The Long Game: Chapter 15
DISCLAIMER: None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.
New York Presbyterian Hospital in Lower Manhattan, at 6:35 p.m., Monday, March 19, 2012
"You're not making any sense, Castle. I'm right here. I can protect you, I can call –"
"You are not listening, Kate," the writer tells her between ragged breaths, clearly tiring from the conversation. She recognizes this immediately, chastising herself for pushing her friend, her partner so soon after his ordeal.
Her mind takes her back, and in her eyes she sees their roles reversed. She is lying in the hospital bed. She's the one who has been shot. She's the one who is out of surgery. And back then, she wasn't ready for anything. She wasn't ready for the conversations people wanted to have. She wasn't ready for the offers of help people made. And so she ran. Far away. For three months. She made one bad decision after another. Had she been given the chance to just rest, just chill, just heal, perhaps she would have made better decisions. But people – good people, with good intentions, kept pressing, kept pushing, kept offering. At least that's how it appeared. That's how it felt to her then. All she had wanted – all she needed – was some alone time, some solitude to get her thoughts together, to get her courage together.
And now she is doing to Richard Castle exactly what she desperately needed her friends and family not do to her, almost a year ago.
"You're right, Castle," she offers quickly, tightening her grip on his hand. "You're right. I'm not listening. I know what you need. You need rest. You need pain relief, a little space. Everything is crowding you right now, pushing down on you, and you feel overwhelmed."
She sees in his eyes the confirmation. He realizes once again that she knows exactly how he feels, what he is experiencing, the fear, the compression on his chest, the tightness, the claustrophobia setting in. She's been here. She's been in this bed, in his position.
"Thank you, Kate," he offers, closing his eyes once again. He feels her releasing her grip on his hand, and while he allows it – God knows he wants – needs – to get back to sleep – he has to make sure she understands. Suddenly he feels her lips on his forehead.
"Yeah, after four years, now she kisses me?" he thinks to himself. "Her timing could not be worse –"
The thought kicks him that he did exactly the same thing to her, a year ago when she was in this position. Now, she - with actions - has done exactly what he did - with words last year. His eyes still closed, he shakes his head in disappointment.
"Kate," he calls as she takes a step away. She has to understand. "I did not say that you are not able to help me," he says through gritted teeth, and suddenly opens his eyes to find hers.
"I said you can't help me."
For a second she stares at him, the confusion plain on her face. Suddenly, he sees in her eyes when the veil lifts and comprehension sets in. Her eyes widen, and suddenly her head darts to the left, then to the right, looking to see if anyone else is in the room. Seeing her reaction, he closes his eyes once again, allowing the medicine and the pain to pull him back into the darkness.
Still at the hospital, but two hours later, at 8:35 p.m., Monday, March 19, 2012
Richard Castle has been awake for roughly two minutes, still fighting the fog in his head. Martha Rodgers is downstairs in the hospital cafeteria having coffee with Kate Beckett. Both women had just taken their leave a half hour ago, while the recuperating writer was still asleep.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watches the long red hair walking towards him. Alexis, he smiles. It is good to see his daughter. And she is so beautiful. Her hair is long again, and his head falls to the side, toward the door so he can watch her. She walks past the bed, toward the window.
"Pumpkin?" he asks, questioningly. There is no answer, as Alexis stands at the window momentarily. What is she doing? What is she looking at? Her long red hair pulls at him.
But something is wrong. She doesn't have that long hair. Not anymore. Does she? Yet here she stands, her beautiful flowing red hair now leaning down, touching his face as she has left the window and now leans over him. And she is smiling at him. He smiles back at his baby girl.
No, something is wrong.
"Alexis?" he asks, blinking quickly.
"No, Mr. Castle," Elena Markov says softly. She mentally curses herself for using the red wig and light blue-green contact lenses for her disguise this evening. She has used the blonde disguise a couple of times already for this mission. Tonight she opted for something different – just in case.
"Too much like his daughter," she muses to herself, as it had not been her intention to confuse or fool the man in the bed.
"I am sorry that my disguise brings visions of your daughter," she tells him. "That was not my intention. I just needed a ruse to get inside your room."
His mind now clear, he sees the green nurse scrubs she wears, and sees the red hair not flowing freely, but actually in a ponytail.
"You're not –" he states, both questioningly and as a statement, but does not complete the sentence.
"No, I am not," she tells him. "I am Phase Two, Mr. Castle," she tells him. She is leaning over him, her face within a foot of his, her eyes boring into his. She wants to make sure he knows what is getting ready to happen. He has been through much already, and her admiration for the novelist continues to increase. She does not want to cause him any more unnecessary strain. There is great irony in this, given what she is about to do.
She watches him take a deep breath, closing his eyes. He is preparing himself once more, she realizes, and her admiration grows deeper. He is not asking for a reprieve, he is not telling her to wait a moment while he tries to compose himself. No, instead, the novelist she once simply considered to be a 'weak and pampered man' is once again proving to be anything but.
Earlier this morning, on the courthouse steps, she had come close to misfiring and killing Richard Castle. When he stepped toward the edge of the first step, she was certain – she was absolutely certain that he would stop there. There was no doubt in her mind that he would take four, five seconds – maybe more – to prepare himself for the shot. She knows men like Richard Castle, she knows the cowards that they are deep inside. She knew that he would give her a lengthy hesitation before stepping off the platform. In truth, she wondered if he would be able to take that final step at all. She watched him in her scope, and almost – almost - relaxed too much before realizing that the hesitation he gave her was merely a second, if that. His first step down occurred much quicker than she imagined, and she'd gotten the shot off just in time.
Someday she will share this with Jackson Hunt – over a drink they will laugh at how close she came to ending their wonderful friendship by killing his son.
She feels the same admiration now, as this man surprises her once more, his eyes opening and finding hers quickly.
"I'm ready," is all he says, and she can see his hands and arms tightening. He does not know what is coming next, or how she will make this attempt. He only knows that it is time.
She places her hand on his forehead, drawing her face closer to his, wiping the sudden perspiration from his brow.
"Calm yourself, Mr. Castle," she tells him. "We still have a minute or so," she says, smiling down at him.
"I do so admire you, Mr. Castle, and that is somewhat of a new feeling for me," she offers him. "Your father's cells do indeed multiply within you. They grant you a courage many men do not possess."
He stares at her, and even in the still light fog in his brain, he somehow sees that this woman is giving him a rare compliment. He somehow senses that this is not a conversation she is used to having with anyone. He offers her a soft smile, and she accepts it.
"You truly are your father's son, Mr. Castle. And your daughter is a part of this lineage as well. A strong part."
Her smile broadens as she sees that she now has his full attention.
"Keep Alexis out of this," he says, trying to put more force into the statement than his body will allow at this time.
"Have you seen her, Mr. Castle?" she asks him in a serious tone. "Have you seen the fire in her eyes this day? Have you seen how she carries herself now? I am not sure that keeping her out of this will ever be possible again."
"What do you mean?" he asks, his eyes widening now. Nothing more can happen to Alexis. She has gone through far too much already.
"That is a conversation for a later time, Mr. Castle," Elena tells him. "For now – it is time."
"We will have that conversation though," he tells her, and though the tone of his voice is soft, the burning in his eyes is not. She smiles once again in admiration of the man she has grossly underestimated.
"Of that I am certain, Mr. Castle," she tells him softly. "Now, hit your nurse call button."
She climbs atop the bed, now straddling his lap. He does as he is told, depressing the button on the long plastic rod that sits in his bed, which tells the nurses at the desk area for the floor that he needs help. Elena intentionally pulls the cord from one of the vital monitoring devices, causing an audible alert. Satisfied that 'help' will be coming within seconds or so, based upon the three federal resources who are monitoring the floor, she leans down and brushes her lips against his. It is a soft, sultry move that all but hypnotizes him, his eyes never leaving hers. The moment is all too brief.
"Steel yourself," she says quickly, as she suddenly grabs the pillow from below Richard Castle's head, and stuffs it over his face.
In full panic, now, and in a self-preservation mode that kicks in instinctively, the writer's will to live quickly gives him unexpected strength. His hands find the pillow and her hands on top of the pillow, and immediately fight against the pressure before he realizes that she has the pillow on his face, but is not putting any pressure down on him. Not yet.
"Breathe, Mr. Castle," she says softly. "I will not apply pressure until I hear them try to enter," she tells him. "Turn your head toward the door so you can breathe a bit more easily."
He notices that he – in fact – can turn his head. She's right. She isn't providing pressure yet. The overriding fear subsides slightly, but the headache from the concussion continues pounding. It sounds like a half dozen sledgehammers in his brain. He turns his head, and sure enough, breathing is easier.
"She really won't kill me," he tells himself. "She really won't kill me . . . will she?"
Elena watches the door, mentally counting down the seconds in her head. She has calculated this next step very well. First, she waited until his young daughter had stepped out of the hospital, going home to get her father's iPad so he would have it when he awakened. Elena knows that the young girl has been through enough for now. She also has waited until both the detective and the writer's mother have gone downstairs to the cafeteria. The small bug she placed on Martha Rodgers had told her that the two women – indeed – have extended their coffee trip to include a quick bite of dinner. Both women sit chatting at a table in the cafeteria, eating. She had promised Jackson Hunt that all three women would be out of the range of collateral damage before she made her second move.
Unlike the sniper's nest, where she had no worries about being caught, she knows that this phase is slightly more risky. There is a chance that she may have to hurt or incapacitate someone here in the hospital – especially for her getaway. She had sent a quick text on her burner phone to Hunt letting him know she was inside the room, and now her finely tuned hearing has picked up the tell-tale signs on the roof one floor above of the helicopter blades. This is going to be tight.
"Come on," she whispers to herself, glancing at the door. Two seconds later, she is rewarded as she sees the door knob slightly move.
"Now, Mr. Castle!" she tells him suddenly, and now the pressure on his head is almost unfathomable. Had his head been facing the ceiling, full into the pillow, he is certain he would be a dead man. Now, feeling this pressure, he still thinks he is a dead man, and he begins instinctively fighting for his life, struggling against the assassin who straddles him, suffocating the breath from him.
"What the hell?" the male nurse exclaims as he opens the door, and quickly – bravely – runs to the bed where the attempted murder is taking place. Elena easily dispatches the man with a quick side kick, rendering the man unconscious. She hopes she has not snapped his neck, as she felt that kick – from this awkward squatting position – fly out harder than intended. But her eyes remain fixated on the door – waiting for the first federal agent. Her hand moves toward her pocket in anticipation.
She does not have to wait long. The first agent quickly blows into the doorway, his gun raised. Elena is faster, as the star leaves her hand as he first comes into view. The star embeds itself into his gun hand, causing him to drop the weapon. The small steel ball breaks his cheekbone, driving him to his knees in agony. He will be in pain for a while.
She picks up the small pistol that Castle had not noticed her laying on the bed alongside him and fires three quick shots at the door. That will cause the remaining two agents to pause momentarily. This agent, however, crumpled on the floor has seen her, has seen her straddling Castle. He has seen her with the pillow over his face. He has become what Jackson Hunt needs. He is now a witness to a second attempt on Richard Castle's life.
She turns to the window and reaches inside the pocket on her left breast, and presses the button. The small charges she placed along the window just minutes ago blow, and the window explodes outward. The cool spring air rushes into the room, and she smiles as she sees the rope dangling in front of the now exposed window.
In one fluid motion she leaps off the bed, and launches herself out of the window. The pillow falls away from Richard Castle and he fights to sit up in the bed, immediately regretting his decision as he feels a couple of stitches loose, re-opening his wound in the effort.
Elena reaches forward, grabbing the rope and immediately wraps it around her arm, while grabbing it with her second hand a foot higher. She uses her one foot to wrap around the rope and grunts as the chopper immediately pulls upward, hard, and banks to the right, pulling her upward and away from the hospital building, accelerating quickly, some seventy five to eighty feet above the ground.
Below, on the street level, Jackson Hunt stands at the entry to the hospital, looking upward in the sky at the woman who – literally - flies away, and smiles. Pearson is one of the best pilots he knows, and he will get her away safely. He will drop her off four streets away atop a restaurant building where she has already left her second disguise in a duffle bag on the roof. She will make her exit on the ground floor of that restaurant within minutes, wearing black hair, and a New York Mets baseball cap, looking like nothing more than another patron leaving the sports bar.
Back inside Richard Castle's room at the hospital, the first of the remaining two agents rolls – summersaults actually – into the room, searching for a target. Immediately realizing there is no target, he yells to his partner.
"Clear!" he yells above the noise and smoke in the room.
The second agents sprints in, staring at the now destroyed window, and sees their other partner – the initial agent who entered the room – on his knees, nursing a bloody hand and cheek.
"What in the hell happened?" he states, half to himself.
The second agent quickly makes his way to Richard Castle's bed, grabbing the author who is clearly in a lot of pain. He immediately notices the new patch of blood growing on the writer's chest.
"Nurse! Nurse!" he screams toward the door, then looks down, searching for the nurse call button. Seconds later, two nurses warily enter the room. The hospital staff has heard – first – the small explosion in the room, and second, the gunshots. Clearly two things you never want to hear in a hospital.
"Are you all right, Mr. Castle?" the agents yells – too loudly for the dazed and concussed patient. "Mr. Castle, are you all right?"
Castle groggily nods his head, shaking the fear away, desperately willing his heart to slow down. Then he notices the missing window.
"So that's what she was doing over there," he thinks to himself. He notices the injured agent on the floor that is now be attended to by the staff, and he immediately is grateful that his daughter, his mother, his . . . his . . . he is grateful that Kate was not here during this attempt. He nods his head, realizing that the woman he just met – the woman he just had the most intense discussion with – this woman wouldn't leave something like that to chance. He is certain that she has waited until no one of importance to him was there.
The alarms in the hospital are sounding now, and he glances again at the open, destroyed window, thinking about his 'assassin'.
"That is the most intense, the most exotic woman I've ever met," he muses to himself, as he suddenly finds himself sinking back into the welcome darkness. Somewhere in the recess of his brain, a new character for a new series of books is taking shape. He knows he will see her again, as he closes his eyes and surrenders to the fog once more.