The Long Game: 2
DISCLAIMER: None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.
New York City, 8 a.m., March 10, 2012
The armored prisoner wagon rumbles slowly, carefully, through the city along the already crowded city streets, with its very important cargo.
Scott Dunn sits on the side bench, against the left wall of the van. His feet are chained to the floor, and his hands are chained in shackles, together. He hums a tune aloud, keeping his mind focused. His arraignment at the courthouse is roughly an hour away. His calm demeanor lends a surreal gift to the already tense atmosphere in the van.
Across from him sit two heavily armed federal agents who have been assigned transport duty to accompany the serial killer to the arraignment proceedings, and then back to his holding cell. Tensions are running high at the Agency's local office, due to the more personal nature of his crimes against one of their own. And each agent there – with a family himself or herself – empathizes with Special Agent Jordan Shaw in a very personal way. It's the worst-case scenario each of them fear, but rarely voice.
Someone attacking their family, their friends. Their children.
And in such a vicious manner.
Dunn smirks at the two Feds who sit with him, drawing the ire of the large Hispanic agent to the left, who has been eyeing him warily the entire trip.
"Something funny, creep?" the agent asks.
Shaking his head, Dunn responds, chuckling. "Something like that."
Yeah, he'll play with the agent for a while. He likes mental games. He's good at it. This will help pass the time nicely.
"I don't see anything funny here. Why don't you enlighten us," the agent continues, flexing his arms and cracking his knuckles.
Dunn, nonplussed and unaffected, continues smirking.
"I find these proceedings to be . . . let's just say that they are a waste of all of our time."
"If it were up to me, there would be a different option for you, creep," the agent mutters.
"Well, too bad it's not up to you," Dunn responds, looking every bit the menace he has proven himself to be. "I won't be incarcerated for long, anyway," he adds with a smile. "I never am."
The large, Hispanic agent smiles to himself. Scott Dunn finds that strange. The agent steals a quick look at his watch as the van lurches to an unexpected stop. Suddenly his cell phone beeps. He glances at the text message and smirks himself.
"Showtime," he says.
The second, smaller agent scrambles quickly to the back doors of the van, opening them and jumping out into the street below.
"Hurry up," the smaller agent yells. "We're on the clock now."
"You won't be needing these," the Hispanic agent says affably, unlocking the feet cuffs away from the prisoner.
Scott Dunn smiles. This is happening sooner than he expected. As he has just said – he never stays incarcerated for very long. Good planning on his part always ensures a good getaway from the authorities. Or a good escape, if it comes to that.
"I wasn't expecting this so quickly," he says, holding out his arms, showing his shackled hands to the agent.
"Oh, those you will need," says the large Hispanic, as he lands a hard right cross to the forehead of the killer, dazing him.
Suddenly, Dunn finds himself being dragged out of the transport van – roughly. He utters a curse as his knees scrape along the street's rough concrete, as he stumbles to the curb. The second agent quickly shuts the two doors, bangs on the side of the van and the transport vehicle suddenly accelerates off the curb and into traffic. A few seconds later it has turned a corner and it out of sight.
Both agents turn and forcefully pick up Dunn by the arms, and drag him toward the doors of the building in front of them. They stop, intentionally, to give the serial killer a look.
"You might recognize this place," the previously silent and smaller agent smiles.
Dunn, still dazed from the hammerhead shot applied by the larger agent, lifts his head and sees the sign atop the storefront of the building.
"Oh Shit!" he mutters, and now for the first time, a bit of fear grips him as the two agents drag him down the two steps, unlock the door and haul Scott Dunn into The Old Haunt.
He is manhandled as the two agents drag him through the doors of the establishment and through the aisles of the bar itself. Being just after 8 o'clock in the morning, the bar itself is closed. Fortunately, they have been provided a key, so their entry into the building was quick and painless.
Well, painless for them. Their prisoner has picked up a couple more bruises, the poor thing.
They take him to the back of the bar, and down the flight of stairs. The silent agent flips a lever, opening a secret passageway into the sewer tunnels below. For his part, Dunn is now starting to come back around, out of his daze, demanding answers.
"What the fuck is going on here! I demand –"
Another hard slap to the back of the head silences him, as the larger agent throws him roughly against the stone wall of the tunnels.
"I'm sorry. I guess I don't have to tell you that you aren't in a position to demand anything . . . creep."
"I think you just did, Charlie," the second agent laughs.
"Well, yeah, I suppose I did," agrees his partner with a menacing laugh of his own. Clearly he is enjoying this – and he's good at it, too.
"Not like it's going to help him anyway."
They drag him ever further into the bowels of the underground caverns beneath the city. The old sewer tunnels branch out into multiple directions, but the agents seem to know exactly where they are going, through the myriad of twists and turns. Each step becomes another, and soon the seconds turn to minutes. Dunn is – once again – getting his wits – and confidence about him again. It's obvious to him that these two are not a part of any organization trying to spring him as part of a rescue operation, so they are here for something else. And if they wanted him dead, well – he'd be dead by now.
"I believe you gentlemen have made some type of mistake," he tries bravely, his voice stronger now, as they continue to drag him from one turn and straight shot to another. It's dark down here, and it smells horrible. He can hear things rustling, running at their feet. He steels his mind away from such thoughts. The mental side of this – he is good at this.
"Nope, no mistake, creep," the smaller agent offers.
"Although I do believe you are going to understand the nature of – and the depths of your mistake very shortly," the larger agent adds.
"I do believe you're right, Charlie."
Another fifty feet, and they make one final turn. The larger agent kicks out the gated enclosure into the east river a few feet below. They toss Dunn roughly below and he lands awkwardly, spraining his ankle.
"Dammit, what's this about?" he screams angrily, now for the first time fully losing his legendary control.
"Thanks guys, I will take it from here," says a new, deeper voice below them.
Dunn looks up into the face of the new voice, seeing a slightly older man than his two predecessors. He has salt and pepper hair, cropped above the ears, combed back loosely.
He picks up Dunn roughly, and quickly head butts him backwards. He continues the sudden assault, placing a quick kick into the killer's groin, drawing a scream. Dunn, now highly nauseous, vomits in pain as he attempts to scramble down toward the water – and possible freedom.
A blunt force hammers the back of his head, sending his face into the hard, unforgiving surface, and sending his senses back into the fog. He vaguely recognizes that his feet are being tied – again. Suddenly, he is being dragged across the sand and rocks, jagged edges cutting into his back. He tries a scream, but nothing comes out. His captor is silent, which only further lends to the terrifying sequences he now faces.
Without warning, he finds himself lifted into the air, then just as quickly dropped unceremoniously into a small waiting motorboat.
His captor climbs into the craft and guns it to life, taking them out into the morning waters. They travel across the water for a few minutes before he turns to the now clearly frightened serial killer - who for the first time - is experiencing the brand of entertainment that he is accustomed to delivering to others. This . . . this abduction is being orchestrated in broad daylight. He finds himself coming in and out of consciousness. Without warning, he is being roughly – but very carefully – slapped back and forth across his face.
"Uh-uh," his captor tells him. "Stay with me, Dunn. Don't leave me – not just yet."
The emotionless edge - the tone of the man's words truly frighten Scott Dunn, a feeling he has never felt until this moment. There is something about this man.
Suddenly, the craft stops, and now they are bobbing atop the murky river waters.
"So . . . I wish to have words with you," his captor tells him.
"At least tell me who you are," Dunn says, finding a bit of bravery in what he knows may turn out to be his final minutes. No one kidnaps you and drags you out into the middle of a watery grave just for 'words' – of this much he is certain.
"Certainly," his captor almost smiles – his menace now barely contained. "My name is Jackson Hunt."
The Hamptons, 10 a.m., March 10, 2012
Richard and Alexis Castle climb the stairs leading up to their family beach home. They have just returned from a slow and easy walk along the surf's edge. He had made them a quick breakfast once she had finally calmed down from the nightmare that had awakened her this morning. Deciding that a walk would be good to clear her head – and his head also – they had thrown on windbreakers and tennis shoes and taken down to the water's edge.
As he enters the home, Martha Rodgers waits impatiently, and the look on her face tells him that the morning's excitement is far from over.
"What's wrong, mother?" he asks.
"As if there's not enough going on already," he thinks to himself.
"Richard . . ."
The fear in her eyes startles him – and he quickly looks around to see if there is an intruder in the house. Seeing his actions spurs her back to the present, and she points at the television.
"The television, Richard," she says. He glances over to the large big-screen television screen as he hears his phone chirping from the kitchen bar counter, where he left it before taking the walk along the shoreline with Alexis.
He picks up the phone and, seeing the call to be incoming from the 12th Precinct, he clicks ANSWER, and walks back to toward the large television, now listening with rapt interest.
"Castle!" the voice of Kate Beckett. "I've been calling you all morning."
"What is it, Beckett?" he responds, somewhat annoyed. He really doesn't have much to say to the detective right now. And she knows this. She's not stupid. Why is she calling?
"Castle . . . what have you done?"
"What the hell are you talking about?" he thinks to himself, now not listening to her anymore, but fully focused on the news story being broadcast on the television. The reporter is talking. She's talking about Scott Dunn and . . .
"Dear God, she's standing in front of the Old Haunt!" he realizes.
"John, here is what we know for certain," the reporter continues, speaking to the anchor back at the station.
"At 8:08 this morning, surveillance cameras picked up the federal transport van stopping here – in front of the Old Haunt bar – an establishment known to be owned by one Richard Castle. Viewers may recall that the famous author's daughter and mother were both kidnapped by the serial killer, Scott Dunn during his latest rampage just two over two weeks ago. Two men, impersonating federal agents, are seen here – as you can see – exiting the vehicle, along with Scott Dunn – who appears now to be their prisoner. They then take him – as you can see – into the Old Haunt bar. And that's it. Police have found no evidence of Dunn, or his captors – inside the establishment. But the question on everyone's mind right now is – where is Scott Dunn, and what role has Richard Castle played in his abduction?"
Martha Rodgers is now sitting on the sofa, as Alexis Castle sits beside her – her eyes wide – going from the television to her father, who stands off away from both women, with a strange look on his face.
The hard rapping on the front door tears him from his reverie, and he gives what he hopes is a reassuring glance to his daughter and mother. They've both been through enough already. Now this?
He opens the door, and his countenance falls, as he stares into the face of a man who is normally a friend – but clearly does not have 'friend' painted across his features this morning.
"Rick . . ."
"What can I do for you, Sherriff Anders," Castle asks, already knowing the answer.
"Rich, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to come down to the station – there are people who have a lot of questions for you."