After sending Castle off to rest, Jack grabbed a sandwich and called Jubal for an update on the investigation.
"CSI found Roger Hansen's fingerprints in the van. They practically disassembled the whole thing for evidence. The van was stolen a week ago and had been modified—seats removed, engine upgraded.
They also confirmed the blood in the vehicle belongs to the driver. However, since this was an old van, there were hundreds of fingerprints inside. The lab is still running comparisons, hoping for a match.
Also, I've issued a statewide alert to hospitals, instructing them to report any patients with gunshot wounds. We're hoping that leads to something."
Jack thanked Jubal and advised him to get some rest, promising to handle the next shift.
Everyone was rotating schedules, taking turns sleeping. Until there was a major breakthrough, this was the most efficient way to operate.
Jack opened his laptop and searched through criminal databases. It didn't take long before he found something. He immediately picked up his phone and called Stella Bonasera.
As he made a series of calls, a grin slowly spread across his face.
Bryan, who had just come out of the bathroom after splashing cold water on his face, noticed the shift in Jack's demeanor. "Did you find something?"
Jack handed him a spare FBI-issue SIG Sauer P320-XTen. "We've got the driver's identity. I cross-referenced Roger Hansen's past criminal associates and found a guy named Douglas Stevenson.
He was Hansen's getaway driver in a past bank robbery. He also happens to own an auto repair shop.
CSI just compared one of the fingerprints from the van to Stevenson's record. It's a match. Plus, since he's a former inmate, the prison had his medical records on file—his blood type is B."
"Do we know where he is?" Bryan inspected the gun, tucked it into the back of his waistband, and asked with a dangerous glint in his eyes.
Jack shrugged. "Maybe. He has a sister who works as a nurse. And wouldn't you know it? She just called in sick today."
"So you want me to go with you?" Bryan's tone was low and menacing.
"Don't misunderstand—I just don't want to waste time getting a search warrant. Since this isn't exactly by the book, I figured I wouldn't bother NYPD or my colleagues with it."
Jack said it with a harmless smile, as if discussing the weather.
—
"I thought you'd just kick the door down," Bryan muttered, watching Jack pick the apartment lock with an efficiency that suggested way too much practice.
"I don't mind complaints against me, but I do mind jeopardizing Beckett's career." Jack glanced at Beckett, who had insisted on coming along despite his protests.
He had originally planned to bring only Bryan. Beckett was supposed to stay behind and watch over the still-sleeping Castle. But when she refused, Jack had no choice but to let JJ take over babysitting duty.
"You are—" A young woman sat on the couch, eating chips and watching TV. The moment she saw them, she opened her mouth to scream.
Jack was faster. He struck her with a precise chop to the neck, knocking her unconscious before the scream could leave her throat.
Beckett blinked, momentarily stunned. "This is you protecting my career?"
"Of course. Here's the story: A couple of burglars broke in and attacked the homeowner. A passing NYPD detective intervened, and while sweeping the apartment, she accidentally discovered a wanted suspect hiding inside.
Sounds pretty good, doesn't it?" Jack smirked as he pushed open the bedroom door, gun drawn.
Inside, a groggy man, disturbed by the noise, was struggling to sit up.
"Douglas Stevenson," Jack said, leveling his SIG at him. "You're under arrest."
—
"Where are the kidnapped girls? Where is Roger Hansen? Who hired you?"
Beckett stood with her hands in her pockets, staring coldly at the suspect. Stevenson, his shoulder bandaged, tried to maintain a nonchalant facade.
"I have nothing to say," he said, even offering a smirk.
"So you're willing to take the fall for everything? You ran over a man, and you're looking at three counts of kidnapping. Do you know how many years you're facing?" Beckett's voice was sharp as steel.
"Tell me where they are, and I'll put in a good word with the judge."
"I want a lawyer. And an ambulance," Stevenson said, turning his head away. He wasn't playing.
"This is a waste of time," Bryan said impatiently, holding a bottle of industrial-strength cleaner he'd found in the bathroom.
Jack shrugged. "Well, we had to go through the motions."
After a few more minutes of Stevenson stonewalling Beckett, Jack rapped his knuckles against the door. "Kate, your turn's over."
Beckett shot them both a look but didn't argue. With a deep breath, she turned and walked out of the room, leaving Jack and Bryan alone with the suspect.
The moment the door clicked shut, Stevenson stiffened.
"You can't question me without a lawyer," he said quickly. "I have rights. I told you—I have nothing to say."
"I'm not a cop," Bryan stated simply, placing the cleaner on the table and pulling a pair of pliers from his pocket.
"Uh… I am an FBI agent," Jack said. "But today, I seem to have developed a rare condition called temporary blindness. I can get a doctor's note for that if necessary."
Jack leaned against the dresser, watching with interest. He had seen CIA waterboarding techniques before, but Bryan seemed to have a different approach in mind.
"Who are you people?" Stevenson's already pale face turned ghostly white. He tried to move, but Bryan seized his injured shoulder and dug his fingers into the wound.
"AAAHHHH!" Stevenson screamed as fresh blood seeped through his bandages.
"I'll sue you! I'll sue both of you!" Stevenson writhed on the bed, kicking wildly. But Bryan, using just one hand, held him down effortlessly.
"Pray you live long enough to make that call," Jack said, flashing a sharp, cruel grin.
"AAAHHH! GOD! STOP! STOP!"
Beckett sat outside, visibly uncomfortable. It wasn't that she cared about what was happening to Stevenson—he deserved whatever he got.
But she couldn't stop thinking about what she'd do when the unconscious woman on the couch woke up.
Less than five minutes later, the bedroom door opened again. Jack stepped out, phone in hand.
He gave Beckett a slight nod. It was done.
Curious, she peeked inside.
Stevenson was curled up on the bed, cradling his left hand in agony. His nails had been torn off—two of them—and something deep blue dripped onto the floor.
Not blood.
The cleaner.
Jack had already dialed a number. Walking past her, he spoke into the phone.
"Ma'am, it's me. The address is a farm off Route 301, less than a hundred kilometers from here. I need a SWAT team."
______
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