The Long Game: Chapter 17
DISCLAIMER: None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.
Times Square, at 10:50 p.m., Monday, March 19, 2012
Senator William Bracken and his wife, Elizabeth Bracken make their way out of the swank Times Square restaurant, the night cool night air brushing against their faces. This was exactly what the couple needed – a nice Italian meal at one of their favorite restaurants down in the Theatre District – after their frightening confrontation with Elena Markov.
Recognizing that each of them needed a break from the night's previous adventure, neither had brought up the Senator's former 'pet' assassin until dessert. Up to that point, the couple had spent the evening reminiscing about the past and planning for the future. A future that is certainly a bit murkier, a bit cloudier, yes, because of tonight.
They walk out of the restaurant, and he glances down the block where he sees the limo parked. He raises his hand in a waving gesture, and after a few seconds, he gets Marty's attention. Marty has been his driver for years, and truth be told, he should have texted Marty before leaving the restaurant to allow the driver time to pull the big machine to the curb outside the restaurant.
"No matter," Bracken thinks to himself. "He's right there. He will be here in a few seconds."
He tightens his grip around his beautiful wife. Tonight's dinner has been a reminder to the powerful man why he married this woman – she is gorgeous in her black, knee-length dress, looking every bit the beauty that he fell in love with. A couple of simple touches from her, on his knee, on his arm, and that seductive smile have been all he has needed this evening.
Marty's going to have to make good time getting back to the hotel.
Speaking of Marty, the car is now next to them at the curb, and door unlocks. Marty doesn't bother getting out of the car, making a scene of opening doors for the couple. Bracken smiles, pleased with his long-time friend.
"Good man, Marty," Bracken thinks. "He always seems to sense when we want a little privacy. And just in time," he thinks to himself, shielding his eyes and his wife's eyes from the explosions of flash from the paparazzi that held court outside the restaurant where they have just dined.
Sliding in to the back seat after Elizabeth, he smiles again as he sees the center privacy window is already up. Marty has picked up the couple enough times after a late night meal to know that a bit of pre-hotel friskiness is often in play with this pairing – and so he gives them their privacy. Elizabeth notices as well, a small smile forming on the corner of her lips.
"Mmmm," is all she says, and it is all he needs. The door closes, and the darkened windows hide them from the cameras and cell phones capturing the moment, to be posted on social sites within minutes. None of that matters. For now, his mouth devours hers, her hands immediately gripping his – holding off his advance for a brief instant.
"Easy boy," she purrs, and he chuckles in her ear.
"Easy left about an hour ago, my love," he whispers, and she literally shudders as his breath bounces off her cheek. As always, he has raised her excitement level to match his own, and for the next few minutes their sounds begin to compete with the soft jazz music Marty pipes into the back speakers. The soft skin of her legs eventually becomes too much, as he allows – no – she allows his hand to graze ever higher along her thigh.
Suddenly, his natural protective senses kick in as the Senator realizes the car is not moving – and hasn't been moving for a minute or more.
"Marty? What's the problem?" he asks quickly, breaking away from the embrace that still clouds his vision. After a few seconds, even Elizabeth now returns to the moment, noticing the lack of response from the front seat.
"Marty?" she asks with a bit of concern creeping into her voice. Suddenly the last two hours in the restaurant are gone, and in their minds, both are back in the moment of the hotel foyer, facing Elena Markov.
"Marty is not here," the gravelly voice from the front seat speaks to them through the speaker. "I gave Marty the evening off."
Suddenly, the doors lock in the back seat, and the big limo pulls back into motion.
"I'm sorry. I just wanted to give you two a couple more minutes. But it is time to talk now," the voice tells them. "I'm going to continue driving while we talk because . . . well because I feel like driving right now."
"Who in the hell are you?" Bracken thunders, his courage quickly returning – along with his anger. Cowering before a world class assassin like Elena Markov is one thing. Being frightened by a limo driver wanna-be? Well, no – that just will not do.
"Do you know who I am? Do you know-"
"There is a small bag in the slot in front of you," the voice interrupts. "Pick it up."
Elizabeth Bracken picks up the small bag, and opens it. She pours the contents into her hand, and cannot contain the gasp that slips out of her mouth. She knows by the stiffening of her husband – and no, not that kind of stiffening that was occurring just a minute ago – that he sees it also.
In her hand is a single, smooth, black stone.
"Oh shit," Senator Bracken says aloud.
"Indeed," Jackson Hunt tells the couple from the protected front seat. "It is time for us to have a conversation that I . . . well, Senator, I have to tell you I am shocked we are going to have."
"Now wait a minute," Bracken begins, as he wiggles the door handle next to him, and reaches across testing the door handle next to his wife as well. Neither will open.
"I wouldn't advise that at this speed," Hunts chuckles, and the sound of his soft laughter is like ice cubes falling into an empty tumbler. The Brackens – both of them – now wonder if they haven't just experienced the proverbial last supper between them.
"I thought that I was very clear in my message to you, roughly a week ago," Hunt continues. "I really did not think that I would have to make this trip in person. I don't like making trips in person. I tend to be a bit . . . disagreeable in person, some have said."
Suddenly Hunt chuckles again, as he continues. "Well, people usually aren't in a position to say anything after our visits, so that is a small mistruth I have spoken. Forgive me."
Now William Bracken and his wife are in full panic mode. They know this man's reputation, and they know that they are not long for the world. Trapped in a limousine, traveling along a route they now notice is along the water – there is nowhere to go.
"Wait a minute, Stone – I can explain," Bracken tells the darkened window separating the couple from their driver.
"Listen!" Elizabeth shouts quickly. "This is not what you think."
"On the contrary, Mrs. Bracken, this is exactly what I think," Hunt tells her, and for the first time allows the 'Stone menace' to creep into his voice. He knows that it has the desired effect, as neither of his passengers speak for the next couple of seconds.
"I was very, very clear, Senator, about my intentions," Hunt begins. "And I took your response – your very articulate note as a sign of your understanding. Above all things, a man in position admires and respects honesty, Senator."
"I was honest with you, I was –"
"I am speaking now, Senator," Hunt interrupts, and the back seat of the limousine falls quiet once again. "I know you, Senator. I know who you are, what you have done, who you want to become. I work for people who – up to this point – have wanted those things for you. But above all else, I demand honesty. When an agreement is in place, I don't want to have to think about it, to wonder about it –"
"And you don't, Mr. Stone," Elizabeth counters, finding her courage as well. "Believe me, whatever is happening with Richard Castle has nothing to do with –"
"Shut up, Mrs. Bracken," Hunt roars from the front seat, now feigning clear agitation. "Two attempts have been made on Mr. Castle's life. Not one! Two! Two attempts since I gave you clear instructions to stay clear. He is only a writer. Seriously, who wants a novelist dead, Mrs. Bracken? Am I to believe that you want me to think that someone read his recent novel and disliked it so much that they have decided to kill him? And this reader happens to be a weapons expert? That this person has the balls to leap out of the high floor of a hospital? Is that what you are telling me? Because no one – absolutely no one on planet earth has a reason to want to see Mr. Castle dead except the two of you. And you want me to believe you are not involved . . ."
Hunt allows his words to die off, allowing the impact to settle.
"Mr. Stone," Bracken finally begins, clearing his throat, and tightening his grip on his wife's hand, "there has been a terrible mistake. My . . . my . . . my associate, who normally handles certain projects for me has –"
"Your assassin, Senator," Hunt interrupts, testily. "Honesty. Remember?"
"Yes, honesty," Bracken responds. "Honesty. My assassin somehow felt that I had given her instructions to terminate Mr. Castle. Somehow, someone was able to send her a message, mimicking my own, telling her to attack Castle. It wasn't me, though, you have to believe me. And I –"
"We!" Elizabeth interrupts.
"Yes, we confronted my assassin this very evening, telling her that she had it all wrong, that we gave no such command. She did not take this well, Senator, I have to admit –"
"I'm not taking this well either, right now, Senator, I have to admit," Hunt counters.
"You asked for honesty," Bracken argues. "I'm giving you honesty. I didn't issue a command. Neither did Elizabeth. We don't know who did, but it is clear that someone is trying to frame us – trying to take us out of the picture. The fact that you are here is proof of this, Mr. Stone."
Jackson Hunt counts to five, allowing the silence to settle, simulating his consideration of Bracken's words. In reality, it is all an act, as the conversation – so far – is going exactly to form. But now it is time to end this. Time is of the essence right now.
"You're telling me that you don't have control over your weapon, Senator? Is that what I am to believe? Is that what you want me to report back?"
"God, no, Mr. Stone," Bracken all but yells, suddenly aware of the ramifications of such an admission.
"You want me to believe," Jackson Hunt continues, "that you – a man who thinks three and four steps ahead in all ways, ruthlessly eliminating not just enemies, but potential enemies – you are asking me to believe that you have lost control over your resources?"
Hunt allows this question to settle, before continuing.
"You are asking me to . . . No. You are telling me that you have lost control."
"Time to end this," Hunt tells himself.
"How can you be president, Senator? How can you be trusted with the fate of this country when you cannot control one simple assassin?"
Both Brackens are silent in the back seat now. There is no good answer for this question, they both realize this. They both realize that right now, silence is their best option. Suddenly the car stops along the water's edge, and fear immediately creeps into the couple in the back seat. A full minute passes before Hunt speaks again.
"You know, you might be telling the truth," he tells them. "As I said, above all else, I value honesty, and I sense the both of you are being just that with me."
For a few seconds, hope springs alive in the backseat Brackens. It is a hope that is fairly quickly throttled.
"Still, a message must be delivered, Senator, so that you realize how serious this is," Hunt says softly – so softly that both husband and wife involuntarily lean forward trying to listen.
"I will tell you what I am going to do for you, Senator. I am going to give your campaign a much-needed bump. I am going to provide you with the sympathetic vote you will need, while ensuring that you remember – deep down – that I am not a man to be fucked with, with some bullshit story about 'I didn't know' or 'I didn't give any order.'
For a moment, Bracken pulls his wife protectively closer.
"Not Liz," he thinks to himself. "Please God, not Liz."
Suddenly, the couple sees the green gas entering the back seat. They hear the hiss of the air as it makes its way into their closed area. Seconds later, the couple lies unconscious in the back seat, while Jackson Hunt puts the vehicle back into motion.
Just over an hour later, Jackson Hunt pulls up to a residence on Oceanfront in Long Beach, New York. It is now almost 12:50 in the morning, and the residents of the neighborhood are long asleep on this Monday evening. Over an hour and a half ago, he left the limousine – back doors unlocked – back in the garage of the hotel where the Brackens have been staying. He took the elevators up to the lobby area, walked out of the front lobby – in disguise and hailed a cab. He then picked up his SUV minutes later and made the trip out here to the western-most island of New York. He steps out of his SUV, immediately smiling as he breathes in the ocean air.
He jogs to the back side of the home, facing the Atlantic Ocean, and enters in through the window he has left ajar from his previous visit earlier that afternoon. It's been a long day, indeed.
He quickly and quietly makes his way through the magnificent, opulent beach home, thankful again that the residents do not have a dog or other pet. That would have thrown a significant wrench in this plan. Of course, he would have just come up with another plan, but he has found that the easiest, most straight-forward plans are the best when it comes to what he must do this evening. He holds no joy in this. Certainly, the owners of this home are not angels by any means. They have done their share of damage to the human condition in their lifetimes. But they are – somewhat – innocent in this current affair.
Then again, they were the ones who brought the current monster who is now William Bracken into the world.
Satisfied that the couple sleeps soundly, he plants three charges - one on the bedroom door, one in the kitchen, and one in the living room. There won't be much left of the home when he is finished – and yes, he will have sent the message to the Brackens.
Five minutes later, he pulls away – knowing there is no surveillance in the home that has caught him. Sometimes people's positions give them a false sense of security. Sometimes it costs them.
Tonight is one of those times.
The charges blow, taking the entire home down in a fireball. Hunt watches the fireworks in his rear view mirror as he drives away, satisfied that his message will resonate. He knows that when the Brackens awaken in the garage – as they very likely have already done by now, when they leave the garage and go up to their rooms, they will remember Hunt's promise to give Bracken the 'sympathetic vote'. Each of them will call their parents. They will call their siblings, and their closest relatives, making sure each is all right, and probably taking steps to make each of them disappear for a while until they can straighten this out.
But Senator William Bracken will not be able to reach his parents. And whether he sends the local city police out to the Long Beach home to check on them during the wee hours of the morning, or he hears about it tomorrow morning in the news – he will realize that a price has been extracted from him. A very heavy price.
The Bracken's Penthouse Suite in New York City, 1:15 a.m., Tuesday morning, March 20, 2012
A tearful and distraught Senator Bracken falls to his knees, dropping his cell phone, his eyes wild, his screams from the New York penthouse all but shaking the windows of the high floor suite. Elizabeth Bracken wraps her arms around the broken man, trying desperately to bring peace to a situation that she knows – deep down – that she instigated over a decade ago.