A Fly in the Garden: Chapter 22
DISCLAIMER: Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine
Tuesday Evening, February 21, 2012 – 7:58 p.m. – At the Castles Complex in Sausalito
Kate Beckett has no visible reaction as she reads the text on her phone from her old Stanford friend. She glances at her watch before typing out her reply.
KATE: I know, Sam. We've got eyes on them already.
Less than half a minute later, she receives his reply message.
SAM: Okay, looks like you have things covered.
She simply nods her head this time as she reads reply and types her response.
KATE: Think so. Still – thanks.
She puts her phone away, and checks her weapon, and repositions her earpiece. Game time, indeed. She closes her eyes for a brief instant, willing herself into an easy, calm state. She smiles as she opens her eyes. She is ready. She feels the vibration on her hip, and retrieves her phone once more.
SAM: By the way, be aware that I have two operatives there, trailing them.
Her response to him is immediate. She can't afford to babysit anyone right now.
KATE: You may want to pull them out, Sam. Can't guarantee their safety.
Sam Carlos laughs out loud as he reads the incoming text from Kate Beckett. He shakes his head as he chuckles. If only she knew.
"Oh Kate, you have nothing to worry about on that front," he says aloud to himself as he types out one final message before putting his phone away for good.
SAM: Trust me. I was just giving you a heads up so you don't walk into their line of fire. Stay safe.
Kate smiles at the almost arrogant confidence of her old friend. For not the first time in the past few days she once again is thankful that she is not on the wrong side of Sam Carlos. Those thoughts are tempered by the realization that – in reality – she ought to be on the wrong side of the man, because they are absolutely on different sides of . . . well, everything. Different mindset, different paths, different visions. She's on one side of the law and justice. He's on the other side of the law, living his own type of justice. It's only a deep friendship that allows both of them to look beyond, move past those differences.
She chuckles knowing that most people in their mutual circles – both of theirs – would not understand this détente that exists between the two old friends. Jennifer Blackard feels the same, although Kate knows that, despite everything, Sam and Jennifer are fighting an attraction, fighting a history, fighting a pull that urges them to move closer.
She recognizes, too, that until a few months ago, the same could be said for Richard Castle and herself.
Kate brushes those thoughts away as whispers into her mouthpiece to the security team connected to her.
"I'm on the ground at West 2," she tells the team. "Visual confirmed."
"On the ground, West 5," she hears Colin whisper. "Visual confirmed."
Monroe smiles, as he listens to his team checking in, and imagining the relatively small force – in his mind – that stands at the fences ready to breach the campus. Lulled into a false sense of superiority, they evidently haven't bothered to search for surveillance devices. The motion sensors that cover movement within twenty yards of the fence picked them up minutes ago, activating the night-vision video surveillance cameras. From the control center in the administrative building, Paul Jeffries can see the perpetrators as clear as a mid-afternoon day. Eight of the twenty-four cameras have activated, displaying two men at each point.
"Okay, I count a total of sixteen bodies," Paul tells the team at large, relaying to them what he sees in the monitors spread before him. He silently offers a prayer of thanks that Castle – or Monroe, whichever – had the foresight to install this command center. He makes a mental note to apologize to Castle for all of the snickers of doubt that he has had over the months sitting behind this same desk, watching these same monitors.
"That's sixteen. Just located two more at North 5," Paul tells the team. He glances over to the monitor on his desk, his eyes drawn to the small icon on the lower right side of his screen, indicating that all of the visuals spread out before him are being recorded. Mike Monroe is expecting casualties – and not on his end – and he wants visual confirmation that, in fact, the campus was being attacked in a premeditated and coordinated fashion.
"Affirmative," Marcus replies softly into his mouthpiece. "I've got them."
All of his operatives are now in the field, setting up a perimeter shielding access from the fences to the buildings in the middle of the campus. All, save Lindy Matthews, that is. Lindy has remained at the administration building, at Monroe's request.
"Just in case someone makes it to the admin area," Monroe had told the team earlier this afternoon during the planning session. Monroe considers her his most valuable asset in an assault like this, and wants her close to the innocents on the campus. He knows that in close-quarter hand-to-hand combat, she is the best he has. The best he has ever known.
Downstairs in the bunker of the Administration Building at the Castles in Sausalito
Richard Castle sits on the small sofa, alternately sulking at being left out of the impending carnage upstairs and – at the same time – just wanting another few hours of unconsciousness to avoid the searing pain he now feels in the arm.
Alexis senses the conflict in her father, long understanding his reflective moods.
"Dad, thanks for staying down here with us," his daughter says, offering her father a small thread to mend what she knows is a bruised ego to go with the broken arm. Castle, however, also knows his daughter all too well. Enough to know – and appreciate – what the young woman is attempting to do.
"Thank you, pumpkin," he winces between clinched teeth, "but we both know I was sent to my room," he says with a sad smile.
"Richard, whining does not become you," Dr. Samantha Peraza tells him, evenly. "The entire reason you brought Mr. Monroe and his team onboard in the first place is because they have a particular mindset – and skillset – that you do not have. There is no shame in such foresight. Now buck up, for crying out loud. We have wolves at our door. Do you think I'd rather have you up there in that fight or the people you have on staff to handle such instances?"
Castle smiles at both women – who, each in their own way, address the conflict warring inside the writer-philanthropist and would-be-adventurer. He listens in the earpiece that Mike Monroe provided for him – damn the security guard for refusing to include a mouthpiece for him – trying to visualize in his mind what is happening upstairs.
At the South Fence Perimeter at the Castles Complex in Sausalito
Phil and Pete Anders move briskly away from the fence toward the trees lining the perimeter. They've just cleared the fence and are moving at a quick pace, listening to the instructions and status updates in their earpieces. It sounds like everyone has gotten over the large and imposing wrought iron structure, and is – like the two of them – on their way to the buildings.
Benny had given the all clear once Raquel had given him the news that Castle had not left the campus. Raquel sits down the road from the main entrance, her sole responsibility being to let Benny know if Castle leaves the premises. There was always the chance that the writer would have gone home early. Had that been the case, then they would have aborted the mission. They could have killed the man this afternoon, and his girlfriend with him. But for whatever reasons that he has not shared with him, Donovan wants Castle killed here, at this complex he built. Donovan also wants a few new additions to his . . . well, he called it his stable. That's not exactly how Benny would refer to it, but so be it.
Donovan wants both Castle and his girlfriend dead. Apparently both have gotten too close to the flame. Well, moths get burned. That will be easy. A writer and his squeeze? Please. Almost too easy.
The women? That's just a bonus. It appears to Benny that Donovan is using this as an opportunity to kill multiple birds with one swing of a very large stone.
The Anders brothers – twins transplanted from the bright streets of Las Vegas – make their way into the cover of the trees. Each sports a small handgun with a silencer. Both are highly experienced in making 'calls' on various 'clients'. Their skills are very particular and honed with years of practice. But they are clearly out of the element walking through the wooded coverage of the complex.
"You get one warning," a female voice calls out to them. "Turn around and go back."
"What the f-" Phil exclaims. They expected light resistance, sure, but . . . a woman? Really? That's the best they could throw at them?
He pays a heavy price for his outdated and sexist overconfidence. He offers one shot into the dense area he thinks the voice came from.
"That should send her running," he half chuckles as his younger brother comes alongside him. He doesn't hear or see the whistling projectile that enters just above the bridge of his nose. The force knocks him backward into the dead leaves lining the forest bed.
"Phil?!" Pete cries out in alarm, as he gazes down at his older brother, staring at the pointed object that sticks out of his forehead. Immediately crouching in a defensive position, the terror rising from his stomach into his mouth, warm bile threatening to spew out.
"Phil is down!" he yells into his mouthpiece. "I repeat, Phil is –"
Dawn Harrison saves him the effort of continuing his warning with a second headshot that whizzes through the air, instantly silencing the hood. She calmly walks toward the fallen men, and reaches down and takes the mouthpiece from Pete Anders' lifeless head and lips.
"Phil is down, boys," she says into the mouthpiece, holding it in front of her lips. "His partner isn't doing much better either," she tells them calmly. After a second of silence, allowing that to settle in with her listeners, she smiles darkly.
"Come play with me," she adds almost as an afterthought, purring into the ears of the attackers.
Mike's instructions to the team earlier today were very clear.
"We aren't sure of the size of the force coming after us, but we have to assume they will have some form of communication. Assaulting a territory this large, they will have some type of coordinated effort. The first person we disarm – it doesn't matter which of us does it – the first person we disarm, look for a communications interface. We will want to install a little fear, a little doubt into these men."
"What message do you want us to give them?" Marcus had asked.
"Keep it simple," Mike had replied. "Nothing elaborate. Typical guerilla tactics. You will know what to say."
Dawn smiles, satisfied as she drops the headset back to the ground between the two lifeless bodies. She knows the impact the message will have on the raiding party. She knows the additional oomph behind the message when they hear it delivered by a woman. Mike had intentionally held the majority of the males in the security force inside the admin building once he realized they were being scoped out. These men have probably come here expecting little resistance along with weak and pleading women. To hear that one of those 'weak and pleading' women has taken out not one, but two of their force?
She smiles as she touches her mouthpiece, relaying the information to the rest of the security team.
"Dawn at South 3," she begins. "Two down. I repeat, two down. Message sent. They know we're here."
Each of the security force replies with a kind of mental nod toward Dawn Harrison, and a renewed sense of urgency of their own. Mike Monroe makes a mental note of his own. Sixteen men, two down. Fourteen to go.
Now 8:05 p.m. – At the Western fence of the Castles Complex in Sausalito
Benny exchanges a worried glance with Randy, who kneels crouched beside him. Both men dropped lower, taking cover at the words of the woman in their ears. He idly wonders about the women he witnessed walking the campus earlier from his vantage point in the skies during their reconnaissance, now realizing that those were not helpless battered women walking the campus. Those were part of the security force, and evidently they are more than capable.
"All parties – new instructions," he whispers into his headset. "Kill anyone you engage with outside one of the buildings. Assume anyone outside is part of their security."
No, they won't make the same mistake poor Phil and Pete made. He suppresses a shudder, and Randy is thinking the same thing. Five minutes into this, and they've already lost two men. Two of their better and more fearsome men.
"I'm not gonna lie, Benny. I'm concerned about anyone – man or woman – who can take out the Anders brothers," Randy whispers.
"I am too, Randy. Let's just not make the same mistake," Benny tells him. "Now look sharp, dammit, and stay focused."
Still 8:04, At the Eastern Fence at the Castles Complex in Sausalito
Nick Farros and Viktor Markovic both have taken the same stance, the same protective and defensive postures as their partners on the opposite side of the complex. They were promised an easy payday, a simple snatch and grab, with a few permanent knockouts along the way. But deadly force response? That wasn't even a consideration.
"Look sharp, Vicktor," Nick tells his long-time Russian friend. The two have been through a number of battles together on the European front, and are recent additions to Donovan's show of force.
"You also," Markovic replies, his eyes scanning the trees in the distance, the fog clearly obstructing any view. "This is starting to look like a bad idea."
"Stay focused, friend," Nick tells the man. "We do our job, we get paid, and we get the hell out of Dodge."
"Dodge?" Markovic asks. The Russian is still learning – and struggling with – certain American terminologies.
"Never mind," Nick whispers with a smile. "It just means we get out of here alive and go home."
"Home sounds good," his friend admits, trying desperately to peer through the heavy white mist that coats the campus grounds. He feels like he is on the set of one of the Hollywood B-movies that Nick has made him watch over the years.
"Sure does," Nick agrees. "I didn't come all this way out here just to die."
The gravelly voice that greets the men stirs a deep-set fear that neither has felt in years, since their time on the European front.
"Actually gentlemen – that is exactly what you have done," the voice warns.
Both men try to drop lower toward the ground without actually falling prone, trying to locate the voice. The fog, however, is playing tricks on their senses, masking not only their sight but their ability to locate their antagonist as well. Viktor risks a couple of warning shots from his short assault rifle, spitting flames into the night soup.
Neither sees the lithe figure falling – in a controlled jump – from the tree branches above. Marcus lands between both men, his long sword held skyward during his fall. As he lands on the ground, he executes a perfect pirouette, his sword leading the circular motion. Blood flies as gurgling sounds are heard from both men who struggle to speak – to breathe – after the slashing motion severs nerves, blood vessels and vocal chords in their throats.
Their last breaths – frightening gurgling sounds ushering their final seconds on earth – are heard by all of the other members of their attack force.
Benny has had enough. He shouts into his mouthpiece at his remaining force.
"Full speed ahead – now!" he screams out, and utters a shout as he rises out of his defensive crouch and sprints now, full speed, toward the buildings he knows are in the distance, but cannot see because of the fog. Failure is not an option for a man like Donovan. It no longer matters if their sneak peek from earlier has turned out to be horrifically wrong. Fail tonight and that is the least of his problems.
"Raquel, send the back up! Now!" Benny yells as he runs. "And cut the lights!"
Throughout the campus, from all sides now, the onrush of the remaining dozen intruders is heard – now no longer concerned with stealth. They run forward, in attack mode, some firing their weapons into the mist that hides their enemy.
From the command center, Paul Jeffries sees the onrushing small cadre and quickly begins issuing directions to the security team of the complex. One by one, men begin to fall. Some fall from a gunshot. Some from a flying knife. A garrote ends the life of another.
Suddenly, the lights for the entire campus are extinguished, as one element of Benny's assault blueprint finally works according to plan. Having found the power lines, Barry Kaufman, or Barry K as he is called, cuts the line, immediately leveling the playing field. He jumps back into the back-up car off campus, as it guns to life, heading up the road for the campus.
The monitors in front of Paul Jeffries go dark, panicking the man for a moment.
Jeffries stumbles out of his chair, and uses the light from his cell phone to find his way to the door, and jogs down the hallway. Reaching the telecom closet, he goes inside and powers up the generator. This will give power to the admin building – including the bunker below, the kitchen area with three large commercial refrigerators and a walk-in freezer, and the command center.
The rest of the campus, however, remains in darkness.
Suddenly, a large car barrels up the road leading to the front gate. The speeding vehicle launches through the front security gate leading onto the campus, filled with Benny's back-up force. Lindy Matthews – from the front window of the administrative building, watches as four men pour out of the vehicle, brandishing impressive weapons that she knows mask their true bravery – or lack thereof. The men make a beeline for the administrative building.
"Cut the lights, Paul," she suddenly hisses into her mouthpiece. She wants the generator off. She is comfortable in the darkness. Right now, the darkness, the fog – they are allies. They are part of the protective covering they are counting on. She knows from experience that – more often than not – power is cut at the attacked location not because the assaulters are comfortable in darkness but more out of their assumption that the victims are not. Well, she is no victim, and she is perfectly comfortable in the blackness that envelopes them.
She checks the action on her handgun, then shoulders it, changing her mind. She walks over – in the darkness – to the wall. Seconds later, she detaches the baseball bat from its place hanging on the wall. The bat is one of Richard Castle's more cherished possessions – autographed by the entire New York Yankees 2009 team, from their last World Series championship team.
Half a minute later she raises the window leading out to the courtyard behind the administrative building and climbs through. On the ground, she crouches, holding the bat firmly in one hand, and moves stealthily around the back of the building at a jog from her crouched position – her eyes already adjusted to the darkness outside. Dressed in black, with her hair covered by a small beanie, she blends in completely with the darkness.
Circling the building, she sees the four frustrated men search in vain for a way into the locked and fortified building. Shatterproof windows, locked from the inside are virtually impregnable, save a bomb blast. The large door is actually a steel door, with a wood covering, purely for aesthetics. No, these men are not getting inside. Her goal now is to ensure they don't leave the grounds.
Lindy Matthews almost smiles at the favorable odds the night has graced her with as she approaches the unsuspecting intruders.
A/N: I know this is a violent chapter, and given the recent happenings in France, I almost didn't post this for another few days. But in some way, some form, we have to do what we can. I write. And I pray. I've been praying, and so I will continue writing.
Please forgive me, but two days have passed since the attack on Paris. Time goes on, memories of things half a world away fade as we fall back into our daily routine. I ask that we not do that. For once, let us stay the course we began less than 48 hours ago, when the world was united not just against a common enemy, but united in simple love for our fellow man and woman. Let us continue to keep our brothers and sisters in Paris in our thoughts, long after the news reporters have found new things to cover. Families have been shattered. Remember, we all are just one midnight phone call away from having our entire worlds turned inside out.