He's pacing his office, alternating between pressing his throbbing arm against his chest and stopping to press the cool glass of his drink against his burning head. It's not actually burning - he checked - but it feels like it, working in overdrive and starting to overheat.
So much has happened in these past hours that he just can't wrap his head around.
He went to the club today to finish the book - which he did - and burst his bubble, to free himself from the obsession that took control over him after the Beckett flash he had there the first time. Only to learn that this time, his mind was right, and he made out with Kate Beckett, something he never would've expected in a million years – dreamt about, oh, yes, but actually happening? No way.
The sole problem is that she simply kissed him to save his life, she said it herself. But only the memory of feeling her lips on his, her body pressed against his, her hips rolling against his ... It felt so real. Only that he really was in danger and their lives almost ended locked in a car on the bottom of the Hudson.
But they survived thanks to Kate's foresight to keep her weapon hidden in a separate compartment in her bag and they managed to get out.
And now everybody thinks he's dead, his arm is broken, his laptop is on the bottom of the Hudson with his finished book and he can't order a new one as a dead person, but he wants to edit this book so badly, and he wants to kiss Kate again, wants to know if it meant as much to her as it did to him.
He stops for a moment, swaying on his feet, closing his eyes, cooling his head again with the condensate on the glass.
Damn it, they desperately need to solve this case before something really bad happens. He has a really, really bad feeling about this – the cold-bloodedness of these guys makes him shudder. He just knows that this is something big and dangerous that they are planning here. Something that goes way beyond smuggling, even if the boys thought that he was crazy for voicing his theory. Of course, smuggling would've been the most obvious option, the simplest – but why would someone go to the lengths of staging an accident just to get rid of two people who might've heard something but have no reason or motive to do anything about it? Not when they're just smuggling. The risk that this accident somehow draws more attention to it than it should, leads somehow back to them is too risky.
No, no, he's certain, that there's way more to it than they can even think about now. He really needs to have more information. A hasty glance wanders over his newly built murder board, skimming over the spare pieces they have to build their case, tell the story and his mind is picking up speed once more.
McGibbons, blunt-force trauma to the back of his head, looks like he slipped on his head and fell, traces of split and street dirt in the wound – but it could also come from a hit and the dirt got later in the wound. Lanie couldn't exclude the possibility. The traces of chemicals found in his stomach are again very suspicious especially when his spontaneous theory is correct and they go hand in hand with chemicals you could use to build liquid explosives, then the killer had the irony to kill him with what he gave them. Or maybe didn't and that's why he was killed.
Or did he know too much? Asked too many questions? Just like Beckett did?
Are they really building a bomb? It would be so easy to deliver liquid explosives disguised as cleaning utensils...
His eyes fall on the bottles sticking out of his bin.
Of course. Barkley wouldn't be so delicate about his storage rooms if they were accessible at all times to the cleaning personnel.
No, if he's right and there are chemicals of some kind in the shipment, they would be delivered disguised in bottles, perfectly hidden among the other supplies for the bar. Maybe they are also not delivered by the cleaning company, but shipped to a warehouse, transferred into empty bottles of Tequila, Vodka, and other clear beverages.
No one would be suspicious. No one. That would be the perfect plan!
He salutes himself, trying to do a one-armed victory dance, but wincing and whining in the process from the obscene amount of pain that pierces his body. With closed eyes, he leans against his desk for a moment, concentrating on breathing against the immense pain in his arm, the rolling of his stomach. The painkillers Lanie gave him, finally wore off completely, leaving him sore with the agony of the throbbing and pulsating of his broken arm, sending hot waves of anguish through his veins.
Damn, he really needs to go out and find someone to fix him. With his arm pressed tightly against his body, he pulls open a drawer with gritted teeth, cursing under his breath at the pain the movement causes in his broken arm but manages to fish out one of the burner phones that are scattered there, smelling himself in the process and almost puking into his pin.
Ugh, he needs to shower, he reeks as disgusting as the Hudson. Maybe it will help him with the cold that still sits deep in his bones as well.
The phone comes alive without any problems despite the long time he didn't use it, and he quickly presses the speed dial to connect the line. With his eyes squeezed shut from the pain and to remember the words correctly, he orders his pizza. Shutting the phone off again, he grins to himself like an idiot, jittery from the excitement at the spy-like action. Oh, he really needs to write more books and do more research so that he can do that over and over again.
Still the big smile on his face, he quickly hops into the shower, barely able to properly clean himself without getting the makeshift cast wet and not moving too much to avoid the ripples of pain, but it must be enough to get the smell out of his hair and from his skin. Half wet, because again - with a broken arm it's not really easy to navigate everything - he slips inelegantly - and almost falling - into new clothes and steps into the living room.
"Mother?", he calls in the loft only five minutes later, dressed in dark pants and an oversized hoodie. "Can you help me for a moment?"
She sways down the stairs elegantly and diva-like despite the late hour, hurrying to his side, warmth flooding his heart by the worry on her face.
"What is it, kiddo?"
He gestures slightly to his face. "I need to go out to get my arm fixed, but I can't go out like this, of course. Can you do something about it?" Her eyes light up, a smile tugging the edges of her mouth upwards, and he immediately regrets that he asked her.
But only twenty minutes later, he looks twenty pounds heavier - with annoying pads in his cloths but they disguise his build, so he won't complain –, fifteen years older and nothing like Richard Castle, playboy extraordinaire and Most Eligible Bachelor Number Three this year, nothing he's proud of anymore. He still pulls the hood deep into his face, pockets stashed with cash when he fades into the night to meet with a mobster source who happens to own a top-notch underground clinic. Perfect to get his arm fixed and ask around if someone noticed something strange going on around the BURLESQUEAN.
It's been a few years since he saw his friend Manzetti last and time hasn't worked in his favor when he spots him at the old, sleazy bar, just like the coded message supposed. He actually gained the twenty pounds, his face sagged, big bags under his eyes, as if life had been hard on him in the past years. But when he turns to him, his gaze is still sharp as razors, daring anybody to even look at him. The dimmed light in the room casting big, scary shadows on his face and Rick promises himself one more time to never get on the bad side with this guy. What happened to him today would be a walk in the park compared to what this Mafia boss would do to him.
Actually, he's not really sure if he is a Mafia boss, he never said anything about it; it was more about the aura he had, radiating power and control and daring anybody to even think about crossing him.
"Leave, I'm waiting for a friend," he growls lowly in Rick's direction, his voice dripping in venom, the Italian accent dangerous like an invisible knife at his throat.
"Good to know that I'm still a friend. You seen the news, Giorgio?" Only a trained observer would notice that his counterpart relaxes ever so slightly, tension leaving his shoulders just a tad, the grim look on his face a bit lighter.
He huffs and grunts, shaking his head scarcely. "Oh, yeah, I did. What's going on, Riccardo?" He waves away the waiter with barely more than the movement of his little finger and Rick is evenly childishly excited and grateful for it, the throbbing of his arm killing him, the people in the bar making him nervous. He just wants to get it over with, fix his arm, go back to his loft, check in on Beckett, and crawl into his bed.
"I tell you everything but I need a favor first," he slowly pulls back the sleeve over his broken arm, showing him the makeshift case. The likely leader of the Italian Mafia in New York, probably in the whole country, nods and rises whispering Back alley as he passes him.
Rick knows the drill, they have done this game several times during his research. Giorgio leaves through the front door, Rick goes to the toilets but passes through the private door next to the men's room that leads directly out to the back alley. No one stops him or even looks funny at him. Giorgio's driver is already waiting there, picking him up and then turning the corner to the front of the bar to pick up his boss. With a soft sigh he glides into the dark suburban, closing his eyes for a moment, breathing in, feeling ultimately relieved to be away from the open streets. This case is really giving him the chills. And his arm hates every movement, the pain is getting worse with every minute that passes.
How did he survive swimming to the surface, walking around, organizing clothes, and carrying them on his arm? Was all of this adrenaline? Or is this also responsible for the sickening agony he's in right now. He barely notices the door opening and closing behind Giorgio, just opens his eyes when he hears him speak.
"So, tell me, Rick, what happened to you today? Why is the media saying you dead?" He can still see the grim look in the dimly lit back of the car, his heartrate peaking up for a moment at the memory, praying that Manzetti can trust his driver and that he can trust Manzetti and they're not going to finish the job. Who knows how deep this organization runs? He huffs at the thought, swallows the fear, forcing him to get a grip again. Manzetti is his friend. He trusts that.
"I'm not really sure either," and then he tells him everything that led to his presumed death in the Hudson, telling him about the presumed murder, the club, the talk he overheard, the shipment, the accident, asking him for information in the process, not missing how Giorgio's face darkens more and more with the story he tells.
"Dangerous people who want you dead, Riccardo. Very dangerous. We heard rumors. Really bad things. Call themselves the New Americans. There are rumors talking about bombs to start a war, to make country clean again. How can a country started by immigrants be clean, eh?" He curses something in Italian that Rick doesn't understand, pitying himself again that he didn't take the time to learn some more languages. He's going to change that – he knows that Beckett speaks French, Russian, and Italian, maybe she would be up to teach him something. If whatever happened today is his way back into her life that is. Is it his way back into her life? Argh, focus, Rick. New Americans? Clean the country? He doesn't like what Manzetti is telling him, not at all.
"So they're like Nazis but American?" His heart beats heavily against his ribs, forming a bruising he's sure of it. Damn, that doesn't sound good.
"Yeah, very sick people. Have friends in high places, some say government support-"
"Government support?", Rick squeals, interrupting his friend, earning a glare that pales Beckett's by a mile. He quickly makes a zipping motion over his mouth, wincing in the process at the pain rippling through his body again.
"Yeah, the shipment that arrives tonight? Only one of many. Heard bad stuff. Liquid explosives, big boom, sometime soon. But no one knows. Very discreet bastards. One guy spilled - dead. Accident, fell in Hudson. Like you." Beckett's vic. Must be. Or are there more? Is this their M.O.? Killing people and dumping them in the Hudson? So he was right, they were planning something big and using liquid explosives for it. Unconsciously his fingers are already on the hunt for his phone.
"No call now, Rick. First, we patch up your arm, then you go home, then you can call. I don't want to risk my people," Manzetti lays his hand on Rick's uninjured arm, looking him firmly in the eyes, tolerating no dissent as if he can see his urge to call Beckett and the guys and tell them everything he knows. This is serious. They need to include the FBI in this. Uh, maybe they'll meet Jordan again? But it's probably terror, so not her division. "I tell you everything I hear and tell friends. I promise. I want these guys gone as much as everyone else. Too dangerous. But I not risk my people, mia familiar." Rick swallows, grateful for Manzetti's promise, but also anxious to save his own familia – his team at the 12th. But Giorgio is right, he can't risk it. Not when he trusts him by telling him everything he knows, sharing his underground clinic with him to patch him up.
"I understand, thank you, Giorgio," with a soft nod and a firm gaze because he knows how much his friend values eye contact he relents, leaning back into the cushion again.
"You sure you want to do this, Rick? You have familia, too." The deep crease in his forehead speaks volumes, turning Rick's stomach into a churning mess, sending shivers through his whole body. They must be really dangerous when his friend is scared of them.
"I have to. My family is safe. Alexis is in LA and I'll send my mother to her. Makes more sense as a cover anyway. To grieve far away from everything that reminds them of me. I have some connections in LA through my ex-wife, I'll use them to protect them. Or let them use them." This whole 'I'm supposed to be dead'-thing is driving him nuts, but he has to get used to it. One mistake and they'll know that he's not dead and might go after him and his family. "Wait, you said they have government support? Do they also have access to police resources and data?" Manzetti lifts one shoulder pensively, slowly tilting his head from side to side thinking about Rick's question.
"I know that they want to form new government, new America. Friends in high places, it would surprise me if some people at the police wouldn't be involved." Rick curses under his breath, closing his eyes. Maybe they know already about Beckett being undercover? He needs to check in with Montgomery. But probably not by phone either, damn. This just got way more complicated. How many people know that he and Beckett are still alive and hiding in his loft? Giorgio seems to sense his distress, pats his knee. "Let's save your arm, amico mio. I want to read more of your books. You have something new?" Rick nods with a happy smile.
"I do. Almost finished. I wanted to send it to my old agent by the end of the week, see if I can make amends." Manzetti bellows out a loud laughter, wobbles his head up and down.
"Oh, I heard. Rick Castle, no longer wanted anywhere as author. Must've burned some important bridges." Castle sighs, rubs his forehead with his uninjured hand, not willing to go down that dark path.
"Yeah, I did. Not my most glorious time. But this new book is good, probably my best yet. Maybe that's enough."
"And a big fat sorry and some seriously pricey dinner reservations and gifts. You work with gorgeous, strong-willed woman, fratello", Manzetti bellows another laugh, draws Rick in as well. Oh, yeah, and he was married to one of them. This is going to be really difficult.
It takes hours until his arm is finished and Georgio's driver brings him into the parking garage next to his building. They had to fix his bone to ensure that it heals properly and without further damage, but Rick refused to be under general anesthesia, wanting to go back immediately. So they just anesthetized his arm, causing the worst pain Castle has ever been in, but he gritted his teeth and pulled through, he had to. They worked fast and professionally, gave him some good stuff in the process. But it starting to wear off by now, every move rippling agony in his whole left upper body, spreading through the other half. Wobbly on his feet, he climbs the stairs, one story after the other until he finally reaches the promising, almost hidden service door that leads to the roof and from their over the roof to his building, another door, another set of stairs until he reaches his door.
It takes all the strength he has, biting his tongue to not scream in agony, to open the service door and step out onto the roof. He's so focused on not passing out or vomiting on the floor that he doesn't notice the figure creeping up on him until it's too late.
Something cold and hard is pressed against his rips and the safety of a gun clicks, the sound echoing in the stairway. He closes his eyes, swallows. Damn.