first projectile. Screeching metal, blood-curdling cries of the injured, and indignant (and colorful) interjections from combatants from both sides fill the air.
But, Jackson and Lynch picked their battleground well. The insulated walls of the various refrigeration chambers in the building provide nested layers of protection, an incidental armoring for which Castle and Beckett find themselves very thankful.
Another blast sounds, closer this time. As dislodged dust drifts down from the ceiling, the partners look at each other as they both picture the same scenario: layer after layer of their defenses being pierced. It's definitely time to go.
"No fuckin' way," they hear Espo growl into their earpieces, his course language and the background sounds of his rifle providing clear testament to how hairy things are getting outside. "Chopper, inbound. I gotta move," he says in a hurry. "Castle, I'm moving to location B."
Well, shit, Beckett thinks. A wide-eyed glance at Castle confirms that there was no discussion of an aerial attack. Paul Revere only had two lamps and a two-dimensional battleground. How in the hell do they deal with a chopper?!
Castle, wondering the same thing, looks upward and nearly slaps his head at the obvious move. Getting to Bracken requires penetrating about eight different walls, with several groups of defenders. But, from above, there's only one layer of defense, even assuming the ceiling is as well-insulated as the walls.
Despite these thoughts occurring in less than an adrenaline-stretched handful of seconds, they still weren't fast enough. The partners are still looking at each other when something detonates overhead. The ground and walls shake, their ears report only a constant, high-pitched squeal, sharp-edged rubble surrounds them, and smoky tendrils rise into falling dust to provide insight into what it must be like within one of Hell's sulpheric clouds.
Blinking furiously, Beckett's the first one to return to her senses. She's surround by jumbled masses of crumbled brick and twisted metal. The bite of projectile wounds and lacerations make themselves known as she struggles to her knees, but there are no reports of a more dire injury. Surveying the room, she sees Bracken tossed aside like a forgotten toy. But there's no sign of Castle.
Fighting to keep a panic attack at bay, Beckett crawls forward in search of her partner. After a few painful yards compound the injuries to her legs, she sees a booted foot protruding from a pile to her right.
I'll never tease him about his big feet again.
Scrabbling to his side, Beckett starts tossing aside the debris entombing her partner. Opting for speed more than care or finesse, she knows she's adding to the cuts on her hands and forearms, but she can worry about that later. She pauses just for a few seconds to enjoy the relief when she can see the rise and fall of his chest. But she returns quickly to her task, revealing more and more of her partner.
Finally, there's nothing directly on top of Castle, though he looks a little demented. Grimy and bleeding, he looks like he laid down to make a rubble angel on the floor before falling asleep. Crediting this thought to a probable concussion, Beckett reaches out and gingerly cups his cheek, anxious to awaken her partner.
His beautiful blue eyes blink several times as he surfaces into awareness. Almost immediately they lock on hers. With that connection reestablished, Beckett can feel her hand shift as Castle starts to grin at their good fortune at having survived yet another explosion.
But in a flash, Castle's face morphs into one of fierce resolve. Even as she's wondering about the reason for the change, his hand is on her shoulder, shoving her away with shocking force. She lands hard, again feeling the sting of more cuts. Turning her head back to her partner, she nearly vomits when she sees the twisted piece of a metal support beam stabbed into his shoulder, right below where her head had been seconds ago.
Recoiling from the image, she pulls back and notices the twisted piece of humanity responsible for this tableau. Sporting horrible injuries of his own, Bracken barely manages to stand as he draws in raspy, panting breaths. He's dirt-stained and bloody, with a large gash on his arm where he must've cut himself on whatever he used to free himself of his bonds. But it's the cut across his forehead, which has left half his face drenched in blood, that makes him look truly demonic.
"So, Bracken escapes again," he grins as he stumbles while turning and looking for another improvised weapon with which to attack Beckett. The detective, meanwhile, casts about quickly to locate Castle's gun or her own.
Her fruitless search is interrupted by a low groan from Castle, who struggles to reach out to her. But he's not surrendering. Despite his dire situation, there's a fire in his eyes, an intense alertness that connects with her immediately. Having her attention, he looks pointedly down towards his wrist.
"Goodbye, Detective," Bracken taunts as he sees a piece of rebar and lurches toward it. Had she been on her feet she might've reached the weapon first. But it's all she can do to bring her legs up and shift into a crouching position before Bracken turns, steel rod in hand.
"How cute," he sneers as he stumbles toward them, noticing Beckett holding her partner's hand. "There's no time for goodbyes, but don't worry – you'll be together soon." With a grim smile on his face, Bracken rears back to heave the rebar over his head, intending to bash Beckett on the downswing.
With his arms extended above his head, bracken's torso is drawn taught. Nonetheless, Beckett spins in place and rises as she punches the ex-Senator in the gut.
Bracken freezes in place for a moment, his already abused senses misfiring and sending confused messages through his nervous system. A single, simple punch shouldn't have done much of anything, especially not from her. But he feels like he's on fire and doesn't understand why.
Looking down, he can barely see the white hilt of a small knife protruding from his stomach. He might've missed it against the backdrop of his dirty white shirt, had the spreading dark stain not thrown it into relief.
Actions seem to lurch forward in time following Bracken's realization. Even as he watches, the knife is pulled out and reinserted, over and over again. He feels his hands release the rebar, but never hears it crash to the floor behind him. In fact, the only thing he can hear is the voice of his killer.
"… seven, eight, nine," Beckett gasps, finally extracting the knife and letting her hand fall to her side as she struggles to stay upright, fighting fatigue, her injuries from the explosion, and the wretched sense of wrongness that makes her want to vomit.
As Bracken collapses to his knees and then falls to his side, his nemesis utters the last words he'll ever hear: "Nine times your hired knife stabbed my mother. How did it feel?"
Bracken can't answer. He can't do anything – nothing seems to work or respond to any efforts on his part. Even his eyes resist his efforts to move them or blink. Before they go glassy and stop working altogether, Bracken finds himself staring at Castle's hand that Beckett had been holding. At least he can solve this one mystery before passing on, his foggy brain thinks.
And so Bracken dies with a slight upturn on his lips, his sightless eyes staring at the holster peeking out from Castle's unbuttoned cuff.
"Lynch?!" Beckett shouts into the communication device, praying it still works despite the abuse of the explosion. "Espo?! Is anyone there?!"
The static she gets in reply to her desperate plea nearly convinces Beckett to throw the device into the wall. In the minutes since Bracken's collapse she's become painfully aware of the precariousness of their position. Gunfire still erupts in static bursts, along with the muffled whumps of small explosives. Worse, the chopper landed, and she can only imagine the horrors it disgorged onto their makeshift battlefield. They've been left alone in their wrecked room of isolation, but somehow all of the sounds and wondering make it worse. Life is easier with a weapon in hand and a clear enemy in front of you.
Her patience in handling the device pays dividends as it finally bursts to life.
"Beckett?" calls the imperturbable voice of Lynch. "Sit rep."
"Castle's down. Bracken's out," she answers succinctly. "We need medical and evac, now!"
"Shipton's en route," Lynch replies calmly, apparently unbothered by what befell either man in the room. "She's a medic and she's now your CO. This op's about done – you listen to her. We're going to need to fall back and regroup later. She's your contact so don't piss her off."
Even as she's about to object, both of them are pulled away from their conversation by the sounds of the chopper's engine spooling up again.
"Shit," Lynch curses into the open comm line, breaking his calm demeanor for the first time in Beckett's recollection. "The target's making a run for it. Sergeant, drop that bird!"
"What?" Beckett hears Esposito yelp. "I've got a rifle, not an anti-aircraft battery!"
"So shoot the pilot. Or the turbine. Or the rotor. Just bring the damn thing down or we lose our shot."
"There's commotion inside, maybe friendlies?" Esposito voices his last objection.
"Doesn't matter. He knew the risks," Lynch summarizes tersely. "Bring. It. Down."
Beckett's attention to the exchange between Lynch and Esposito evaporates immediately as she hears movement outside the door to their room. After Shipton calls out the code, Beckett helps her force the door open against the wreckage strewn about. Shipton drags a backboard behind her. While it seems kind of primitive, it's a good call in this setting as a regular stretcher or gurney would prove difficult to navigate through this mess.
Castle, who'd barely clung to consciousness, passes out after Shipton removes the makeshift spear lodged in his shoulder. The small fountain of blood that erupts afterward breaks through Beckett's last shred of control. By the time she's done heaving, Shipton's got a loose field dressing on the wound. With a contrite Beckett assisting, their field medic maneuvers Castle onto the backboard.
Finally, finally, the distant sounds of sirens become discernable through the cacophony around them. Nice to know that a small, private dockside war featuring gunfire, air support, and explosions will eventually attract the interest of law enforcement. Beckett would fault the reaction time of her colleagues, except one – or maybe both sides of this conflict – likely impaired an official response.
As they lift Castle's backboard and start toward the door, a new sound forces its way to the fore. Espo's rifle spits out a stream of short, concentrated staccato bursts. Not long after, the regular cycle of the choppers blades coughs and sputters. The engine screams to compensate for the impaired blades, but the sputtering irregularity of the sounds presages the end. With an anthropomorphic scream, the chopper drops out of the range of audibility.
Just as Beckett and Shipton look at each other in wonder, the sounds of a small explosion reaches them.
"Bird is down," Lynch confirms through the earpiece Beckett forgot she was wearing. "Team Three, get the boat out to where it went down to check for survivors. Four minutes, then you leave. No exceptions. Shipton, get your ass moving."
Beckett's barely conscious or aware of the frantic minutes that follow. Struggling with her own injuries and his weight, she stumbled several times while getting Castle through the complex and to a waiting vehicle. Rather than an unlabeled van, they're in the delivery truck for a restaurant supply company. Shipton had them screaming through the side streets near the warehouse even as the law enforcement vehicles finally began to secure the perimeter. Idly, in that way a brain works only after too much abuse, she wonders if Peterson or Monfriez have been called in. Had they seen her at the scene, they probably would've turned around and driven away.
The chatter in her earpiece delivered disjointed news of the operation as Beckett made her escape with Shipton and Castle. She drifted in and out of consciousness, so she's not certain which reports were real, which were dreams, and which are some weird, distorted combination of both. She's pretty sure she heard Espo make his escape, catching a ride with the departing raft so he wouldn't be seen by any law enforcement who might recognize him. She has a vague recollection that two members of the New Amsterdam crew died, along with several others supporting Lynch's efforts. As for enemy combatants, there is no count. With the warehouse now a raging inferno, authorities will need to wait for fire containment before the bodies can be counted and retrieved. Including Bracken's.
As for the two kings in this chess match, both are missing. Lynch is certain the target – the "head of the snake," in Castle's words – was aboard the chopper. The leading theory is that Jackson jumped aboard and both went down when Espo succeeded in disabling the helicopter, leading to its watery demise.
The sudden opening of the back door to the delivery truck rouses Beckett again. Before she can bring herself to full wakefulness, Castle's been removed by two orderlies who drop his backboard on top of a gurney and have him moving towards the ER. Shipton helps Beckett out of the truck, but holds her back from following her partner.
"We've got a different stop," Shipton explains. Sensing Beckett's objection, she interjects while steering the detective around to the cab of the truck. "We know some friendly doctors here," she explains as she opens the passenger door. "Castle needs some serious medical attention but we don't want him connected to anyone who can be tied back the warehouse."
Beckett's exhausted brain processes this explanation while Shipton walks around the truck and pulls herself up into the driver's seat.
"Where are we going?" Beckett finally manages.
"We've got a facility with doctors, equipment, and no one nosing around. You might not've been speared with a bloody big piece of metal, but you're still not in great shape, Detective. We'll get you patched up and back to your partner soon.
Shipton lied. Oh, the promises of competent and private medical care were true, as was the need for sleep. But after waking, getting checked out by another round of doctors, and finally released from care, she found herself whisked to another safehouse for a debriefing rather than her partner's hospital bedside. Her face clearly reflected her lack of amusement at this situation after it becomes clear that Castle's not joining them.
"Stand down, Detective," Lynch orders gently as he enters the small room where Shipton and Beckett had awaited his arrival. Talbot trails after him, looking like hell. With a band of gauze wound around his head and a bandage covering a ribbon of stiches on his left cheek, Talbot looks forlorn as he hobbles to the table and seats himself without any acknowledgement of the others. For someone who's usually boisterous, he or his team must've suffered in yesterday's assault.
"Right, let's keep this brief – we've got things to do," Lynch starts the briefing after sitting down and setting a stack of file folders on the table in front of him. "Shipton, prepare to move out. Following the wrap-up of this matter, we're moving to the Covena job in LA. Be ready to move the day after tomorrow. Full redeployment. The East Coast is going to be a little hot for a while."
Shipton nods, apparently unsurprised by the order to pull up stakes and drift west. Talbot, however, looks less than pleased as Lynch turns his attention toward him.
"As for you…," Lynch begins, letting the tension draw out. "You've got a decision to make. Three choices: LA, with us," he starts with a nod toward Shipton. "Leavenworth, for a stay not likely to be less than twenty years. Or, you join the members of your crew whose allegiance proved fickle yesterday."
That explains Talbot's haggard look, Beckett realizes. It sounds like at least two members of the New Amsterdam tried to switch sides yesterday, with fatal results. Poor Espo – she'll need to find him to see if he's the one who had to deal with them.
"What's the point?" Talbot growls in response. "Our deal was with the ghost and he's dead. We didn't sign on to be errand boys to the second fiddle."
Lynch absorbs this insult with his usual placidity before swiveling his head to share his reply with everyone at the table. "Jackson was on the chopper when it went down because our target was still alive and on board. He'll finish the mission, if he hasn't already. Then we'll rendezvous in LA."
Damn it, Beckett thinks, not sure how to process this news. Castle's injured, his dad is missing, and the architect of the plot against Castle's family may still be alive. How can this all end if they don't have firm resolution?
Turning to Talbot while she processes her own thoughts, Beckett sees that he looks even angrier now. "You can't know that," the man raves. "You sound like some damn TV preacher talking about having faith just before asking for money."
"Regardless of your characterization, I don't proselytize," Lynch replies evenly. "It's entirely up to you whether you bet your life against someone who's survived much more dire situations than this. So, I understand the first option is out. We'll be stopping in Kansas, then, either to drop you at the correctional facility or to bury you. Which do you prefer?"
Talbot suddenly looks much less sure of himself. Maybe he's not so willing to turn his back on the ghost, or maybe he doesn't like his odds of taking on the people in this room to win his escape. Beckett's seen the look in his eyes before, from suspects who suddenly find themselves cornered and are thinking madly of a way to escape.
"Three months," Talbot temporizes. "We'll do LA for three months. If the ghost hasn't surfaced by then, we need to talk."
"Then a conversation will be unnecessary," Lynch replies, again showing his complete confidence in Jackson.
"Detective, here's your story," he says as he slides a folder to her, moving on from Talbot's concerns. "There are city, state, and federal officials at the site of our engagement. I've got a meeting with them in an hour. The information in your file corresponds with the facts I'll dispense during that meeting. Your file will confirm your participation, explain your role as local law enforcement, and provide your Captain with sufficient credit to ensure you and the sergeant can return to your precinct with heads held high."
What? Beckett thinks. She didn't participate in any of this for kudos. She did it to protect Castle and avenge her mother. And what about…
"Your Captain expects you and the sergeant at noon. I suggest you connect with him to coordinate before then."
"What about Castle?" Beckett finally interjects, pushing the file away from her to show where her priority lies.
"About Mr. Castle…," Lynch says by way of segue. While he stalls, Beckett can't help but notice a flinch from Shipton. It doesn't raise her hopes about what's going on.
"I'm hoping," Lynch continues, "that you can help us locate Mr. Castle after settling things at your precinct."
"You lost him?!"
"We knew he needed to be relocated before the shift change at the hospital. It was risky enough to have someone so recognizable in a hospital, even in a closed ward. There's just too many people in and out, and all it takes is one person. Like, say, a visiting cardiologist…," Lynch trails off while giving Beckett a pointed look, then shooting a quick glimpse out of the corner of his eye at the others in the room to emphasize the need for discretion.
A visiting cardiologist? Oh, shit, Beckett realizes. Yeah, Josh would certainly have recognized Castle, and he probably wouldn't have been quiet about it. Not based on what she's heard about their last meeting in a hospital.
"Castle apparently shared our views about the need for a prompt exit," Lynch continues after he sees that Beckett's understood his reference. "He checked out against medical advice shortly before we arrived to extract him. We have ideas about where he went," this comment again occasions a quick look at others to make sure Beckett doesn't speculate aloud, "but have been unable to confirm."
"He was healthy enough to leave on his own?" Beckett asks, picturing her partner stumbling out into the alley with no help. It's painfully reminiscent of what must've happened after he was taken while she was away. Actually, that's probably where he went – they never found where Castle received his medical treatment for his scarred back, so he's probably retreated to the same place to heal again. But why did he go alone?
"Presumably," Lynch replies, before his lip twitches in what might be the leading edge of a grin or a flinch. "Our effort to limit the information on his stay backfired – there's no information logged in the hospital's computer system, and he replaced the physical copy of his chart with someone else's. Unless, of course, he's really a 63 year-old widow from Queens currently undergoing hormone replacement therapy."
Long practice helps Beckett prevent a reaction, but she hears a huff from Shipton and notices a smirk from Talbot. Good to know Castle hasn't lost his humor after the stress of the last several months.
"Why did he leave?" Beckett asks, unable to contain her curiosity. "The way you describe it, he got out just before you arrived. And I'm well versed in Castle's behavior – it would've been easier for him to leave without a trace. But he left a bogus file instead, which either means he's joking with you or he's ticked off and wants you to know it."
"You mean you haven't figured it out yet?" Lynch replies, annoying Beckett with his superior look. His head swivels to Talbot and then Lynch, but neither of them seems to know what Lynch is talking about.
With a sad shake of his head, Lynch takes a breath before beginning his explanation. "I suspect Mr. Castle is fairly annoyed about what he sees as a breach of trust. Although he, just like everyone in this room, should understand the need for operational security. Let's just say that nothing that happened yesterday was unexpected."
"You son of a bitch," Beckett growls just before a look of comprehension blooms on Shipton's face. "You expected the chopper. The lateral attack was too well-defended. So it was all just a diversion."
"Yes," Lynch confirms as Talbot looks on, impressed. "And our adversary approached just as we'd hoped – easily marked, isolated, and relatively contained. Jackson was in place to intercept."
It actually makes sense, which annoys Beckett. And if it ends up being effective, she might even agree to forget about it. Maybe Castle will, too. Eventually. "And so Castle doesn't trust you. He ran rather than accept your help, and now we don't know where he is."
"We might have one lead on him, from something that was included with his medical chart," Lynch continues, shifting the folders in front of him to reach the one on the bottom. "I hope you appreciate my restraint, but I'd appreciate it if you let me know if there's any relevant information in here."
Even before he opens the folder, Beckett knows what she's going to see. But Shipton and Talbot both look on in confusion as Lynch slowly extracts a dove gray envelope and slides it across the table into her waiting hands.