Epilogue

The first thing Ryan discerned was a bright light blinding him. He blinked in confusion and tried to gather his thoughts, but right now nothing seemed to make any sense. He remembered vaguely how he and Castle had found their way out of the warehouse, but most of their escape was a blur. The blood loss and everything his body and mind had had to endure for the last hours had decided to take their toll, and not even the rush of adrenaline at the sudden explosion had been enough to wake him up from his haze. He remembered golden morning light and a cold breeze and other people, teenage girls – teenage girls?! What the…?! – and Castle's frantic voice as he couldn't find Kate. The warehouse was burning brightly like the world's largest bonfire, and Kate was still inside. Oh God. Ignoring his body's signals to simply lie down on the pier, he'd tried to hurry back towards the entrance, but a hand had grasped his shoulder and held him back, and he didn't have the strength to fight against the grip anymore. Next… God, everything was so unclear… Had he passed out? Some pieces must have been missing, because the next thing he knew was cold water everywhere and then… nothing.

He tried to sit up, tried to open his eyes, but it was incredibly difficult, neigh impossible, as if his body was fighting his attempts vigorously. Beneath him, he could feel something soft – a mattress? Maybe. Or maybe he had died and gone to heaven and that thing underneath him was a cloud. In his current state either explanation seemed plausible.

"Easy there, bro", he heard a voice say from somewhere close to him. Though it sounded like it had to make its way through a thick fog, he knew instantly who it belonged to.

"Am I… am I dead?", he brought forth with difficulty. His tongue was as willing to cooperate as the rest of his body, and the few words sounded sluggish even to his own ears. They were probably impossible to understand for anyone else than the person next to him.

The sound that answered him was something between a chuckle and a pained groan. "Don't think so. That would mean I'd be dead, and that would mean this wouldn't hurt as much."

Ryan couldn't help but laugh. It wasn't much more than a weak gurgling sound, but at least it didn't hurt as much as he had feared it would. Contrary to his partner, he was probably still on some heavy pain killers, which would explain why it was so hard to force his body to do anything.

"You… you have no idea how glad I am to hear your voice", he added after a second during which he just let the knowledge that Javier Esposito was still alive encompass him with a relieving, warm and somehow fuzzy feeling. Even though Lara had told him, he hadn't allowed himself to actually believe it, afraid of how much harder news of his friend's death would hit him if he expected him to be alive and kicking. Well… alive, at the least.

For a heartbeat, he thought he could almost hear Javi smile, then his partner replied in a more hushed tone of voice: "I think I might've."

Ryan didn't reply at once. He tried to think back to those fateful minutes inside the Domino Sugar factory, remembering every little detail far too vividly, just as he had done countless times during his captivity. But at least now he knew how Javi's close encounter with death had ended, which made the scene inside the stairwell almost bearable. Almost.

Javi seemed to take his silence as a sign to continue, because after a few seconds he went on: "They didn't know anything about your whereabouts when I first woke up. All Lanie could tell me was that you were chasing the junkie who'd shot me." He laughed, but it sounded everything but amused. "The junkie. Kate had lied to one of her best friends when she told Lanie about what happened at the factory. That's when I knew that you really had to be in trouble. Roy explained everything to me when he got to the hospital, which – honestly, bro? – didn't make things any better. Do you have any idea how worried I was?"

Of course Ryan had an idea. Thankfully, most of what he had been through was still quite fuzzy, but two things stood out clearly: Pain – a lot of physical pain – and a worry for Javi's life so deep it had managed to overshadow almost everything else. Once more he tried to get up, using his elbows as a support. It was still almost impossibly hard, and despite the pain killers his body screamed in protest, making him groan. Finally he managed to get a look at Javi, who was sitting upright in the bed next to his. His chest had been tightly bandaged and he was hooked up to a machine measuring his vital signs, but otherwise he actually looked a whole lot better than Ryan would have expected after his ordeal. He wondered briefly how long he had been out, but decided that now wasn't the time to dwell on something as insignificant as time. Javi's mocha brown eyes bored into his, filled with a deep worry, and he felt himself smile at the sight of his partner. Even that tiny movement of his facial muscles hurt, but it was so worth it when Javi's expression lightened up and he returned the smile.

"So", Ryan muttered. "I guess we both knew what to tell death when we got close to him, didn't we?"

Javi's reluctant smile turned into a full-blown, mischievous grin at the reference. "Not today", he replied. Then he added, almost as an afterthought: "But let's not make a habit out of close encounters with him. Deal?"

"Deal", Ryan answered and allowed himself to sink back into the heavenly soft mattress. There was so much he wanted to ask, so much that still didn't make any sense, so much that he would have to process somehow, but for now the knowledge that his best friend was alive and would be there when he woke up would have to do. Holding that thought, he drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep.

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Kate had been on her way into the hospital room when Ryan had woken up, but decided to let her two partners have a moment to themselves. She had not expected them to fall asleep again after less than five minutes. Now she didn't really know what to do with herself and the two boxes of chocolate she had bought for them. Maybe she should just eat them. Even though it had been two days since that morning at the harbor, she still hadn't managed to build up an appetite, so she had basically lived off coffee, a few biscuits and a sandwich which Castle had handed her yesterday with a worried expression.

"Eat", had been all he had said. But how could she? She had somehow almost managed to get two of her best friends killed, hadn't been able to stop the man behind this whole bizarre murder case – and now she was stuck with a huge amount of paperwork and the ungrateful task of handing Mishka and her fellow sufferers over to U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement, without a doubt to be deported. So unfair. Without Mishka she would never have found the warehouse where Ryan had been held captive. Without Mishka, Ryan would now be dead and all of Zimmermann's thugs would still be at large. But she was an illegal alien and would have to be sent back to her home country. For Kate it felt as if stabbing the girl in the back.

"Awww, look at the boys taking a nap", she suddenly heard a familiar voice whisper behind her.

Kate had been so lost in thought, she almost dropped the chocolates. "Don't sneak up on me like that, Castle!" she hissed quietly and swirled around to face him. She wasn't angry with him, just deeply, deeply frustrated with the whole situation, and she regretted her aggressive tone of voice the second the words had left her mouth. Fortunately, Castle didn't seem to mind. His smile was warm as always, and it broadened when he discovered the two golden boxes in her hands. With a "Yummy" he grasped one of them, ripped off the packaging and offered her a white truffle with a strawberry cream filling by waving it in front of her mouth. "Time for breakfast", he commented and took another one for himself.

Infuriating. And charming. At the same time. She would never learn to understand how he did what he did to her, but for now she just accepted his gesture – a truffle with a strawberry cream filling was still better than no breakfast at all – and enjoyed the sweetness on her tongue.

It was instantly replaced by bitterness when Castle said with a more serious expression: "So. I saw your letter to the USICE."

For a second, Kate was tempted to snarl something as eloquent as "Fuck them!" or "Freaking legislation!", but she managed to stop herself by gently biting down on her tongue. Vulgarity surely wouldn't change the unfortunate situation the Eastern European girls found themselves in. Instead she muttered: "What of it?"

Castle smirked, confusing her once again. "I was just wondering… Who are those girls you're writing about in the letter?"

For a heartbeat she simply stared at him, pondering about the possibility of insanity finally getting the better of her companion. Then she remembered who he was and asked in an impatient, yet curious tone of voice: "What are you saying?"

"Oh, it's just that I don't really recall any girls being involved in this whole story. Especially not one called Mishka Doromov." Amusement sparkled in his brown eyes at her bewilderment. "Oh, and neither does Roy, for that matter. So there's really no need for you to send that letter. Unless you're going for a diagnosis of hallucination caused by a nervous breakdown that might give you a few months off the job. In that case, go ahead."

Kate hated it when Castle talked to her with that whiff of bemused arrogance. But right now, as one of many heavy loads was taken off her mind, she almost wanted to kiss him. Almost. Instead she settled for a hug, not caring as the boxes of chocolate actually did fall on the floor, an intense, deeply grateful hug that Castle returned by putting his arms around her gently and holding on to her as if his life depended on her.

Or maybe it was the other way around. All Kate knew for certain in that moment was that he there was no one she would rather have been held by, and for now that was enough.

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When you read this, it means I'm dead. It means it's your fault, and it means that I don't have to be afraid of you any longer. You, in turn, should be afraid.

Paul Zimmermann sighed heavily and placed the short letter on the desk in front of him with an almost gentle motion. Though it hadn't been signed, the neat handwriting and the context told him unmistakably who the sender was, and he shook his head while he whispered her name: "Oh, Lara. Dumme, kleine Lara."

The events of the last few days had, he might as well admit it to himself, left their marks on him. The loss of Markus Wegener and Heinz Bannert had cut pretty deep, as they had been part of only a handful of people he chose to trust. With them he had lost one of his most effective teams; it would take time to find new employees as efficient and loyal. The death of Martin and Richard Wellerby, though most unpleasant people, had cost him one of his most lucrative businesses; one he had been especially proud of establishing. And even though damage control had been executed as planned and would protect him from legal consequences, this whole story had left him in quite a vulnerable position in relation to his competitors; it was impossible to drown out each and every rumor and signs of weakness might encourage other players to enter his side of the field. The whole affair reminded him unpleasantly of the tragic (yet necessary) death of Herbert Meyer that had almost cost him his prominent position in drug dealing a few years ago. Come to think of it, hadn't it been the same cop that had caused him problems back then?

Well, Lara's letter surely didn't make this situation any better, on the contrary. Once more he skimmed the lines on the piece of paper that had been sent from a local post office yesterday. The words weren't what concerned him; they might have been an empty threat, a last desperate attempt to prove to him that she hadn't been owned by him. The photograph that had been attached to the letter on the other hand… In the wrong hands it might really cause him trouble. The question was: Had it already been sent to anyone else, anyone who might use it against him? And how did that stupid girl even get her hands on something as dangerously delicate as this?

Another discomforting thought forced its way into his mind: Maybe she had played him. Maybe she had been working undercover for the NYPD, faking economic vulnerability to get close to him and his operations. Either way, her actions left him with two possibilities: He could play it safe and leave the country; after all, he was a rich man by now and would easily be able to start a new life somewhere else. Or he could stand and fight for everything he had built since he had come to New York. He could take revenge on those meddling in his affairs and show that arrogant bitch, who only in death could muster the courage to threaten him, where she could put her letter and her so-called leverage.

The safe way certainly had its appeal. But then again… Paul Zimmermann was not known for backing off when he was pushed. He was known for pushing back.