Missing Scene to Season 4, Episode 9, Kill Shot.
"She should not be on this case."
The words he'd been dreading to hear since they first came across Sarah Vasquez's body finally escaped Castle's lips.
Not that he disagreed. Well, yes and no. If things had been different years ago, he'd move heaven and earth to right all the wrongs.
But this was now, and Beckett was spiraling.
He knew it, and Castle knew that he knew.
"Well, she's not just going to walk away."
It was a silly statement at best, almost a beck and call for the writer to provide him with more tangible evidence of his findings. But this wasn't an open and shut case, this was Beckett they were talking about.
And she was family.
"No, she's going to drive herself into the ground. And you're the only one who has any clue as to what she's going through."
The words burnt like acid and he looked back at the writer sheepishly, caught in the act of reliving his own nightmare with different actors.
In the depth of his memory, he heard the sickening cheers, the thuds of bullets hitting flesh, seeing the glee in the enemy's eyes at every confirmed kill. It brought on a shudder that threatened to paralyze him right then and there.
Worst of all, how did Castle even know? How could he see what Esposito had so skillfully hidden beneath years of regret, nightmares, therapy and new beginnings? What metaphysical power made the personable writer see through the cloak that had fooled everyone else.
Whatever it was, it gave him goosebumps.
Swallowing his unease, he met those caring blue eyes staring back at him, seeing him at his most vulnerable, sensing that terror boiling deep inside, and treating it with the utmost grace, when Castle posed his next question.
"So, what helped you?"
The barren room felt colder than when he entered it so many hours ago. And it should be the complete opposite. It was the middle of the afternoon and there was more action now, footsteps, hasty words and movements that threatened to make him dizzy.
Two soldiers passed him by, acknowledging his presence out of the corner of their eyes only, their actions reminiscent of a busy anthill, MP-5's drawn, every move deliberate and necessary as everyone prepared to put a lid on a situation that had grown so irrevocably out of control.
The deadly ambush followed by the cold-blooded execution of all survivors was the war material he had been cautioned about, but never lived through until now.
And yet there he was, the lone witness to the terrifying slaughter that had followed a standard recon mission deemed low risk at best.
A group exercise, his Staff Sergeant had mocked it.
Even though the blood on his face and clothes had long dried, replaced only with the gritty burning of desert sand, sweat and grime, the sights and sounds were as fresh in his mind as if it had just happened.
All it took was the blink of an eye to take him back to that dreaded compound, hearing the footsteps nearby, followers he couldn't shake, holding his breath for fear that it might rise into the freezing night air and alert those set out to hunt him down and kill him.
"Hey 'Sito, how're you holding up, buddy? Been worrying us to death."
He knew the voice from someplace; a place his sluggish mind couldn't produce no matter how hard he tried.
After a day of being holed up in a glorified mud hut on the outskirts of Al- Fallujah, the capital of terrorist activity as of late, the defining line between reality and terrifying flashbacks had grown uncomfortably thin.
Outside he could hear the angry growling of an approaching Humvee as more units arrived, risking their lives to bring back their own, even if it meant doing so in a body bag.
Over twenty-four hours had passed since his mayday, time undoubtedly spent assessing whether or not the arrival of American troops so close to Al- Fallujah would only inflame relationships between the Iraqi and US government.
Dead and dying soldiers didn't necessarily add urgency to that agenda.
Besides, nobody wanted to explain what a special ops unit was doing in enemy territory.
"I don't know where they took the bodies…", was all he managed to croak before the sound of nearby missile fire sent him to his feet in the fraction of a second.
It wasn't enough time for the medic to react, causing him to tumble backward as Esposito rushed past, then pressed himself against the opposite wall, away from the road, tucked deep into a corner where he could safely see everyone entering the small room.
"I need an extra hand in here…", the other man ordered, unable to hide the flicker of annoyance in his voice, "We got a couple fast birds moving in to cover us, but we gotta get out of here asap, so try to keep it together. I need to check what kind of Charlie Foxtrot you got yourself into…"
His injured leg gave out before he could sink back down to the ground, sending him tumbling onto his side, a shaking heap of blood and embedded bullets.
Somewhere up above, he felt rubber gloves touching him, following the crimson trail below his vest and along his BDU's to the two sizeable holes that were threatening to leak the life out of him.
"You're gonna be ok, I just need you to stay still. We're gonna get you stabilized and out of here asap."
How could he possibly be ok after the rest of his team had been wiped out by the enemy?
The painful notion brought him back to the abandoned compound, its centerpiece an old villa from glory days long gone. They had been on a recon mission following an infrared check for body heat that had come back negative.
And yet it had been anything but.
The attackers waited until they had entered the courtyard before opening fire, the heavy machine gun artillery tearing through bodies and creating a pink mist that enveloped the entire area.
The blood bath ensued for eternity, with bullets cutting through the air from every corner imaginable.
With barley enough time to react, his CO ordered them to retreat before being fatally struck by a bullet to the head.
But where to, when the enemy was everywhere?
Somewhere in the back he could hear a woman scream, a local witness to the slaughter that was taking place at the hands of the oppressing enemy. Or maybe she'd been an informant, spared a horrific fate so long that she gave away the position of American troops?
A bullet to his thigh made him trip hard, another one in his lower back took him down to the ground, his painful gasp choked out by a mouthful of sand.
More gunfire erupted around his position, accompanied by the dull thuds of bodies falling to the ground, both from the balcony and his brothers in arms.
And suddenly, there was an eerie silence.
After a few moments, loud screams could be heard from the attackers, their screeching and hollering symbolizing another victory over the army of infidels invading Iraq.
As the adrenalin flooded his body, making him shake, he rolled off to the side and aimed his MP-5 toward the dilapidated villa, where the enemy hid behind broken windows.
A handful of men could be seen stepping out into the open, their body language easing up at the presumed success of their ambush, slapping the railing where the gold paint was peeling off from years of neglect.
Judging by the bodies littering the ground, they had good reason to.
His CO had fallen near the entrance, a large puddle of blood forming around his skull where the bullet had penetrated his helmet. The rest of the team lay scattered in the vicinity, those still clinging to life being executed with a close-range headshot by a laughing duo of foot soldiers canvassing the courtyard.
Esposito's search for cover had separated him from the group, his body sprawled out behind a stone pillar, his trail of blood getting covered up by blowing sand from a rogue gust.
Having stayed out of sight so far, he carefully pulled himself back up to his feet, grinding his teeth to keep the searing pain from escaping. Completely outnumbered and outgunned, he kept his eyes on the compound, inching along the large outer wall and away from his fallen comrades at an agonizingly slow pace.
His earpiece was exploding with radio traffic, frantic requests to confirm fatalities, pleas for a response he wasn't at liberty to provide yet.
As more bone-chilling gunshots rang through the air, he slipped around the side of the building in time to hear alarmed voices, jumbled words for a missing man and a search.
So much for his survival staying undetected.
Crossing the small side street in hopes of finding temporary shelter, Esposito saw a woman waving him toward a nearby building, her baby blue burka swaying in the upcoming breeze. Once she was sure that he'd seen her, she turned around and continued her stroll down the road, feigning a casual pace at the mortal threat by the enemy.
Esposito followed her lead into the small home, barely able to squeeze his frame through the narrow door that was hanging on by a single hinge. A little boy was cowering in the corner, terrified by his arrival, a set of huge brown eyes following his every move.
Putting his gloved finger to his lips, Esposito tried to keep the child quiet, for both of their safety. Then, with his injured leg dragging behind, he limped to the window on the opposite side of the house.
A small path snaked through the neighborhood and away from the compound, allowing him to remain undetected as he put more distance between himself, and the followers set out to kill him.
With a grateful nod in the child's direction, he carefully crawled out of the window, wincing when he lost his balance and hit the ground hard.
Once he was back on his feet, Esposito continued to move for hours, zig-zagging his way out of town through one alley or another, until he finally reached the outskirts- and found redemption in an abandoned hutch.
"…over sixty and dropping…"
He came back to when the Humvee hit a bump that rattled its occupants and equipment with vicious force. Accompanied by a choir of groans, Esposito found himself staring at the ceiling, stripped out of his bulletproof vest and gear, his fingertips touching the cool metal of the cargo area he was laying on.
"This one's gonna require a dust-off. Radio HQ to let them know we're coming in hot."
Nobody was talking to him.
As though he was observing the scene from the comforts of a theatre balcony seat, Esposito glanced back and forth, his foggy mind recognizing some of the people to his left and right, their names disappearing among the medical jargon exchanged in the armored vehicle.
"I never heard of anyone making it out of Al Falluja on foot and live to tell the tale…"
"Let's make sure he will get to tell the tale. I am all for sticking it to Al-Qaeda. Too many good men have died already."
Died…the words struck him with such force that Esposito gasped, finally able to release the terror he'd been forced to hold in since the ambush.
"Easy there, Sergeant, we're almost back at the HQ. You're gonna be alright."
No, he wasn't going to be alright. His Staff Sergeant and unit had been wiped out, their bodies undoubtedly desecrated by now to set an example for anyone else attempting to follow their footsteps.
And he hadn't been able to do a damn thing about it.
Going up against the enemy would have been suicide- but fleeing felt like cowardice.
The only thing worse than the overbearing pain from the loss of his friends was the survivor's guilt slowly overshadowing every conscious thought.
Why him of all people? Why did he survive when everyone else died? People with bigger families, with wives and children, with a whole town awaiting their safe return from the war. Why did he get to live, goddamnit?!
"He's starting to drop again."
"Come on Sergeant, hold on.", came the urgent plea as he felt cold scissors running across his chest, cutting the sticky t-shirt off his body, "There's people who want to shake your hand on the other side of all this. What you've been through is gonna be everyone else's survival guide. Hang in there, man. Don't quit now."
He didn't quit that day, nor any other time that fate tempted him to lay down his armor and resign.
Through countless months of soul searching, he finally came to terms with what happened on that terrifying morning in Al-Fallujah. For reasons that still eluded him, he was chosen to continue a journey that ended for everyone else in his unit. And Esposito would always carry their sacrifice in his heart, doing the best he could to honor those who laid down their lives to protect others.
Damaged goods doing horrible things to good people, without rhyme or reason, without conscience, without mercy. That had summed up that day well, allowing him a measure of closure that he seemed so far out of reach for the longest time.
And now that he was part of a new unit, a group of people who had become his second family, Beckett desperately needed the gentle guidance that came from living through his worst nightmare in order to work through her own.
With an inaudible sigh, Esposito nodded at Castle, understanding the weight of the unspoken plea, and set off to prepare his case in the evidence room.