AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm sure you guys are aware it's Valentine's Day today. So, as an answer to this horrible and dreadful holiday, I am publishing a nice and dark chapter. Take that stupid Valentine's Day! lol
To those who reviewed chapter 12, thank you. To the lurkers who haven't yet mustered the courage to review and to those who simply refuse to review, thanks anyway for reading.
This time it isn't just me who should thank Faux Maven. If it had been left up to teeny tiny me, we would be dining on Booth fillet by the end of the chapter. It's thanks to Faux Maven that I came up with a more sophisticated way for Madman to deal with Booth. So like I said, we should all thank FM. I believe everything from a pat on the back and a round of applause to gift certificates and worshipping on bare knees is acceptable. ;)
- XIII -
-- PEINE FORTE ET DURE --
'Peine forte et dure' is French for 'hard and forceful punishment'. The common law legal system used this torture method to make a defendant co-operate, to make him enter a plea. If the defendant stood mute, he denied his guilt and could not be tried. The common law courts only wanted to judge people who sought judgment. They considered themselves not to have jurisdiction over an individual until he had entered a plea. In the 18th century, standing mute was the equivalent of pleading guilty, which differs from common law nowadays where standing mute means 'not guilty until proven otherwise'.
Back in the 13th century, up until the 18th century when Peine forte et dure was abolished, a plea was elicited from a defendant by initially imprisoning and starving him until he submitted. In the 15th century, they added pressing by heavy weights to the 'peine'. Heavier and heavier stones were placed upon the defendant's chest until he gave in...or until the weight became too much to bear and condemned the defendant to fatal suffocation.
The Roman Catholic martyr Saint Margaret Clitherow was pressed to death on March 25, 1586 because she refused to plead guilty to the charge of having hidden Catholic (then outlawed) priests in her home. In American history Giles Corey was the only known executee of Peine forte et dure. He was pressed to death on September 19, 1692 during the Salem witch trials. His last words as he was being pressed to death were, according to legend: "More weight."
As you all might have guessed from the last chapter, Madman is at the Jeffersonian and has declared Booth a target. The torture he has in mind for Booth is a perfect example of 'hard and forceful punishment'. Because, according to Madman, Booth has never pleaded guilty to his "crime" of rescuing Brennan, he publicly subjects Booth to Peine forte et dure. An ingenious system that resembles the aforementioned heavy weights is used to crush the life, but not a confession, out of Booth.
November 30 - Underground parking at the Jeffersonian - 15:10
Three down, three more to go and then I'll have her again.
He smiled as he pushed back the sleeve of his dark blue Gucci suit to check his silver Rolex. 15:10. If everything was going according to plan, it wouldn't be long before four were down and he only had to get rid of two more. An ingenious, well-placed plastic bomb would take out the tall dark-haired woman who had so recently joined the group and who he would have taken a liking to if his heart hadn't already been stolen by Brennan -- Camille he believed her name was. She would be blown to pieces the second he activated the detonator -- which he would only do if he felt like amusing himself. It was a far cry from being subtle, but if he had to be honest, he'd lovingly sacrifice a bit of finesse if it could speed things up. He was getting tired of all the waiting. He wanted Brennan and he wanted her now. But for that to be possible, he would first have to dispose of the slender woman who claimed to be Brennan's superior before he could move on to the last target: her self-appointed body-guard, her second shadow, also known as 'the Bastard'.
Closing his eyes, he shuddered in delight. After all this time he would finally get his revenge. And he would achieve it in a most pleasurable way. He would make sure Brennan and the survivors of her team -- as well as the entire world, for that matter -- would know he couldn't be trifled with. One wrong move to thwart him and he'd rain down terror and pain.
A downward glimpse caused the corners of his mouth to curl. He would complete his master plan in the upcoming hour and he would do it in style. The dark blue Gucci suit cut to fit him like a glove, light blue dress shirt underneath, and a plain grey tie to complete the picture: he had donned his best clothes and had taken one of the most sophisticated looking cars he owned to support his image of wealthy heir looking to become a Jeffersonian benefactor.
If they had been aware of the fact that he had already been a benefactor and had been banned from their exclusive group thanks to his merry kidnapping of one of the most valuable and esteemed Jeffersonian scientists, then they would have never granted him access to the underground parking lot. The Bastard just needed to come out now before one of the security guards began asking annoying questions. He wondered how long a stranger sitting in his car checking his watch every three minutes could go unnoticed. Not too long, he assumed.
He frowned as he smoothed down his tie and checked the time again. 15:16. Booth was taking longer than expected, longer than he was willing to wait. Dropping off three evidence boxes couldn't take that much time, could it? Disgruntled, he shifted around in his seat. He knew he couldn't very well enter the lab unnoticed to drag the Bastard out by his ear, but the waiting was killing him. Was it that much to ask for him to be on time for a bit of torture?
Curt and steadfast the knuckles of one hand rapped on the refined leather of the steering wheel of the silver Volvo S60 as he scowled at his Rolex. Why was it only 15:18? For crying out loud, time seemed to creep by as slowly as a caterpillar on a stick! The unusual comparison caused him to smile again. Caterpillars reminded him of his latest victim, the curly-haired rich guy. What a challenge it had been to crack his security system and drive up his driveway as if he owned the place. Nobody had heard a thing when he snuck into that skinny kid's apartment. Capturing the damn kid had proven more difficult than expected, but in the end it had only taken a nice push against the bookcase to knock him out cold. Dragging the weird kid across the driveway and lawn and through the woods hadn't been exactly a piece of cake, but the result had been a pleasure to behold. Never had he tied tighter knots, never had he felt so in control and so...giddy.
A sound of satisfaction and amusement, something in between a cough and a chuckle, escaped him. 'Giddy' was such a childish word, but it quite accurately described the excitement that had coursed through his body as he had neatly wrapped up the skinny kid and had carefully poured Parathion onto the ropes without touching any exposed skin. He had created a masterpiece and had prepared the trap for his next target in the process. Even now he could hardly stop himself from grinning from ear to ear in sheer delight.
He sighed. 15:20. This was getting pathetic. About to sigh again, instead a snort escaped him as disgust raced through his veins at the thought of what Booth was probably doing at the moment, while he was wasting his time in the cold underground parking lot. He bet they were kissing again. No, not kissing. The Bastard and his precious Brennan hadn't been kissing; they had been consuming each other. Consuming, for fuck's sake, and lapping at each other as if there would be no tomorrow! In front of everybody -- en plein public -- as if they didn't give a damn about what people would say, they had basically devoured each other, barely holding back moans and slurping sounds.
He had to stifle a groan as he imagined what people would say if they saw him instead of the Bastard walk around with Brennan in the very, very near future. They would whisper he was together with Miss Horny who didn't mind going at it like an animal in heat with her stupid partner in front of the whole wide world! Just the memory of their grunts and ragged breathing unsettled him. Why the hell had he gotten curious enough to follow them when they had gone back inside the Hoover Building? He would have saved himself the most revolting picture of the two of them jumping each other if he had just stayed outside and had waited. His skin was still crawling three hours later.
He bit off a grunt and smoothed down his tie. The nerve! The audacity! The...the...He had to hand it to the Bastard. The guy sure had balls, though that wouldn't matter once he got his hands on him. Just then, a sudden and almost feral grin appeared on his face as he caught sight of Booth striding across the parking lot.
Hello, look who finally decided to show up. Perfect.
He quickly checked his impeccable suit for creases or anything else that might ruin his perfect appearance before he slid out of his car, buttoned his jacket, and started toward Booth. Carefully making sure he was looking anywhere but at the agent, he brushed past him. Behind him he heard Booth electronically open his car...and smiled when a note of hesitation crept into the echo of Booth's steps. The moment a second bleat sounded in the garage, he knew that whatever he did next he couldn't look over his shoulder, not even for the briefest glimpse. It was what had given him away last time and he really didn't need the Bastard to chase him now. Booth cautiously tagging him, without a doubt wondering why a complete stranger looked so familiar, exactly like the agent was doing now, was what fit into his plan.
As if he hadn't a care in the world, he steered for the elevator and casually stepped in. But he made sure he kept his back to the parking lot and that the elevator doors closed just in time so Booth didn't have a chance to ride to street level together with him. Once he was on ground level again, he adjusted his pace so Booth would glimpse a part of his back right before he slipped inside the Jeffersonian museum.
And guess what -- it went exactly as planned! He had barely purchased a ticket for some kind of exotic exhibit about a primitive African tribe when he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Anger and disgust coiled in his stomach and the corners of his lips twitched. The Bastard was definitely close. His body only convulsed this drastically in disgust when the agent was near. He slid one hand in the pocket of his pants and began a seemingly relaxed tour of the exhibit. The tribal masks didn't intrigue him. In fact, he didn't give a rat's ass about the tribe's 'out of the ordinary' rituals. Only Booth and the Egyptian exhibit being prepared in a pair of rooms still closed for the public interested him.
Footsteps sounded behind him. An image of Booth tailing him and studying his back popped into his head. He could describe in detail the quizzical look Booth had to be wearing right now. The agent probably tilted his head to the left as he kept his eyes steady on his back. Because of his fast pace, Booth's unbuttoned, black suit coat would be pushed back revealing an impeccable white dress shirt underneath with a vibrant tie on top. Yes, he could picture his victim perfectly, could draw an immaculate portrait of him in his mind, thanks to all those endless hours of observation and careful note taking. If he knew his victim well, then the Bastard would address him any minute...
"Sir?"
He smiled and almost rolled his eyes. So predictable...
Undisturbed, conveniently deaf, he continued his leisurely walk. He passed more masks, more tribal weapons, even a primitive self-built canoe. He didn't even favor them with a glance. All he was focused on was the exhibit rooms around the corner, the entrance blocked by a thick, red velvet rope.
"Sir?"
This time Booth's voice carried a note of hesitance and curiosity. He had without a doubt piqued the FBI Agent's interest, but so far Booth hadn't dared to touch or stop him. The crowd milling around them was probably why. Well, luckily for the Bastard, he didn't want witnesses either. What he was about to do needed complete silence and concentration. The public wouldn't be allowed to see his masterpiece before it was ready to be revealed.
He rounded the corner and with almost fluid grace he slipped underneath the red velvet rope, Booth close on his heels. It took him maybe five seconds to scan the place and cross over to the next room. He quickly surveyed the second exhibit room and locked onto his target in the dim light that bathed several exhibit cases, a number of sealed wooden crates, and one or two already opened, half unpacked crates. There it was -- a glass exhibit case for a royal mummy king, nearly identical in design to the display case of the mummy of Tutankhamun -- King Tut -- currently residing in the antechamber of his tomb in Luxor. A rectangle of glass of about six and a half feet long and about three feet wide, and built on a steel base, it was a perfect fit for the Bastard. He bared his teeth in a predatory grin. Oh, he was going to have so much fun playing around with it. The Bastard wouldn't enjoy one second of their game, but then again, wasn't that why he was going to shove a needle into his arm and pump him full of drugs?
"Sir, this area is off limits." No hesitation this time in Booth's voice, only steel determination and a touch of defiance. Defiance? He snarled. Who the hell did Booth think he was? He was but a mere FBI Agent, someone who happened to have a brilliant partner. He would show him. He would put him in his rightful place, somewhere the entire world could stare at him and laugh. Nobody messed with him without paying dearly!
Locking his disgust away so it wouldn't show until he wanted it to, he conjured a smile as innocent as he could manage on his face and then turned. As he did so, he tilted his head and refrained from giving the ring on his right hand a rub with his thumb, afraid to set the mechanism in motion. Even if the Bastard noticed the elaborately ornamented gold ring, he would never suspect it was an 'Anello Della Morte' -- a rare 'Ring of Death' created and patented by the Borgia family. The tiny, but sharp needle at the back of the bezel connected to a small cavity filled with poison. It was an innocent looking object that emulated the beauty of the cobra's fangs. It was one of the most valued items of his precious private collection.
"I'm sorry, Sir. I had no idea," he smoothly said, halting and waiting for Booth to catch up. When the agent was near enough, he extended his right hand. "Please forgive me and allow me to introduce myself."
His warm and innocent smile remained plastered on his face, even when Booth warily eyed his hand. Eventually the Bastard reached out to clasp it. Immediately his smile turned poisonous. Instead of shaking Booth's hand, he smoothly slid his palm along Booth's, not letting their thumbs hook, dipped his hand under Booth's open shirt cuff, and grasped the agent's wrist. The move startled the Bastard, but by the time Booth pulled his lower arm out of his tight grip, the mechanism in the ring had been triggered beyond Booth's knowledge. Perhaps he hadn't filled the jewel with poison, but the ring did its work nonetheless and it did it flawlessly. The tiny hidden needle plunged into the veins visible beneath the skin of Booth's wrist, in the heart of Booth's Kanji tattoo, injecting an intoxicating and fast-acting soporific into Booth's bloodstream.
Satisfied he watched how Booth frowned as he rubbed his wrist smearing the tiny drop of blood that had appeared, mixing it with the black ink decorating his skin. The Bastard was still soothing the irritated skin when he focused his attention on the man who had so cleverly turned a handshake into a death grip. He clenched his fists at his side to keep from pumping them in the air in victory. It was almost a thing of beauty to see how the drugs swirling in Booth's blood stream pulled a thin veil over his eyes. His eyelids began to droop and less than half a minute later, the swaying set in. Booth's knees buckled a bit as he blinked and tried to focus on his surroundings. It was fascinating and ever so satisfying to watch the agent's usually animated face go completely expressionless. So many times he had envied the Bastard when the man had let his emotions play over his features. He had damned the frown Booth wore when he didn't understand Brennan, had cursed the playful raising of his eyebrows, had wanted to punch the quirk off Booth's lips when one of Brennan's comments amused him. Booth's ability to express his feelings with a minor adjustment of his facial expression had irritated him to no end. And now the Bastard was nothing but a blank canvas, slack and void of all emotion. Not even the horror inspired by his situation showed. How wonderful!
"What...What did you do to me?"
He ignored Booth's question, instead unbuttoned his jacket and leaned forward. He brought his face dangerously close to Booth's. A look of pure venom had overtaken his eyes, intense anger and victory had claimed possession of him. "How's the bump on your head?" he asked in a low voice. "Did that blow to the head I gave you with the trash can lid affect your memory?"
Unable to show his shock at both his confession and the fact that his legs gave up on him that very moment, Booth could do nothing but sink to his knees and stare up at him. "You," Booth whispered, eyes flicking to the thin, silver and all too familiar belt buckle that peeked out from underneath his adversary's jacket.
"Yes, me," he confirmed. Taking a step closer, he lowered his voice even more, until it was nothing but a hiss. "Remember my face, Bastard. You'll be seeing it as you stare up at me and Temperance from Hell."
"No," came Booth's weak reply. "Not...Not Bones. I won't...won't allow it."
He sucked in a sharp breath through his nose, straightened and haughtily placed his right hand on Booth's shoulder to give it a good shove. The sudden move knocked the heavily sedated agent off balance and sent him onto all fours, breathing heavily.
"Yes, me and my dear Temperance. She's mine, Bastard." His face contorted in a twisted mix of anger and fierce possessiveness. "Mine, do you hear me? And there's nothing you can do about it. Just give up and give in."
As if the words had crushed Booth's last resistance, the agent slumped down, sprawled out flat on his stomach on the chill tiled floor of the museum. But not without first feverishly breathing, "Never."
He rolled his eyes. Whatever... Cautiously he nudged Booth's side with the tip of his shoe. When the agent didn't stir, he grew bolder. Humming a cheerful tune, he grabbed Booth's ankles and dragged him across the room toward the exhibit case he had been eyeing earlier. Not without some serious effort, he wrestled Booth's lifeless and limp form onto the table that was meant for an Egyptian mummy to rest upon. Now it would provide room for an FBI agent doomed to eternal sleep and slow, excruciating death by suffocation.
Without any significant care, he rolled Booth onto his back and stretched out his legs. He methodically flipped back Booth's jacket to retrieve the agent's gun from his shoulder holster. Next he reached for the smaller gun strapped to Booth's ankle. He placed both items on the catafalque beside Booth's knees; he roughly straightened the agent's clothes and took hold of his arms to fold them across his rather broad chest. One eyebrow was lifted in contempt upon noticing two droplets of blood on Booth's right shirt cuff. The Bastard couldn't even properly fall unconscious without leaving a mark. Pulling the Bastard's jacket sleeve over the soiled cuff, he smiled at the joy scrubbing Brennan clean of all Booth's marks would bring him, and how easy it would be. Unlike last time, in his cold and damp basement, he would make sure to cut Brennan loose from all chains that linked her to Booth. She would forget about the Bastard and would be filled with thoughts of him instead. She would carry his, and only his, mark, not the Bastard's.
The final stage of his plan fully formed in his head, he blinked to return to the present. Focusing back on the task at hand, he placed a gun in each of Booth's hands before stepping back to behold his work. Critically he ran his gaze over the Bastard as he lay there in a position mimicking ancient Egyptian mummies before him. He had to admit that using Booth's guns as a replacement for the pharaoh's crook and flail was brilliant. Where he had gotten the idea to give Booth a Pharonic burial, he couldn't quite recall, but he regretted not having the time to do it properly. He would have loved to pull out what little brains the Bastard possessed through his nostrils and pour them into a small canopic jar. For another silent moment, he regarded his adversary. The Bastard lying on display like that made him look almost innocent. If Booth hadn't thwarted his plans and if he hadn't stolen Brennan from him, perhaps he would have been spared. He grinned. As if that would have made him alter his plans! If he wanted full control of Brennan's psyche, Booth had to be taken out of the equation. It was as simple as that.
But still he didn't close the case. Still he didn't budge to affix the glass top over the sedated agent. Instead he stared at his victim. This was it. This was what he had been wanting for so long. This was how sweet victory tasted. He cocked his head to the right. A victory required a trophy. How else was he supposed to remember how he had defeated his sworn enemy and had restored his dignity? Pursing his lips, his gaze slid over Booth. His eyes suddenly lit up when his scrutinizing stare fell on Booth's tie. It was a beautiful black silk tie, decorated with playfully curling white lines that formed the exquisite image of a "Spirit Bear" fetish. He reached out to loosen the knot and remove the fine piece of fabric. Then he removed his own plain colored tie and slipped it around Booth neck, knotting it like a noose in a final emphasis of Booth's impending death. The "Spirit Bear" tie, a rather laughable symbol of the Bastard's attempt at standing out, he put around his own neck. Nodding proudly and gingerly smoothing it down after he had meticulously tied it, he straightened and smiled. Not even Brennan could argue that the "Spirit Bear" tie looked infinitely better on him than on Booth.
It still seemed as if something was missing. He frowned. Render the Bastard unconscious -- check. Lay him out on an exhibit table -- check. Cross his arms and use his guns as crook and flail -- check. What was missing then? His gaze swept the room and halted on an open crate to his left. Of course, that was what was missing. Pharaohs were always buried wearing a death mask! He didn't expect to find a real one inside the crate, though. Funerary masks were usually made out of pure gold; he doubted anyone would leave one out in the open like that. Instead he pulled out a fiberglass death mask, probably created to add some decorum to the exhibit room. The fiberglass was an ideal material for the Bastard. It wouldn't press down on his face and choke him, but would instead allow Booth to breathe in the inert gas he was about to be exposed to.
Almost ceremonially he covered Booth's face, slack in death, with the mask. Next he brought over four limestone canopic jars from the open crate and ran his hands over the animal head-stoppers before he placed them around the Bastard. To take Booth's burial service another step closer to the Pharaoh's, he searched the agent's pants pockets for a personal item and found a poker chip. He had seen the Bastard play with it plenty of times; it would serve perfectly as a 'personal, must have item' for the afterlife. Murmuring to himself he was giving his opponent far more respect and considerance than needed, he placed the poker chip in between the canopic jar of the Jackal-headed Duamutef who was believed to guard the stomach and upper intestines and the canopic jar of the Falcon-headed Qebehsenuef, keeper of the lower intestines.
Finally, after a moment of hesitation, he pulled the 'Anello Della Morte' off his finger. Lifting Booth's hand, he slid it over the knuckle on Booth's ring finger, making a statement of just how easy it was to trick the agent, drug him, and kill him, before curling the agent's hand around his gun again. Then he punched the button that controlled the electro-hydraulic lifters of the glass top of the exhibit case and watched the lid being lowered until it quietly clicked into place. He now only needed to activate the ventilation system and wait for the oxygen to be purged from the case and be replaced with nitrogen -- an inert gas that, unlike oxygen, didn't hurt or destroy mummies or any other kind of ancient artifact. But in the Bastard's case, as all the oxygen was being replaced with nitrogen bit by bit, the agent would excruciatingly, slowly suffocate.
He resumed his earlier humming as he leaned over and switched on the ventilation system. A glance at his Rolex told him it was 15:42. The purging phase would take about fifteen to twenty minutes, marking 16:00 as the estimated time of death. He regretted not being able to stay at the Bastard's side during the entire process, but the risk was too great. Getting caught red-handed was not an option. He could speed up the purging, but then he ran the risk of causing a too big a change in pressure. It could significantly hurt the Bastard before he died. He nearly laughed at the irony. He was killing the man, but at the same time he didn't want his enemy to die immediately. It was about the agony, after all; about inevitable death by torture. He had been tormented for months in a row because he couldn't have Brennan. He would pay the Bastard the same respect by depriving him of air and life minute after endless minute.
Feeling relaxed for the first time in a long time, he put his hands in his pockets and strolled away. He passed the red velvet rope and slipped back into the room full of South-African masks. Wearing a satisfied smile, he halted in front of a picture of the tribe gathered around a camp fire. Now that his target was safely locked into a glass case, he could at last enjoy the exhibit. He was about to wander to the next picture when he caught sight of her. Tall and beautiful as ever, but with anguish pulling her face tight, she shot through the room. He froze, his heart pounding fervently in his ears. That couldn't be her. It just couldn't. She was supposed to be at the lab, examining the useless pieces of "evidence" he had left behind. She couldn't be here. She just couldn't!
And yet she was. Mesmerized he watched Brennan tour the room, phone glued to her ear. What was she up to? Curious he kept his eyes on her riveting form. That was when he heard it -- a ring tone. Ever so soft, ever so faint, but distinct at the same time. It clearly came from the exhibit rooms around the corner. He almost growled out loud and felt like kicking himself. When he had locked the Bastard in his glass prison, he had taken his tie, had given him a burial to rival the Pharaohs, but he had totally forgotten about his cell phone. Booth still had it on him and now Brennan was using it to track him down.
Smothering a curse, he trailed after her, as inconspicuous as possible. Tension built inside of him and his muscles went taut with rage when he saw her practically fly around the corner and vault over the cord. Brennan crossed the Egyptian exhibit rooms in no time and skid to a stop in front of Booth. Immediately she tossed her phone aside, the most incomprehensible sounds falling from her lips. He strained to understand her.
"No, what have you done to him? Not Booth, not-" she dragged in a shaky breath, "Not Booth."
He went rigid, appalled to his very core. Was she whimpering? Was Dr. Temperance Brennan -- hisTemperance -- whimpering because of a stupid man who had been foolish enough to let himself be locked into a glass case? Quickly he pressed himself against the wall that separated the first from the second exhibit room and craned his head around the corner to watch her. She was still whimpering, to his astonishment, but she was also racing for a crate in the far right corner of the room. What was she going to do? Use a priceless artifact to smash the case? To his horror she pulled a crowbar from behind the crate. Surely she wouldn't...
Apparently she would. In a couple of long strides she was beside Booth's glass coffin again, lifted the crowbar high into the air, and with all her might brought it down. He grimaced when the shiver inducing sound of shattering glass rang through the room and instantly spun around. He couldn't bear being witness to this. The whimpering had been bad enough; he really didn't want to see her all over him, all concerned and -- he cringed -- loving.
Heart thumping loudly, pumping pure rage through his veins, he returned to the African exhibit and all but stomped in direction of the exit. The curious looks he received, he blatantly ignored. At the moment he couldn't care less about what people thought of him. His masterpiece -- ruined! The penultimate stage of his diabolical plan -- thwarted! He was so angry he could strangle Brennan with his bare hands! Immediately he calmed, but only for about five seconds. That was exactly what he was going to do. He was going to wrap his hands around that slender neck of hers and was going to make sure she regretted picking up that crowbar.
Anger blazed from his eyes and he snorted as he entered the underground parking lot and stomped towards his car. A crowbar, for crying out loud! She had an IQ of God-knew-how-high and yet she had picked up a common crowbar to smash the case into bits and pieces instead of turning off the ventilation system and simply lifting the lid. It showed how deluded Brennan had become. She had obviously spent too much time around that simple-minded FBI agent. Well, boo hoo. He wasn't about to cry over her lost intelligence. She had screwed up and had done so in the most revolting manner. Before, he had only wanted to take out all of her friends so she had no one to turn to but him. But now...Things had changed. She had changed. Brennan was now as much of a target, if not the main target, thanks to her foolishness.
Speaking of her friends...He halted in his tracks when his gaze landed on Curly being ushered across the parking lot by the dark-haired woman he had nearly had on that public plaza. What were they doing here? Curly wasn't supposed to be sick until -- he checked his watch -- another hour or so. Frustration fought its way through him. If Brennan's friends hadn't been within hearing range, he would have howled out in pain over this latest misfortune.
Instead he crept to his car and slid behind the wheel, all the while keeping a close eye on Curly and his girlfriend. Where were they going? Curly's car was on the other side of the parking lot. That's when he saw a second woman appear -- Camille. She slammed the door of Brennan's car shut and started after Curly. He quickly scanned the parking lot. It was then that he knew where they were heading. With Brennan saving Booth and Curly sick as hell, they needed a car, one other than Brennan's, to take Curly to the hospital. A vicious smile tugged at his lips as he came up with a new plan. It was an improvised plan, a bit sloppy around the edges, and it left kind of a mess, but it was a plan with damaging consequences nonetheless.
Rage was still clawing his insides, pent-up frustration curled and nestled in the pit of his stomach, but a strange sense of calm came over him as he started his car. He'd show them he couldn't be trifled with.Nobody defied him. He backed out of his parking space, steered for the exit, and after a sarcastic wave to the threesome in his rearview-mirror, he grabbed the detonator and pushed the button. Mere seconds later a blast loud enough to rupture one's eardrums echoed through the underground garage sending Camille's car spinning into the air, lighting the space up with bursts of hot flames, and warming it with blazing heat.
Perfect.
Should I duck and run for cover?