Private Eyes 3: You Know My Name

Prologue

When the storm arrives, would you be seen with me
By the merciless eyes I've deceived.
— Chris Cornell, You Know My Name

It was raining.

Somehow that seemed appropriate after the events of the previous weeks. The Vice President of the United States had been assassinated. The nation was in mourning. All the top agencies were on high alert, reassessing every threat with a fine-tooth comb, double checking the very minutia of gathered intelligence to gage it for possible dangers. After delivering a televised address to the American people from the Oval Office, POTUS had been moved to a secure location until the Secret Service, the FBI, and Homeland Security were reasonably certain no other attacks would occur.

A flash of light illuminated the gray sky. Standing in the shadows of the building, bundled up in a nondescript raincoat and hood, CIA Officer Rick Castle counted the seconds until the rolling thunder sounded. A handful of those seconds later, the crackle echoed through the narrow canyon of buildings. Pursing his lips, he narrowed his eyes. It was close. His phone buzzed inside his pocket, and he ducked under the awning. His fingers skimmed over the smooth flat surface of the obsolete looking flip-phone—the TCD-74—a special communications device provided to him by the Company. The CIA had been offered an updated model several times over the years, but Castle preferred the older, more reliable TCD-74. One reason being that it was damn near impossible to trace.

Flipping the phone open he glanced down at the screen.

It read: Back entrance. 5 minute window. Good luck.

Castle grinned, and sent a thank you back to his friend, knowing that Martin Danberg had stretched his neck out on this one. He really owed the guy for all the assistance he had provided during the last year or so, ever since they uncovered Agent Sophia Turner as a double agent.

Shutting the flip phone, Castle tucked the device back into his side pocket, and glanced around, satisfied no one was watching. The rain helped keep people off the streets, but not the cars. If anything, it made the already horrendous traffic jams even worse. Hunching his shoulders, he hustled down the sidewalk, appearing to all the world like any other pedestrian in a hurry to get out of the tremendous downpour.

Reaching the corner of the target building, Castle slipped around into the back alley. With his hands shoved in the pockets of his raincoat, he ambled past two dumpsters and a stack of wooden pallets. Flicking his keen eyes up, he spotted the dingy door. He paused, closed his eyes and counted the seconds in his head.

Three… two… one…

A dull click sounded, and Castle twisted the handle, pulling the door open and sliding inside. Moving quickly, he pushed back his hood and unzipped his coat, peeling it off to reveal a pristine tux underneath. He couldn't help but smirk cockily as he quietly deposited the wet raincoat on a wall hook. He always felt a little like James Bond in these situations. He remembered watching Sean Connery in the iconic role, emerging from a wetsuit in a dapper tuxedo, looking as suave and debonair as ever. Something, to which, Richard Castle always aspired to.

Casually adjusting his bowtie, he sauntered through the quiet and empty kitchen. Usually a place like this would be hopping with activity, but not today. He moved with ease through the different cooking stations, and made his way towards the ballroom entrance.

The affair in the hotel ballroom was more subdued and respectful than it had initially been planned due to recent events. Though, Castle noted, the sponsors still provided an open bar. The lights above, hanging from the high ceiling, were dimmed, providing a cozy atmosphere. Half the ballroom was taken over by seating. Chairs had been set up in semi-circle, horseshoe shaped, pointing towards the stage. A large flag, splendid in its stars and stripes, was hanging behind the podium. As Castle gauged the mingling crowd, he easily surmised that the event had already shifted to the meet and greet phase.

After a minute of observation from the periphery, he deftly merged into the assembled donors, smiling and shaking hands, slapping a shoulder or two, playing as if he was one of them. He sold his masquerade well, everyone bought it, hook, line, and sinker. He blended effortlessly into the swell. Sweeping his gaze over the crowd, Castle zeroed in on his target.

Senator William Bracken stood in the center of the gathering, making the rounds. The man was brilliant. Despite the fact his left arm was hampered by a sling, he worked the donors like a pro. Not too surprising, really. Simply judging by the longevity of his political career, this kind of thing was old hat to him. He was really playing up on his so-called heroics during the assassination of Vice President Russell. Footage from the incident had showed the senator trying to dive for the vice president. He'd been injured during his 'valiant' efforts, and despite his failure to save the vice president from death, the media had still hailed Bracken a hero and true American patriot.

Almost immediately after, the talking heads and other party members started pushing his name forward to replace Russell as the party's nominee in the upcoming presidential election. It all seemed like fate. As one talk news anchor proclaimed, destiny was calling and Senator William Bracken was humbly answering that call.

Castle knew better. He knew Bracken wasn't the noble hero he appeared to be. The politician had, in fact, arranged the entire spectacle. Of course, Castle didn't have enough evidence to prove that, but with all the information he had at his disposal, it was damn obvious that senator was behind it all.

With the vice president's assassination, Bracken had accomplished two goals: One, removing his political rival, clearing the path for him to easily seize the party's nomination; and two, gaining the admiration of the media, party elders, and the American people at large, in what they all perceived as a courageous and selfish act. But Castle knew that the man who was being praised was devious and unworthy of such acclaim.

"Good to see you," the disreputable wretch was saying to his admirers. "Yes. I'm committed as ever to ensuring Vice President Russell's legacy lives on. With your generous help, we can achieve anything for this great nation."

Castle stopped, standing still in a sea of moving bodies. He stared hard at Bracken, feeling all the fury and rage bubbling inside him—outwardly, nothing showed—at all that been wrought upon the woman he loved at the behest of this man. If it was just up to Castle, he'd throttle him with his bare hands until the life faded from his eyes. But it wasn't up to him. Killing the bastard wouldn't provide Kate Beckett with the justice she sought. She deserved so much more than that.

"He's going to come for me again," she had said, when they had once again been alone in the hotel suite, her colleagues from the Twelfth Precinct having departed for the night after they had uncovered the truth, the name of the man behind it all. "It's only a matter of time."

"Let me take you someplace, Kate," he had offered. "Someplace you'll be safe." And he could. He had the resources and contacts to do just that.

Castle had enfolded her in his arms and she had curled into his embrace, sighing.

"I'll never be safe," she had asserted.

So, Rick Castle had made a choice, unilaterally deciding what should be done to keep the woman he loved safe. Later, he had used that determination and resolve to fuel the vigor and passion with which he had made love to her. In a terrible, awful way, it had also been a kind of subterfuge, leaving her sated and satisfied, lulling her into a contented slumber, which had provided him with the opportunity to make his leave without her knowledge. It was a despicable tactic, but he was too much of a coward to leave while she was wide awake and alert, capable of arguing and convincing him his plan was foolhardy. He couldn't risk that. Her life was far more important.

On a mission, Castle ducked his head down, and stepped forward, maneuvering around those gathered around the senator. His eyes locked on the vile man. He dodged left and right, smiling at the other fundraiser attendees, laughing, like he was one of them. He got close enough to Bracken that he could smell the expensive cologne the man wore. Castle waited, eyes always observant. The senator reached up to shake the hand of another one of his donors, and Castle made his move.

He clapped the senator on the back, voicing similar celebratory sentiments as the others, all the while discretely planting a burner phone in the man's pocket. Bracken took no more notice of him than he did of any other hanger on, and Castle folded back into the crush, invisible. He made his way to the open bar, ordered a brandy, and threw it back in one gulp as he waited.

"America has always been a land of opportunity," Bracken was pontificating to his audience. "We can fulfill that promise. Together. Are you with me on that? Come one, let me hear you. Are you with me?" The donors clapped and cheered around him, and Bracken smiled, milking in the adulation.

Leaning one elbow against the bar, Castle took his phone out, flipped it open and dialed. It didn't take long for the senator to notice the ringing. A confused frown flashed across his face as he pulled the burner phone out of his jacket pocket. He held up a hand of apology to one of his guests.

"Excuse me, just—just for one minute. Please," the smooth talker maneuvered his way out of the crowd, and answered the call in a hushed voice. "Hello?"

"This is Rick Castle," Castle spoke, low and calm, keeping his eyes locked on his quarry. He noticed the man visibly stiffened after his introduction. He barely suppressed a grin. "I can see you know my name." Bracken spun around in place, neck arching left and right. "That's right. I'm watching."

Castle watched as Bracken's shoulders straightened. The man gritted his teeth, no doubt suppressing the dull ache such a movement caused his injured shoulder. Castle enjoyed the sight of the sweat that beaded on the nervous senator's forehead.

"I don't know what this is about, but I am not interested in playing games," the fiend all but snarled.

Castle stifled a scoff. "Well, you better get interested," he said. "I have information that will destroy your career. And I will use it unless you do exactly what I say."

Bracken clenched his teeth, and growled, but his shoulders slumped. And after a long pause, he gave his answer. "I'm listening."

*A/N: This one is going to be long. I'm not yet finished writing it, but I wanted to start posting now so it would be part of the summer ficathon. It's already over 100,000 words, and I'm still a good ways from completion. Prepare for a slow burn, with both story and Caskett.