Rick watches Javi's approach from the car to the building through grimy ninth-floor windows, his trained eye—honed by fifteen years on the force—catching details others might miss. The way Javi's hand keeps brushing his holster. The too-casual sweep of his gaze. The slight hitch in his stride that betrays uncertainty. "He's alone," Rick says, tension threading through his voice like a steel wire pulling tight. "No backup. He's walking into a damn ambush." The words taste bitter, like old coffee and regret.
The outside lights flicker, casting strange shadows across the abandoned apartment space as he turns to Kate. Urgency radiates from every line of his body, from his clenched jaw to his white-knuckled grip on the window frame.
"We need to get down there." The words come out as barely more than a whisper as if the walls themselves might be listening.
"How?"
Kate's signs are sharp, matching the concern in her eyes. Her fingers move with the precision of someone who learned ASL not by choice but by necessity, each gesture carrying the weight of years of practice. Shadows dance in the beam of light between them, stirred by their movements in this forgotten space.
Rick's gaze sweeps the room frantically, searching for options in the debris of abandoned renovation projects. Paint cans, torn-up carpet, exposed wiring—nothing useful. Then his attention snags on a small door nestled in the kitchen alcove—a dumbwaiter, probably from when the building was first constructed in the 1920s, back when such things were common in commercial buildings. He turns to Kate, mentally calculating dimensions. The shaft would be tight, but maybe... Before he can even suggest it, she reads his intent, the way partners do after years of working together.
Her signs cut through the air with explosive force, each movement sharp with indignation. The dim light caught her movement.
"There's no fucking way I'm getting in that little box!"
Even in silence, her vehemence is crystal clear.
Rick turns away, suppressing a grimace. It was a desperate idea anyway, born of panic and the knowledge that Javi has less than ten minutes before he walks into whatever trap Julio's crew has set. He moves back into the kitchen area, dust swirling in his wake like tiny ghosts. His boots crunch on broken tiles, the sound seeming impossibly loud in the tense silence but they both hear nothing. His eyes land on construction tools propped against the wall—leftovers from the idle renovation—and suddenly, he knows.
The thirty-six-inch pry bar feels solid in his hands as he approaches the service elevator, its weight promising possibility. The rubber grip is worn but secure, speaking of years of use.
With precise movements, learned from that summer he spent in construction during college, he drives the bar's tip into the seam between the elevator doors. Metal groans like a dying thing as he forces them apart, creating a six-inch gap. The sound echoes down the shaft, and both of them freeze, listening for any response from below. Sweat beads on his forehead as he adjusts the bar, wedging it against the floor to hold the doors open. The shaft beyond yawns dark and deep, a vertical tunnel of shadows broken only by the dim emergency lights on each floor.
Kate taps his shoulder, her fingers leaving marks in the dust on his jacket. Her expression carries equal parts questioning and concern.
"What are you doing?" The signs are tentative as if she's not sure she wants the answer.
In response, Rick points across the elevator shaft to where a maintenance ladder is bolted to the opposite wall, its metal rungs disappearing into the darkness above and below. His expression carries equal parts confidence and barely concealed fear, the look of a man proposing something incredibly stupid because it's the only option left.
"Simple," he says, signing simultaneously, his movements precise despite the tremor in his hands.
"We jump to the ladder and climb down to the lobby."
He gestures down the shaft, trying not to think about the nine-story drop below, where darkness seems to pool like black water.
"Only nine floors." The attempt at casual understatement falls flat in the face of the yawning void before them.
Kate stares at him like he's sprouted a second head, her green eyes wide with disbelief.
You're crazy!" Her signs are emphatic enough to cause him to cower, creating the doubt that this can't be done.
He attempts humor, his hands moving with exaggerated casualness, falling back on his usual defense mechanism.
"You could always take the dumbwaiter." A weak joke, but anything to break the tension crackling between them like static electricity.
Her glare could melt steel, but Rick remains unfazed, years of partnership having built up his immunity to that particular look.
"Want to go first?" he signs, managing to inject cockiness into even these simple movements. The facade barely masks his own terror at what they're about to attempt.
"No, that's all right," she signs back, a dangerous smirk playing at her lips.
"You can go first." The expression is pure Kate—sardonic humor in the face of absurd danger. It's the same look she wore back in her apartment, right before everything went sideways.
They back up together, pressing against the hallway wall opposite the elevator. Their shoulders touch a brief moment of connection before what comes next. The open doors taunt them, the ladder across the shaft promising escape—or disaster. The gap between seems to grow wider with each passing second, a canyon of empty air and consequences. Rick draws in a deep breath, muscles tensing for the run forward.
Cold metal presses against his temple, stopping him cold. The gun barrel feels like ice, even through the layer of sweat on his skin. All thoughts of the jump evaporate as survival instincts kick in, his world narrowing to the pressure point where death waits in the form of a 9mm. He begins raising his hands, movements slow and deliberate, but before his right hand reaches shoulder height, he signs to Kate: JUMP.
The movement is subtle, almost imperceptible, masked by the larger motion of surrender.
She hesitates, confusion flickering across her face like shadow and light. Rick mouths the word while signing again, desperation making his movements sharp. The moment her eyes show understanding—that millisecond of perfect communication between partners—she explodes into motion, sprinting for the elevator shaft. Her boots leave prints in the dust, a trail of decision and courage.
As Kate runs, Rick erupts into action, throwing himself against the dirty cop holding the gun. The weapon wavers, metal catching light as it moves. In that crucial moment, that heartbeat of opportunity bought with desperate violence, Kate launches herself across the dark void. Her body becomes a silhouette against the weak light, reaching for the promise of escape on the other side. Time stretches like taffy, and Rick's heart seems to stop beating as he watches her sail through empty space, everything they've been through together hanging by the thread of physics and faith.
The fight erupts in a blur of motion, the fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows across the hallway. Rick, his muscles coiled like springs, hurls the cop toward the elevator shaft with a force born of desperation. The officer's body slams against the partially open door with a thud that echoes through the concrete chamber. Only the sturdy pry bar, wedged in the gap like an iron sentinel, keeps him from plunging into the yawning darkness below. The smell of oil and metal fills the air, mixing with the acrid scent of sweat and fear.
Kate dangles precariously from the maintenance ladder, her knuckles white on the cold metal rung, rust flakes coating her palms. The ancient ladder groans under her weight, each small movement sending vibrations through the corroded metal. She watches as Rick, his face a mask of determination, delivers a brutal uppercut that rocks the cop's head back with such force that spittle flies through the air in a fine mist. The cop staggers, his badge catching the light as he sways, but manages to counter with a wild swing that whistles past Rick's ear. Rick's answering punch, a precise strike honed by years of training, catches him square in the jaw with a sound like a hammer striking meat.
The cop stumbles backward, his arms windmilling frantically in the stale air, uniform buttons gleaming as he loses his balance and plummets four floors. His scream cuts off abruptly as he crashes onto the elevator car with a sickening thud that reverberates through the shaft like a death knell.
From her precarious perch, Kate watches the violence unfold like a terrible dance choreographed by fate itself. The echoes of the fight bounce off the shaft walls, creating a cacophony of violence that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. But it's the sound of the stairway door opening, its hinges screaming in protest, that makes her blood run cold. The heavy boots thundering on concrete steps tell her what she already knows—Julio's backup is coming, and with it, their chances of survival diminish with each passing second.
Rick stands at the shaft's edge, his silhouette cut sharp against the harsh lighting. His hands move in urgent signs for Kate to descend, allowing them to communicate without words in this crucial moment. She starts climbing down, the ladder's rungs slick with decades of accumulated grime, just as Rick launches himself across the void—a desperate leap of faith across six feet of empty space that seems to stretch into infinity. Time slows as he hangs suspended in the air, the dim light casting his shadow on the far wall like a dark angel in flight. His right hand misses the rung, fingers grasping at empty air, but his left finds purchase at the last possible moment, his shoulder crying out in protest at the sudden strain. Kate drops lower on the ladder as his boots whistle past her head, close enough that she feels the displacement of air against her face. Below them, the fallen cop stirs to consciousness, his groans echoing up the shaft like the awakening of something dangerous.
Julio and Torres burst through the stairwell door, their footsteps thundering on the concrete floor like war drums. They exit the stairwell and turn the corner towards the service elevator.
They hammer the elevator call button with increasing urgency. The car groans to life like some ancient beast awakening, hydraulics hissing as it begins its slow ascent. Kate and Rick cling to the ladder, their muscles burning with effort, watching their escape route disappear with each passing second. The elevator's mechanical whine fills the shaft, a countdown to their rapidly closing window of opportunity.
On top of the elevator, the dazed cop's fingers close around his dropped gun, the weapon glinting dully in the emergency lights. Despite the fall that should have incapacitated him, survival instinct drives him forward. He raises it with trembling hands, taking aim at Kate's exposed back, his training asserting itself even through the fog of pain. She's trapped in the vertical tunnel of concrete and steel—nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, the ladder her only lifeline in this vertical battlefield.
Rick sees it all unfold beneath him, his trained eyes catching the telltale glint of gunmetal. Before Kate can even look up to warn him, before she can process the danger she's in, he makes a decision that defies both logic and self-preservation. He releases his grip, transforming his body into a weapon as he plummets past her. The world becomes a blur of motion and shadow as he crashes into the cop, the impact sending them both sprawling across the elevator's roof with a thunderous collision that shakes the entire car. Kate watches from above, her heart in her throat, as the massive counterweight slides past her like a steel guillotine, forcing her to press herself flat against the ladder, the cold metal biting into her chest.
The struggle below intensifies into a primal contest of strength and will. The cop, running on adrenaline and training, gains the upper hand, pressing the gun against Rick's head with trembling but determined fingers. The cold barrel digs into Rick's skin as the cop's finger tightens on the trigger, his eyes showing no mercy. At the last possible second, Rick strikes the cop's wrist with desperate precision, his survival instinct taking over. The gun fires in the enclosed space, the muzzle flash briefly illuminating the shaft like lightning. The bullet sparks off the elevator car in a shower of metal, leaving a glowing orange streak in their vision. Taking advantage of the cop's momentary imbalance, Rick wraps his legs around the man's neck in a vicious scissor hold, a move learned in countless street fights and perfected in moments like these. The cop thrashes like a caught fish, his face turning purple, his grip on the gun weakening until it finally slips from his nerveless fingers and clatters away, spinning across the elevator roof before coming to rest against an access panel. Only when the cop goes completely limp, his body sagging like a puppet with cut strings, does Rick release his hold, his own muscles trembling from the exertion.
Below, Julio and Martinez stand ready at the elevator doors, their weapons drawn at the sound of the gunshot that still rings in their ears. The fluorescent lights in the hallway flicker ominously, casting moving shadows that keep them on edge.
"What the hell was that?"
Julio's voice echoes up the shaft, tension evident in every syllable.
They stand in professional shooting stances, weapons trained on the elevator doors, waiting for them to open with the characteristic ding that seems to be taking an eternity to arrive. They remain unaware of the life-and-death struggle that just ended above their heads, the elevator car holding secrets they can't begin to imagine.
Rick's fingers wrap around the fallen cop's gun, the grip still warm from its previous owner. He tucks it carefully into his waistband, wincing as the cold metal barrel presses against the small of his back. His heart pounds against his ribs as his eyes dart upward, searching through the dim light of the elevator shaft for Kate. She's still there, twenty feet above, her knuckles white as she clings to the maintenance ladder.
The fluorescent emergency lights cast harsh shadows across her face, highlighting the determination in her eyes. Below her, Rick watches helplessly as Julio, the dirty cop whose badge now means nothing, and Angel, with his signature leather jacket creaking with every movement, crowd into the elevator car.
They huddle together in the confined space like conspirators, their voices barely more than whispers that echo off the steel walls. Rick strains to hear, but the mechanical hum of the building's ventilation system and his hearing aids which are now useless drown out their words. When they hit the button for the eighth floor, the pale yellow light illuminating behind the number, Rick's heart seizes in his chest. The massive counterweight, a two-ton block of steel and concrete designed to balance the elevator car, begins its silent ascent toward Kate. The cables whisper through their pulleys, a sound that would normally be imperceptible but now seems deafening to Rick's heightened senses. He can't call out a warning—the sound would bounce off the shaft walls like a gunshot, giving away their position instantly and she'd never hear him shouting to her. All he can do is watch, his fingernails cutting half-moons into his palms, as the counterweight glides upward with mechanical precision.
Kate feels the change before her brain registers what it means—a sudden shift in the air pressure that makes her ears pop like she's diving underwater. She looks down, catching sight of the approaching counterweight. Its dark mass fills the shaft like an ascending shadow. In one fluid motion, she presses herself flat against the ladder, her chest and nose scraping against the cold rungs. The counterweight passes so close she can feel the displacement of air against her back, the mass of steel barely missing her by inches. The smell of grease and metal fills her nostrils as it whooshes past, leaving her trembling but alive.
Rick releases a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, his relief is palpable as Kate emerges from her brush with certain death. Below, the elevator announces its arrival with a cheerful chime that seems obscenely out of place in the tension-filled moment. The doors slide open with a whisper of well-maintained hydraulics. Julio and Angel emerge like predators, their weapons raised in textbook formation, sweeping the hallway with the practiced precision that comes from years of running the streets on their own. Their footsteps, nearly silent despite their heavy boots, carry them to the right, where they disappear around the corner like ghosts.
Julio and Angel freeze mid-stride, their bodies instantly rigid with alertness. One heartbeat passes, marked by the subtle flicker of the fluorescent lights overhead, then two. The second dirty cop—Torres, with his signature mustache and the scar above his right eyebrow—rounds the corner like an actor hitting his mark, his service weapon already raised and steady.
"WOAH! Lower your weapon!"
Julio's voice booms off the walls, the command carrying authority. The sound rebounds through the hallway like a physical force.
Torres maintains his aim, his eyes hard and cold behind his standard-issue glasses.
"Where the hell are they?"
The question grinds out through gritted teeth, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack walnuts. His gaze flicks between his companions, knowing with absolute certainty that no one could have slipped past his position as he was coming up the stairs.
"I have no idea,"
Julio responds, as smooth as silk. The trio begins their retreat toward the elevator, their footsteps echoing in perfect synchronization down the empty hallway, the sound bouncing off the institutional green walls and speckled linoleum floor.
Torres reaches for his radio, the motion practiced and smooth.
"Roberts, what's your 20?" The static that follows his transmission seems to fill the entire floor with white noise.
The silence that answers speaks volumes.
He tries again as they approach the elevator, the steel doors reflecting their distorted images like a funhouse mirror. That's when they hear it—radio feedback, a high-pitched whine that shouldn't exist in this space. The sound sends chills down their spines.
Torres steps into the elevator car, his boots leaving scuff marks on the floor as he keys his mike once more.
"Roberts—" The word hangs unfinished in the air.
Julio moves with unexpected speed, shouldering past Torres with enough force to make the larger man stumble. He positions himself in the center of the elevator, directly under the access panel. His hand shoots up toward the maintenance hatch beside the LED fixture shedding light on them. The panel pops open with a sharp click that seems to echo in the confined space.
Both men crane their necks toward the dark shaft above, the black void seeming to swallow the elevator's harsh lighting. Through the opening, like something from a nightmare, Roberts's bloodied face suddenly appears. His features are twisted in agony, blood matting his usually meticulously maintained hair. A cut above his eye has painted half his face crimson.
"They're using the ladder," he rasps, each word clearly causing him pain, blood dripping from his split lip onto the elevator floor,
"to get to the lobby."
The words come out wet and gurgling, telling of injuries far worse than what they can see.
His eyes, already glassy and unfocused, roll back in their sockets. His head slumps forward, crimson drops marking a steady rhythm on the floor below, each one a tiny explosion of red against the gray linoleum floor. The sound of each drop hitting the surface seems to grow louder in the sudden silence, like a macabre metronome counting down to something none of them want to face.
Kate's feet hit concrete as she reached the bottom of the elevator shaft, the impact reverberating through her hips after the six-story descent. The air down here was different – stagnant and thick with the musty scent of machine oil. Rick lands beside her with less grace, his breathing heavy and labored from the climb down. The dim emergency lights cast angular shadows across his features as she studied his face, searching for signs of injury from the earlier fight that had left the cop unconscious on the elevator car above.
Blood trickled from a cut above his eyebrow, his face bore silent testimony to the violence they'd encountered.
"You okay?" Her voice carries the weight of her concern.
"I'm fine." His voice is steady, betraying nothing, though she catches the slight wince as he shifts his weight. One of Roberts's punches did damage to his ribs.
"Ready?" He asks her.
Kate nods once.
She watches him as he checks the magazine with practiced efficiency. Eight rounds left – not nearly enough. He grips the access door's metal ribs, corroded from years of neglect, and forces them apart with a sound neither hears. The construction on the floor beyond, stretches out like a frozen lake, covered in sheets of protective plastic that catch and scatter the harsh work lights, creating an eerie landscape of shadows and reflected glare. A scaffold looms to their right, its metal framework reaching toward the unfinished ceiling like skeletal fingers. To their left: the exit, and Esposito – assuming they can make it past whatever guards Julio had posted.
He hoists himself out of the elevator pit, his movements calculated despite the fatigue settling into his muscles, then extends a hand to Kate. The moment her feet touch plastic, the material crinkling beneath her feet, Rick's already scanning for threats, weapon raised. His eyes move in practiced sweeps, the same way they had during his years working narcotics.
They move as one through the space, Rick taking point, their footsteps muffled by the construction debris. Rick freezes, his body tensing in a way that sends immediate warning signals through Kate's.
Through the doorway, Esposito stands rigid, a gun pressed to his temple, the steel barrel leaving an angry mark against his skin. Rick shifts to the second entrance of the lobby for a better angle, his finger hovering over the trigger, muscle memory warring with the knowledge that one wrong move could cost his friend's life.
Jim emerges from the shadows, his weapon steady against Espo's head.
"Drop it, cop, drop the gun." His voice carries throughout the expanse of the lobby.
Javi's gun clatters to the floor, the sound echoing off bare concrete walls. Rick steps into view, his aim unwavering despite the exhaustion threatening to shake his arms.
"Let him go."
But Jim's already moving, using Espo as a shield with the expertise of someone who's done this before. Rick's finger tightens on the trigger – a desperate gamble he's willing to take – when a distant scream cuts through the tension. Espo's eyes lock with his, pleading, but there's something else in that gaze that triggers Rick's finely tuned instincts.
A muzzle flash illuminates the space, turning shadows into harsh relief. The round punches into the ceiling, sending a shower of concrete dust raining down, and Jim's gun finds Espo's head again with practiced precision.
"Drop it!" Jim's voice echoes off bare walls, the command carrying years of authority behind it.
"Now!" He demands.
Rick complies, his weapon hitting the floor with a hollow thud that seems to mark the end of something more than just this standoff. The sound carries the weight of betrayal yet to be revealed.
"Kick it over." Jim's eyes never leave Rick's face, searching for any sign of resistance.
Jim keeps both men covered as he retrieves Rick's gun, his movements are practiced. But something's wrong – a discord in the scene that Rick's brain is struggling to process. As Jim bends down, Espo's hand moves for the gun on the floor. The motion lacks the desperate energy of someone seizing an opportunity – instead, it carries the certainty of a planned action.
"I'm sorry, Rick." The words fall between them like bullets, each one finding its mark.
The truth hits like a physical blow, worse than any punch he's taken tonight. The pieces slot into place with sickening clarity – the convenient timing of their raids, the missing evidence, and the way their suspects always seemed to have advanced warning. Espo isn't a hostage.
He's part of it. Has been from the start.
"You should have never come back here." Espo holsters his weapon with the casual confidence of someone stepping out of a long-maintained disguise, then nods to Jim.
"Call Julio."
The name sends a chill down Rick's spine – Julio Vargas, the shadow king of New York's underworld, the man whose empire they'd spent the last year trying to dismantle. Behind him, he feels Kate shift her weight, preparing for whatever comes next, just as she has for the past ten hours.
A/N: Happy New Year! :)