The Long Game: Chapter 16
DISCLAIMER: None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.
New York Presbyterian Hospital in Lower Manhattan, at 8:07 p.m., Monday, March 19, 2012
The chaos continues outside Richard Castle's private patient room at the hospital. The yelling and screaming between uniformed police officers of the NYPD and the undercover officers of the FBI is now reaching near violent levels, while the hospital staff works feverishly – and unsuccessfully – to restore order on the floor.
"How in the hell do you have three – count them, dammit – three undercover agents within steps of this room, and yet a woman just waltzes in there –"
"Is there a reason you are calling out her gender in this case, Detective Swanson?" asks Special Agent Kris Daniels, her short cropped blonde bangs falling just above her eyes.
"Oh for crying out loud, Agent Daniels, don't try to deflect attention here," Detective Rob Swanson continues. "You had three agents on this floor, yet an assassin – does that make you feel better? An assassin just walks through the door, jumps on the bed and starts to suffocate Mr. Castle, damn near cripples a nurse, easily disables one of your agents, gets off a few shots, blows the window and-"
Detective Swanson stops to look down at his notes for accuracy and then continues.
"- and then somehow leaps out of the window into the arms of a waiting helicopter that apparently whisked her away."
"There was a rope," Agent Daniels counters, testily. "She jumped at caught a rope, attached to the helicopter."
From her vantage point standing next to Richard Castle's bed, Kate Beckett almost – almost – smiles, almost breaks into laughter. Yeah, the blame game is in full swing right now, long before the press arrives. Thankfully, the press is being kept at bay, down at the lobby level. They aren't allowed near the stairways or elevators, as those locations are being guarded by NYPD officers.
"We'll see how long that lasts," she thinks to herself.
Response to the second attempt on Richard Castle's life has been swift – and fearful. Only now are people – as Jackson Hunt knew they would – beginning to wonder what in the world is really going on here, and whether or not Richard Castle was ever a mastermind or participant in the Scott Dunn mutilation, or whether he was simply a witness of some sort. And if the answer is the latter, then there is a very, very dangerous person – or persons – free and walking the streets of New York. And if the real perpetrators have made a second attempt on his life, then two questions arise:
First – what will stop the perpetrator from making another attempt?
Second – what exactly does Richard Castle, famous novelist and rumored playboy, know about this case that is so important that it warrants – no – demands his death?
No, the press can't be trusted with this just yet. Yet Kate knows the press will find out soon – minutes type of soon, despite the best efforts of her NYPD colleagues.
For now, she turns her head away from the arguments raging outside the door, and focuses her attention back to the man lying in the bed. A fresh patch is taped to his chest, covering the new stitches that have been hastily applied to stop the bleeding where his wound has re-opened. Hastily applied means a few quick pokes to numb the area, and stitches applied before the wonder drug could fully take effect. It had been far from painless for Richard Castle. His eyes are closed now, but his grip on her hand is tight, and she can only assume it is from the pain that she knows – from first-hand experience – is assaulting him at this moment.
All is not what it appears to be here, of that much Detective Kate Beckett is certain. It appears that a second attempt on Castle's life has occurred. But Kate knows the novelist lying in the bed below her. She knows him better than most. He has courage, yes. She has seen that courage on display multiple times in the past four years. Yet she has also seen fear – the normal fear that any person would have – in a few other situations. That fear is not to be scoffed at. It is a natural reaction to the kind of life she leads . . . to the kind of life he has inserted himself into.
Yet tonight, after a second attempt on his life, and after he has been shot from long-range earlier this morning, Kate Beckett has looked into the eyes of this man that occasionally open for her, and seen none of the fear that she expected. She has seen none of the normal, natural concern that you should see in the eyes of someone who has barely survived two attempts on his life. He is not a soldier, is not a trained police officer. He's a writer, for crying out loud!
No, something else is happening, and as Kate stares down at him, she is revisiting their conversation, their exact words. He was telling her something, and she was starting to get it. But what occurred to her was so preposterous, so outlandish that she disregarded it outright.
"I did not say that you are not able to help me."
"I said that you can't help me."
Now, two and a half hours later, as she considers these words anew along with the recent events of the past half hour fresh on her mind, her musings don't seem so far-fetched. Somehow, nothing that has happened today seems to be a surprise to Richard Castle. And that's the revelation that has her stirred this evening.
Oh, and there is one other thing that bothers her. The nurse.
All three agents who entered the room at various times during the attempt on Castle's life noted that there was a male nurse lying unconscious on the ground. Yet, some twenty minutes later, all of the nurses on the floor have been accounted for, and none are sporting any type of injury. So who, exactly, was the first person who entered Castle's room in response to Castle pushing his alarm button? And how did Castle get lucky enough to find that button in the midst of being suffocated?
"What the hell is going on, Castle?" she whispers to the novelist, who keeps his eyes closed, begging for the calm of sleep to overtake him and take away the pain that pounds in his chest.
Back at the Penthouse Suite in a NYC Hotel, now 8:30 p.m., Monday, March 19, 2012
"You cannot be serious!" Senator William Bracken thunders to the suddenly highly concerned man who stands in front of him in the open foyer area of the penthouse suite.
"I gave you one simple instruction," the senator continues. "Don't let anyone near the writer, unless you know for certain they are a hospital employee! How damn difficult a job could that be?"
"I'm not sure how she got in sir," the nurse impersonator replies, his voice barely cracking to give away his nervousness. "All I know is that –"
"You are certain it was a woman," Elizabeth Bracken interrupts, drawing slightly closer to the man, who takes an involuntary step backward. He knows the Brackens, he has dealt with them and operated for them for years. He knows which is the more dangerous of the two.
"Yes, ma'am," he replies. "She had red hair. When I entered the room, she was sitting atop Mr. Castle and had a pillow over his face. He was fighting her and –"
"And how, exactly, did this woman straddling a bed manage to overpower you while never stepping off the bed?"
The man doesn't answer. For now, he cannot find his voice, as he nervously eyes the couple in front of him. Unknowingly, he takes another step backwards, toward the door.
"Will, why do we even bother?" his wife asks him, now not looking at the man at their door, her attention fully focused on her husband.
"Liz, not now," the senator replies, his mind racing. Elena, disguised as a red-head, is all that is on his mind right now. He idly wonders how he can stop his best assassin from completing her mission – a mission he did not give her – when he can't even get in touch with her. Elizabeth, for her part, has been wondering this morning whether they can dispatch someone to stop Elena Markov.
The senator's phone rings, interrupting his thoughts. He glances down at the burner phone he retrieves from his pocket, and quickly issues instructions.
"Out! Now!" he hisses to the now clearly frightened man, who wastes no time in getting out of the room, away from these two fearful people. Elizabeth shares a glance with her husband, who merely nods his head as he turns toward the window and addresses his caller.
"Elena! What in the hell is-"
"I know you are upset, senator," she begins, feigning an apologetic nature. She has to time everything in this conversation perfectly if she is going to pull this off. This, according to Jackson Hunt, is to be the fork in the road.
"I have called to apologize –"
"You're damn right you have," he thunders, and immediately regrets his tone. He has, in his frustration, momentarily forgotten to whom he is talking.
"I would remind you who you address," she counters, putting just the slightest bit of menace into her voice.
"You're right, you're right," he replies quickly. "Elena, today has been . . . Elena what is going on?"
"First, even this contact between us is against protocol, but I felt I owed you an explanation," she begins. "One failure is unforgivable. Two failures is –"
"Elena, I need an explanation for everything," he interrupts. "Why are you doing this? I didn't order any hit on Richard Castle."
The silence on the phone frightens him. He knows this woman. He knows her by reputation and directly. Elena is many things, he knows, and she is most dangerous when she is quiet. He knows that his next few words – even as a United States Senator – could be the difference between life and death.
"Explain," is all she gives him, a full twenty seconds later.
"What's to explain?" he asks her. "You're on a mission that I did not initiate, against a target who you know, you know, Elena, that I want to remain alive at all costs."
Elena gives him another half minute of artificial silence, to let the senator stew a bit more. It works, as he literally begins to perspire on his forehead.
"Do not screw with me, Senator," she finally hisses. The venom in her voice completely unnerves him.
"I am not . . . what do you Americans call it . . . a yo-yo, yes?" she says, searching for the word. "I am not a toy for you to cast about here and there. You cannot disrespect me in this manner."
"Elena, believe me –"
"Exactly what game are you playing, Senator?" she asks suddenly, playing her role to perfection. "You release me to a task . . . a surprising task I admit, one that I did not expect. But my role is not to question you. I have never questioned you, and so I did not question your motive this time either," she continues. She can imagine the confusion rolling around the in the head of the senator at the moment.
"I set out to complete your task, and now, because I have failed in two attempts you now feign ignorance of your initial command?"
She does not give him time to answer. Instead, she terminates the call, smiling as she knows now is the time to leave him wondering, to leave him further guessing. She is correct in her assumption, as the senator is now in full panic mode as he stares at the burner phone in his hand. He hesitates, knowing that the device will not likely survive another toss across the room.
Elena, for her part, looks at her watch. She will give it a full count to one hundred and twenty before she leaves the lobby area to the elevators, pushing the button for the penthouse suite. The card in her hand – provided by Jackson Hunt – affords her entry to the penthouse level.
Meanwhile, Elizabeth Bracken uses her card key to open the door and re-enter the penthouse suite. She glances at her husband and immediately knows that this phone call did not go well. Before she can ask, he sees her and beats her to the punch.
"Did you take care of things?" he asks. "We cannot afford any loose ends right –"
"I know that, Will," she responds softly. "Just a moment. He should be out of the elevator by now. Once the press finds out you are in this hotel, this will play nicely for us."
She takes out a small button – a detonator – and presses the button. Downstairs, in the lobby area, Steven Manley takes his final step in life, approaching the revolving doors, before his upper half explodes. Unfortunately for Manley, the small charge that Elizabeth Bracken planted on his shoulder sleeve on the long-sleeved shirt remained undetected during his ride down the elevator and brief walk through the lobby. He had – unwisely – believed that since she let him get on the elevator, and that the elevator made it safely to the lobby level, that he was free and clear. It is his last mistake in this life.
"The police and press will wonder if this was not some botched attempt on your life, Will," she says matter-of-factly. He nods his head in agreement. For now, neither of them know who has turned Elena Markov loose on Richard Castle, but they cannot ignore the possibility that someone is trying to frame the senator either. So this act of violence in this hotel, where the Senator is staying, should hopefully throw anyone off of that trail.
Elena Markov has watched the entire lobby explosion unfold in front of her. She recognized the man walking from the elevator as the nurse who was on the wrong end of her side kick from Richard Castle's bed. Seeing him here, she now realizes that he was planted there in the hospital to stop any further attack on Castle. She smiles to herself, knowing that his failure to do so would not have been received kindly by the Brackens, and honestly, is surprised to see the man walking away from his meeting with the couple still alive and intact.
The small explosion that rocks the lobby, blowing the unfortunate man apart, brings only a knowing nod of the head from the assassin, as she walks to the stairwell and begins walking up the flight of steps.
"A few flights will do me good," she thinks to herself, giving herself more time to gather her thoughts. Eight flights up, her mind now crystalized to her next steps, she exits the stairwell onto the ninth floor, and walks to the elevator, pushing the button. A half minute later, the door opens, and she punches floor number 48.
Meanwhile, up on the 48th floor in the penthouse suite, Elizabeth Bracken begins to question her husband.
"What did she say?" Elizabeth asks.
"She was very adamant that I gave her the command," he tells her, running his hands through his hair, staring out the window at the night below. "And fairly angry as well. She thinks that I am playing her."
He walks into the master bedroom and into the bathroom. He turns the cold water on, and grabs a face cloth and begins to wash his face. The cold water feels wonderful on his face, invigorating him, and even if only for a minute or two, calms his spiking nerves. He splashes more of the icy water on his face, before grabbing a dry towel. He unfolds the towel and begins to pat his face dry. He glances up into the wall mirror above the sink to see Elizabeth standing in the doorway to the bathroom.
"That won't do," Elizabeth states a few seconds later, continuing their conversation. She knows how dangerous Elena can be. And an angry Elena? Well, that is not something either of them wish to confront.
"What do you suggest?" he asks her, now looking at the beautiful woman with whom he has spent the last two plus decades. He knows that she is not a woman to be trifled with either, and has – on more than one occasion – wondered why he even bothers to use outside people to handle his . . . problems.
"To be honest," she begins, "I am not quite sure," she says, then noting his expression, adds "yet." He nods his head in acceptance, then stands upright, angrily throwing the towel to the floor beside the large shower stall. He walks past her, giving her a soft kiss on the cheek, before walking to the bed, and sitting on the edge at the foot of the bed. She follows him, and sits next to him.
"Give me a minute to think," he says softly. She complies, simply placing her elbows on her knees, and her hands underneath her chin. Neither of them says a word for the next couple of minutes. Suddenly, he stands, a brief smile growing on his face.
"A drink?" he offers, as he walks toward the bedroom door. She smiles, and stands to join him, as they both walk into the foyer area toward the kitchen. Both are taken aback with the figure who stands at the door. Inside the door, that is. Her eyes blaze with a calm fury that disarms both the senator and his wife.
"Elena. How did you get inside?" he asks quickly.
"Seriously?" she asks, incredulous. "You disappoint me," she says quietly but firmly.
"Normally you would knock," Elizabeth Bracken counters, trying to keep the upper hand in this impromptu meeting that she intuitively knows is going to be a make or break discussion.
"These are clearly not normal times," Elena says simply, continuing to stare at the couple. Turning her attention to the senator alone, she continues.
"I was in the lobby when you disposed of your loose end a few moments ago. Is that what I am to you as well, Senator?" she asks him, almost demurely. Her tone puts the Senator further on the edge. "Am I a loose end you think you can simply toss aside?"
"No!" both the Senator and his wife exclaim, simultaneously.
Elena fights to hold back the laughter that threatens her. "Oh this is just too delicious," she thinks to herself.
"I have done far too much for you, over the years – I have been far too loyal to you for you to play games with me as you do today, Senator."
"Elena, I promise you, there are no games being played here –"
"I disagree," she counters quickly, with force in her voice. "And I struggle to see how you do not see this," she continues. "You have issued a command to me. Yet you deny this command. So I am left with two possible reasons."
Elizabeth Bracken knows what is coming, and truthfully, she is afraid of this answer. Because it means that for once, all of their carefully conspired plans have somehow spun out of their control. Not a good thing.
"First," Elena continues, "you have released me to a task and either lie or have changed your mind. A dangerous game, I might add," she adds with menace, gazing at both husband and wife.
"Or second, someone has taken your identity; someone has hacked your system and is now looking to frame you. Personally, I believe this latter option to be too outrageous to even consider."
Their silence tells her she has achieved her first goal in this face to face meeting. Now she must insert the final piece of the puzzle.
"I am not someone to play with, Senator," she says, and then glances at his wife, continuing. "I will not be framed. I am not your patsy to be used as you will."
Elizabeth Bracken opens her mouth to speak, but Elena interrupts her.
"We are finished, Senator," she says, and she fights to contain the smile that threatens to overtake her face as she sees their joint reaction to these words.
"If I meet you again, Senator, it will be under my terms, not yours." The threat is clear, and both the Senator and his wife recognize this life-altering moment playing out in front of them. His greatest weapon, his most dangerous weapon has now spun out of control, out of his hands.
Suddenly, Elena looks directly at Elizabeth Bracken, and addresses her directly.
"I know you," she begins, her eyes narrowing. "I recognize you. He is Adam," she says, pointing back to the Senator. "But you are not Eve. You are the snake. You are the cause of his fall. I will come for you someday, Sheila Elizabeth Bracken."
The master assassin has, unbeknownst to the couple with her, been subtly, expertly closing the distance between them with each sentence spoken.
"I trust that you could have easily waited until your ex-colleague was out of the hotel and safely away before detonating," Elena muses aloud." That you chose not to wait, that you chose to eliminate him here in the hotel tells me that you were sending a message. I can only assume this message was meant to garner sympathy and concern towards you. Or perhaps to merely throw anyone off the scent, who might get too close."
She smiles suddenly, and that's when Senator William Bracken realizes how the distance between them has closed. She is now in dangerously close proximity.
"I shall assist you in this ruse," she says quickly.
A quick slice – from a knife that appears out of nowhere – slices a four inch shallow wound underneath Elizabeth Bracken's jaw. Not deep, but deep enough to leave a scar. She will get used to wearing scarves in the future.
"Now you will be recognized for the snake you are," Elena tells her. She spins gracefully and places a quick slash across the Senator's cheek as well.
"You are both marked. Your ruse is now complete," Elena tells the stunned and suddenly pained couple.
"This is the age of television . . . the internet age," she smiles suddenly. "We will now see if a scarred man can be elected President," she continues. "I cannot kill you . . . yet. You both know this. I am not unaware of those implications for those who would make you king, Senator. But they – like you – will know that I am no longer under your command. And they will wonder why. We shall see whether or not their favor with you continues."
She leaves the couple, the husband holding his cheek and the wife her chin. Both left scarred by the greatest assassin Jackson Hunt has ever known.
"We will meet again. You both know this to be true," she smiles seductively. "Until then," she concludes, and literally bows in their presence before opening the door and walking down the hallway to the stairwell, and jogs down a few flights of stairs before exiting on the 44th floor. She walks to the elevator, and takes the elevator down to the lobby, which is now in full chaos.
She pushes the button to close the elevator door, sending the elevator down to the garage level. Seconds later, she exits the garage, walking up the ramp to the street level. A few blocks later, she enters a deli, heading straight to the women's restroom. Three minutes later, she exits the deli, her hair now a dirty blonde and her pants discarded. She wears shorts and a jacket that were planted there earlier. No one notices the woman leave the deli, and walk to the curb hailing a cab.
Sitting in the cab, she now reflects on the evening. She has worked for Senator Bracken for years, and for years she has known that at some point, she would face this moment, this fork in the road with the couple. And she has known, all this time, that it would be because of his wife that she would eventually act. After all, it was his wife who set him down the dark path of murder and corruption. It was Elizabeth Bracken who ordered those first murders, who chose the darker means of silencing enemies and those who got too close – much to the chagrin of her husband who preferred monetary payoffs as opposed to the more violent methods.
Eventually, however, he too succumbed to the dark ways, actually finding enjoyment in the power that it seemed to give him. So no, she feels no remorse for this night, for the ruthless game she and Hunt have chosen to play with this couple.
She smiles, opening her phone and dialing his number. She only has to wait two rings before he answers.
"Hi," he answers in greeting, and her smile broadens.
"Hi yourself," and she knows he is smiling at the other end. His casual nature always serves as a calming, soothing influence for her. She has noted that his son has a similar influence over her.
"It is finished," she says simply. "It is now your turn."
"Thank you, Elena. We will reconnect at the beach house. Give me two days, three days tops."
"I will wait for your call," she tells him, and disconnects.
Downstairs in the cafeteria of New York Presbyterian Hospital sits Jackson Hunt, now in disguise as a janitor, with his cleanup kit consisting of a pail of water and a mop. He takes another bite from his sandwich, and smiles at the choice of words his friend and ally has chosen.
"It is finished," she had said, and his smile broadens, as he considers his own next steps.
"My turn," he says aloud, and whistles as he walks out of the cafeteria and toward the elevator.