[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/kxtPWp5.jpg?3[/img] [i][url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Bwfm7-uNS4]"You can run on for a long time, run on for a long time. Sooner or later God'll cut you down."[/url] -- Johnny Cash[/i][/center] [b]Midtown, Manhattan 10:33 PM[/b] The party was in full swing at Sam Symington's penthouse. For the FBI agents watching the action from the skyscraper across the street, it was already old news. The douchebag always bought drugs and always fucked hookers three at a time every night. The two men watching got a sick thrill of out seeing it the first night, but that was six days ago and now it was just old news. It made them angry that this little weasel could live like this and get away with it. The US attorney was gearing up to at least stick the fucker with drug charges, anything so he couldn't just steal millions from hard working people and get away with it. But to most people that felt like a chickenshit charge. They wanted him on something that would stick and leave him in prison for a long time. "That redhead looks hot," one of the agents said with a chuckle. "Always had a thing for 'em." "That's the sixth one we've seen. Symington must have a thing for 'em too." The redhead in the slinky dress disappeared into the bathroom of Symington's bedroom. On the bed, Symington was engaged with the blonde while the brunette stripped her dress away and climbed into the bed. The FBI agents made sure to zoom in on the bathroom door to get a good look at the redhead when she came out, just in case she was naked as well. "Woah," one of them said as the door came open. "Fetish shit?" The redhead was dressed in all black with a skull on her chest. Her hair was up and she carried a combat knife in one hand, a silenced pistol in the other. "Gun! Call for backup, we have an active shooter in Symington's penthouse!" --- [b] Brooklyn Six Hours Earlier[/b] "Sounds simple enough," Rachel said with a nod towards Microchip. "One Symington calls out for hookers I'll make sure that the redhead's phone number gets rerouted to here. From there, you get the info you need to get into his penthouse and past his security." "Have you got a dress?" Castle asked from the doorway leading into Microchip's store. "Something that looks like whatever a hooker would wear, but not too revealing. You'll need to wear your tactical gear under it and figure out a way to smuggle a weapon in." "Have you got cash, Castle?" she asked with raised eyebrows. "I don't have anything to wear, but this is New York. I can get hooker chic within the hour." --- [b]Now[/b] The hookers screamed when they saw the weapons in Rachel's hands. They were too close to Symington for her to take a proper shot. The screams alerted the two bodyguards in the penthouse. One came in with his gun out and ran right into Rachel. She hooked him with her left arm and tossed him to the ground. A knee to the back of the head crashed his face into the floor and knocked him out. She stood up just in time to sweep the legs out from underneath the second guard. A pistol whipping to his face knocked out a few teeth and the man's urge to resist. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to shoot both men in the head and be done with it, but Castle's orders were clear. They were probably bad men, but they had no proof they deserved to die. Only one man would die tonight. The hookers had fled by the time she was done with the bodyguards. The bathroom door was locked. She shot the lock off with the pistol and opened it. Symington was on the toilet with his hands up. "Please, whoever you are don't kill me. I'll give you money." "I have money," she said as she held up a hundred dollar bill. "Unlike the people you stole from." "Oh, god... please! I'm begging you!" Rachel leveled her pistol at the now weeping man. "Samuel Symington, this is your punishment." --- [b]Three Hours Later[/b] "She was gone before the FBI could get upstairs." Oscar Clemmons looked at the dead body of Sam Symington. There was a neat hole in the middle of his forehead, the back of his head was blown out and his brains covered the backseat of the toilet and the bathroom wall. Stapled on his lips was a hundred dollar bill with a skull drawn on it. Beside Clemmons was William Rawlins. While Clemmons looked at the dead body with concentration, Rawlins was having the time of his life. He wore paper booties around his feet because the FBI wouldn't allow him in the crime scene with flipflops. Clemmons looked up from the body at the FBI agent who'd escorted them into the penthouse. "And you're sure it was a woman?" "Two field agents recorded the whole thing. Redheaded woman, white, late-twenties to mid-thirties. She wore all black and had a skull on her shirt like the one on the bill." "Awesome," said Rawlins. "Mind explaining that one," Clemmons asked. "This proves your theory." He pointed at the skull drawn on the hundred dollar bill. "Castle has help. And that means conspiracy to commit murder and various terroristic acts. And detective, that falls under my purview." Clemmons stood and stared at Rawlins over his glasses. "And what is your purview, Agent Rawlins?" "National security," he said with a wide smile. "By any means necessary."