Detroit 1-8-7 Prompt Table Update [Prompt #9]
Fandom: Detroit 1-8-7
Claim: General Series, mostly Louis Fitch/Ariana Sanchez
1.desire, ask, believe, recieve2.Live on your toes, love on your knees, die on your feet3.Better a diamond with a flaw than a pebble without4.There are three things which the superior man guards against. In youth... lust. When he is strong... quarrelsomeness. When he is old... covetousness.5.I covet you.6. Sleeping storm7.okay, Mr. Crankypants. Geeze8.There are all kinds of heroes, you know9.Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves10.I realized I was in love.
Title: Dangerous Game (Part III)
Claim: Detroit 1-8-7
Table: Buffet
Prompt: #9 (Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves)
Rating: M
Summary: Rook has made his final move. Fitch is out for blood.
Warnings: Language, Violence,
Notes: The continuation of “Dangerous Game” Set in my Bailamos/Rhythm Divine Universe
Disclaimer: Detroit 1-8-7 does not belong to me in any way
Author’s Note: Unbeta-ed; all mistakes are mine. This was written for my prompt table over at fc_smorgasbord. Also, you’ll be seeing some Spanish tossed in here…I must warn you that I do not know Spanish and used freetranslation(dot)com to get the words. So if they’re wrong, blame the website, LOL!
There was darkness. And Pain. She tried to move but couldn’t; her arms were chained above her head and she tried to move her legs but found them just as useless. What the hell happened? Sanchez struggled to remember as she regained consciousness. She and Washington had been heading out to go get some food…they had left McDonald’s…a car coming out of nowhere and crashing into theirs…then nothing but darkness. She struggled to open her eyes and found herself unable to see as a blindfold obscured her vision.
“Washington? Washington?” She tried her voice, finding it hoarse and sore, “Damon?”
“Ariana, thank God!” His voice was fully alert, telling her he awoke before her, “I’ve been so worried about you.”
“What’s going on?”
She heard footsteps coming close and a sudden clanking of metal against metal and Washington’s voice began yelling. “Get away from her!”
She felt a presence close to her. “Shut up, little man,” A new voice spoke, a male voice, and it was so close to her that she jumped.
The sudden movement made her limbs scream in pain and a choked groan of pain escaped her lips. The voice chuckled and she flinched as she felt his hand stroke her cheek. Her stomach rolled and rage filled her.
“Don’t touch me, you sick fuck!” She yelled.
Sanchez cried out as the man backhanded her. Her body swayed with the movement.
“Such language,” he chided her, then his voice took on a menacing purr, “Does Louis like your filthy mouth?”
She felt his hands around her head, and then suddenly, the blindfold was gone. She blinked sporadically in the abrupt, bright light. She knew the man in front of her, though she had never met him before. She recognized him from his mug shot and it sent a spike of fear through her body.
It was Paul Rook.
Back at the precinct, Fitch was losing it. Longford had taken the mystery man into custody while Mahajan worked on identifying him and Fitch had been banned from interacting with the suspect. Mason and Stone stayed with Fitch, watching as he vented his anger with colorful swear words and trashing his desk.
“Should we restrain him?” Stone asked.
“We should let him be for the moment and be thankful that he hasn’t gone for his gun.” Mason replied, keeping a careful eye on the Detective.
When he started to slow down, she crossed the room to him and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“We will get them back.” She left no room for arguing in her voice.
His eyes met hers and they were still wild, filled with rage and a touch of fear. Mason tried to keep him focused on the task at hand.
“How long have you and Sanchez been together?” she asked, “We need to figure out how long he’s been watching you.”
“Almost five months now.” Fitch exhaled deeply and picked up the pictures that Mason had set down on the conference table and began to flip through them. He stopped at a picture of him and Sanchez, arm in arm, heading into Tre Monti. “This was our third date.”
Mahajan and Longford entered the bullpen, a large file in Mahajan’s hands. “We found out who the mystery man is.” He announced, “Ryan Spencer, rap sheet as long as my arm. Dozens of felonies, blah, blah, blah…He was released from prison six months ago after serving eight years...”
“Find out how he ties into this.” Mason instructed the two partners, who nodded and headed to the interview room where they had put him, then she turned to Fitch and Stone, “You two stay out of that room or I’ll have you both suspended,”
Damon Washington had never wanted to kill a man before. But as he watched, bound and helpless, as Rook laid into Sanchez with his fists, he wanted to choke the life out of the motherfucker. As much he was angry, he was impressed that Sanchez wouldn’t give Rook the satisfaction, even when he taunted her with Fitch.
Rook stopped after what felt like forever and stood back, admiring his handiwork. Sanchez continued to glare at him and spit out the blood that had gathered in her mouth at him. Rook reached into his pocket and pulled out a slender object and flicked it open. She froze at the sound; it was a blade. Her heart hammered in her chest. The psicópata had a weapon and she had no way of fighting off his attack. Fuck.
Sanchez did the only thing could do. She met his eyes with her fierce glare and braced herself for his move. Washington fought against his restraints, ignoring the sharp sting as the metal of the cuffs around his wrists cut into his skin. Rook stepped toward her and pressed the knife to her throat. The blade was sharp enough that she could feel pain as it moved into her skin. She wanted to tell Washington to tell her Mami and Papá, her familia, that she loved them. She wanted to tell Washington to tell Fitch that her death wouldn’t be his fault. She didn’t need to add on to tell Fitch she loved him; he knew. But she couldn’t form the words, afraid to speak while that blade was against her throat.
Rook, in a quick movement, took the blade from her throat and brought it down the front of her button down shirt. Sanchez could hold back her gasp of shock. Her destroyed shirt hung open and her light blue lace bra was exposed. The man smiled at her, his eyes gleaming with amusement.
“That’s better.” He said, nodding to himself.
She swallowed hard and fought a grimace as her face radiated with pain from his blows and at the tang of the blood that moved down her throat. He chuckled softly.
“You hang tight, I need the rest of my materials, I’ll be right back.”
Rook headed to one of the office doors that lined the wall to the right. Sanchez blew out a long breath as he left the room and she and Washington were finally alone. Her gaze fell to the rookie, who had tear tracks down his cheeks. She tried to give him a comforting smile but failed as her cheek spasmed in pain.
“I’m alright.” She assured him.
“I’m sorry,” Washington replied, “For not being able to help you.”
“It’s okay;” Sanchez answered calmly, “Fitch will be coming. He’ll get Rook.”
“You’re really with him, huh?”
She laughed softly, “Yes, I am. And I can only imagine what he’s going to do to Rook. You know how he is when he’s mad? Rook is going to be dealing with the only man who could make the devil back down.”
Washington smiled but quickly turned serious. “Are you scared?”
“Terrified. More terrified than I’ve ever been in my life.” She admitted, “But I know Fitch will save us and that’s what’s keeping me sane.”
They had a location. Ryan Spencer had been cellmates with Rook for six years. Apparently, they had become good friends. Which is why, when Spencer was being released, Rook asked him to do a favor, Spencer accepted without question. Rook’s favor was to keep an eye on the cop that had put him in jail, learn his weakness, and report back. Which Spencer did, and then some; the pictures had been for fun.
The man had also informed where Rook had Sanchez and Washington rather quickly. He had smiled at the two way glass, where Fitch stood seething, as he said it.
“This was all part of the plan.” Spencer revealed then laughed, “I sure hope you get there on time.” He then gave them the address.
Fitch was surprised when Longford got into his passenger seat when they raced out to their cars. The elder detective didn’t offer any explanation as to why he chose to ride along with Fitch and only said one thing to him on the ride over. Well, two things. First he spoke in Italian, and then after Fitch gave him a hard look, he translated into English.
“Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.”
They arrived there, lights lit up, sirens wailing, not fifteen minutes later. Fitch tried to keep his focus, and tried not to think about how much time Sanchez and Washington had been alone with the psychopath (two hours and a quarter hours). As their plan fell into place and he kicked in the front door, his focus clear.
In the middle of the empty warehouse, Sanchez hung, suspended from chains that were connected from the ceiling. Washington was twenty feet away to the left, cuffed to an old iron radiator.
Where the hell was Rook?!
There were six doors to the right; leading to what Fitch could only assume was offices. He could be in any of those rooms! Then there was a sudden movement behind Sanchez and Rook was there, holding a knife against her throat as he used her body as a shield. Fitch took in a second to take in Sanchez, from her open shirt to the bruises that marred the skin of her face, abdomen, and neck. White hot rage filled him and he let it pilot him, moving automatically closer to them. He could hear the rest of the team grumbling behind him about not having a shot.
“Stop right where you are, Detective Fitch.” Rook said, “Or your lady gets her throat slit from ear to ear.”
Fitch obeyed, freezing instantly. He noticed that there was just enough of Rook’s head exposed that if he fired just right, he could take him out. But there was still a greater chance of him hitting Sanchez. The odds made him sick.
“If you got a shot, take it!” Sanchez yelled then winced as the knife cut into her skin.
Fitch saw blood well up underneath the blade and trickle down her neck in twin trails. He saw the pain that Sanchez tried to hide her pain. Rook moved just right and Fitch had enough of a target and fired. The shot hit Rook in the middle of the forehead and he released the knife and fell back, dead.
There was a flurry of movement as Fitch holstered his weapon and went to Sanchez. Stone went to find the release for the chains, Mahajan went to undo Washington’s cuffs, and Longford went to check Rook’s body for any vital signs. Fitch held Sanchez gently against him with one arm as Stone lowered the chain, and unhooked her with his free hand. Sanchez made a small sound of relief twinged with pain as she sagged against him, her injured body weak.
“Hi, amante,” She murmured softly.
Fitch had the urge to chuckle, knowing she lapsed into Spanish under stress, anger, or exhaustion, but he resisted and simply replied, “Hi there.”
“Yo sabía que usted me salvaría.”
He smiled into her hair as the EMS entered the warehouse. “Siempre.”
Spanish:
Psicópata: Psychopath
Mami: Mommy
Papá: Daddy
Familia: Family
Amante: Lover
Yo sabía que usted me salvaría: I knew you would save me
Siempre: Always