Title: The Case of the Mondays, Part 7 (#18, J ‘N B Series)
Author: klmeri
Fandom: Star Trek AOS
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy (hints of Spock/McCoy)
Summary: Comment!fic inspired by this pic post at jim-and-bones; PI!Bones, Cop!Jim ‘verse. Saga continues; nothing goes as planned unless you are the bad guy.
Previous Parts: Another Day, Another Dollar, and a Daily Show? | Fight the Good Fight | Don’t Touch the Rock | A Tear Worth Gold | Another Day, Another Dollar, Part 2 | Pirates Read Too | The Case of the Mondays | Today’s Topic – Helmets! | The Case of the Mondays, Part 2 | Marked | Awesome Ideas Come from Awesome Brains | In the Keeping of a Spirit | The Case of the Mondays, Part 3 | The Case of the Mondays, Part 4 | The Case of the Mondays, Part 5 | Forewarned is Forearmed | The Case of the Mondays, Part 6

Late comment!fic is late. I have been under the weather from a cold and swamped by work on top of that.

Most cops are fools, bureaucratic puppets, or both. Chekov has believed this since he killed his first man and no one cared enough to investigate the death. Now Chekov intends to work among such men, and he doubts the experience shall be sufficient enough to make him revise his long-held opinion of them.

The earplugs do little to muffle the sound of gunfire. Other trainees flinch at the sound, even at the backfire of the weapon in their hands. Some look frightened to be holding a gun; others, determined to succeed. Chekov forcibly reminds himself not to be relaxed as he takes his turn at target practice.

The paperwork arrived last night in an unmarked envelope, as promised. A new job. He will be infiltrating the precinct in James Kirk’s jurisdiction.

Kirk—such a familiar name. But why?

The corner of Chekov’s mouth curves lazily. Ah.

Kirkman’s schoolgirl problem. Here, in America, it could be an euphemism for a sexual situation, a dirty joke. To the erudite men of Russia who spend their days in university conjecturing, lecturing, and sometimes solving great problems, it is a mathematician’s combinatorial wet-dream.

He recites the problem in his mind as he adjusts his grip on the gun and sends a cascade of bullets flying into the paper outline of a man:
Fifteen young ladies in school walk out three abreast for seven days in succession: it is required to arrange them daily so that no two shall walk twice abreast.

The answer is, of course, now called a Kirkman triple system. Seven non-isomorphic solutions. Take a Steiner system S(t,k,n) where t = 2 and k = 3, with a parallelism such that the partitioning of blocks are divided into parallel classes; the partitions themselves then become representative of the points of disjoint blocks… or, another way, define a packing into a finite projective space.

He could stand here and recall each solution, and occupy his mind with something more useful than this pawn’s game assigned to him. Instead, Chekov takes the next two shots in rapid succession—six and seven—and lowers his gun to his side, relaxing his stance.

Over the noise of the firing range, the young pock-faced man in the next booth shouts, “Hey, that’s pretty good!”

Yes.

Good but not great. Not perfect. Two hits in the belly, one near the left temple but slightly off; it could be a flesh wound, enough to slow a killer down but not take him out.

Or each hole in the target could be a precise placement of one of those points in the Kirkman triple system; connected by the proper lines, the graphical solution is obvious.

But not to these would-be cops, who are fools.

He pretends endearing gratitude to the instructor scoring his test. Thank you, Sir and I vill keep practicing! What does it matter that his first true profession was as a long-range sniper?

When the men close to his age group speak of an after-party at a local bar, he does not hesitate to invite himself. He knows they want to like him, these men who yearn to be the symbol of law and order (to be cops, Chekov sneers inwardly), and as a budding policeman, he has every intention of acting the part.

Until he is told otherwise by his boss, that is.

~~~

The rookie cop, in truth, cut his teeth on every-day street crimes of his native country (petty theft among them), and as he grew from boy to man, honed his skills in the intricacy of organized crime under the patronage of a Bratva. But the enmity within the Russian brotherhood was a guarantee of violent death, and on the day his patron’s house was raided and burned he made the necessary relocation to the States to survive. He brought with him only his university education (a cover but a legitimate one) and his budding career as a killer.

His forged papers named him as Pavel Chekov, dual citizen of Russia and the United States, and as Pavel Chekov he lived, working odd, menial jobs while freelancing under the alias Unynie (a tribute to the name of the first gang—the Black Dogs—he joined at the age of fourteen). In the largest U.S. cities, he was one of millions of nameless foreign faces; during the periods of “lying low”, he stayed in unmemorable backwater towns. The money as an assassin-for-hire was plentiful but he found himself missing something, an elusive thing he had left behind in Russia.

It wasn’t until he was contacted by Mr. Spock and told, “It is understandable that men of your profession are loners, Mr. Chekov” he began to recall what that something was. The bold statement alone immediately caught his attention because it meant this Spock had traced him to his U.S. registered name; therefore one of two scenarios had to happen: either Chekov had to like what he heard, or at the end of the call determine a way to eliminate the breach in security; more simply put, find the man and terminate him.

Mr. Spock finished by saying, “However, you do not strike me as that type of man. In return for your fealty, I can provide you with more interesting work than the occasional monotonous kill.”

“What type of work?” he had asked while tracing the call via his laptop.

“To the public eye, I specialize in the theft of antiquities and art.”

The trace finished decoding; an address flashed across his computer screen. “Ah. And vhat is your real work?”

There was a pause. Then, “Everything. I assume you have established my location. Might I persuade you to join me for a… trial run?”

Chekov thought about his next two bookings—the elimination of someone’s potential Senate rival, and the death of a housewife able to legitimately win most of her husband’s assets in their up-coming divorce—and conceded that this person might have a valid point. “Send me a ticket. But not first-class,” he warned.

“Of course not,” agreed Mr. Spock. “First-class is for those who wish to be caught, which I suspect, Mr. Chekov, is in the cards for neither of us.”

~~~

Spock turns out not to be a liar. Even now, Chekov is highly entertained by his “work.” Tonight, for instance, is an excellent example.

One would assume the Policeman’s Ball would be the worst place to stage a kidnapping. In truth, it is the easiest. Security is at a bare minimum; after all, who would be crazy enough to commit a crime in a room full of cops?

If only these fools knew, Chekov thinks as he twitches the drapery aside and pauses at the entrance to the veranda. Time to begin.

Kirk is predictable in many ways; by that standard, P.I. Leonard McCoy is more so. Why Chekov’s boss seems obsessed with these men is beyond his comprehension… but he isn’t paid to comprehend his boss’s whims, only obey them.

He shows himself to the occupants of the veranda, saying softly, “Mr. McCoy?”

He does not let his eyes linger too long on the man standing stiffly behind Captain Kirk’s lover. Besides, McCoy’s face is more interesting; the private detective looks torn between horror at being caught with the infamous art thief and giddy for that every reason.

Chekov’s face transforms into apologetic innocence. “I did not realize you had company. I am sorry. I—”

It is easy to play this role.

Spock’s eyes flash with amusement as McCoy gives Chekov the task of finding the errant captain of the police force but McCoy is at the wrong angle to see it. Chekov keeps his own amusement to himself. When he leaves McCoy alone with Spock to complete a supposed mission to relay a cryptic message to Kirk, he instead slips seamlessly through the shadows along the ballroom’s walls, unimposing, unnoticeable. Only when he exits the main entrance of the ballroom does he make a point of nodding to familiar faces, lifting a cigarette from a small silver case with practiced ease.

Someone asks him if he can spare an extra cigarette. He does, and also lights it for the man. Then he begins his casual stroll through the parking lot, seeming to drift without purpose.

Chekov gives Mr. Spock ten minutes to ensnare and situate the intended prey before the tracking the man to the service entrance at the back of the town hall. There he finishes the last drag of his cigarette while watching his boss slide McCoy’s limp body into a dark van. It is amusing how Spock treats McCoy with care, like a prize.

Chekov has learned over the years he can discover all of a man’s secrets by simply observing him. What he is learning about Spock tonight may be of no consequence to a regular criminal; to him, however, an trained assassin, it is a weakness and perhaps the first fatal flaw he has seen in his otherwise unflappable and enigmatic boss.

This weakness is not a matter he will act upon unless his work becomes boring.

The lean, dark-haired thief closes the doors to the van and approaches Chekov.

Chekov grins and lets the rest of his cigarette fall to the ground, unheeded. “In Russia, we have a saying.”

Spock courteously inclines his head.

Chekov tells him, “?????????? ????? ???????, ? ??????????? ?????????.”

Spock translates, “Little thieves are hanged, but great ones escape.”

“Da, that is the idea. Which are you?”

A corner of Spock’s mouth lifts briefly and, as an answer, his fist does not strike Chekov’s jaw with the strength of a weak man. He would laugh at that, but they must not draw attention. Not for another scheduled four and a half minutes.

Upon Chekov’s frantic search for Kirk, the blossoming bruise, he surmises, must be impressive. Certainly it is convincing.

Then again, perhaps Kirk needs no further convincing after he listens to Pavel Chekov say, “Keptin, it is Mr. McCoy! Someone has taken him!”

The sudden pallor of James Kirk’s face is evidence enough that he believes this horrible news to be true.

When the searching turns into a full-blown investigation, and Kirk is relentlessly driving his men to find McCoy and two days later is at a precipice that might be insanity, the ransom note arrives. The FBI don’t have a chance to look at it before Sulu, haggard from too little sleep and too much caffeine, snatches it up upon arrival (via postal service of all things) and takes it directly to Kirk.

The silence in the precinct is deafening, then, up until Kirk explodes out of his office, running for the exit. Only Sulu and two other cops bearing down upon the man put a halt to his flight. Kirk, Chekov decides, in that moment may be close to violence against his own men but he is much closer to madness.

They won’t let him go until he agrees to put on a bullet-proof vest. Meanwhile, the entire department shatters into chaotic activity as men begin unearthing their own vests, restocking and checking their already loaded weapons. It seems an army is after Spock this time, not just a simple band of uniformed men chasing the art thief to-and-fro in a museum like a parody of Keystone Cops.

As a rookie, Chekov shouldn’t be part of the main team preparing to descend on the coordinates of the warehouse. But he intervenes, surprising his comrades with his fierce request, and manages to catch Kirk’s attention.

“Let me come, Keptin,” he begs. “It is my fault. Let me help!”

The flat sheen to Kirk’s blue eyes fades for a moment as he hears Chekov’s words; the captain breaks free from his own personal hell long enough to answer in return. “This isn’t your fault, Pavel.” And with a sharp jerk of a nod, “All right. Suit up and follow Sulu’s team.”

No one gainsays the Captain.

McCoy will not be at the location on the note but these fools won’t know that. The structure of the building is large enough that they have to break into small groups to search the entirety of it. He hears over the radio the moment Kirk finds the chair McCoy was tied to, the crashing of temper and pain in the background. Sulu’s voice is strained but professional, even in a deeply personal situation, Chekov discovers. He tells everyone to carry on.

Kirk won’t stop looking until he has scoured every crack in the walls, and he won’t listen to the feds who tell him to go home and let them do their jobs. That is how Pavel Chekov winds up tagging along after Kirk into the second wing of the warehouse while others fan out in pairs to dig up clues of the missing McCoy.

It isn’t difficult to feign finding a dirty scrap of McCoy’s black shirt; Spock is always thorough in the details of what he wants accomplished and how, when, and where. Kirk is at his side in an instant, taking the cloth from him with gentle but shaking hands.

Chekov says nothing as the man turns away to regain control of himself and his obvious emotion. That is Kirk’s undoing. He never sees Chekov strike out with his gun; never knows about the blow to come; never realizes betrayal is imminent when one least expects it.

The event is anticlimactic. Chekov watches Kirk crumple to the floor, sorely disappointed, and points his gun at the back of Kirk’s head with a killer’s precision. The metal of weapon is heated by the flesh of his palm but otherwise the most important parts of it are tragically cold, having not been warmed up by the action of firing it. He could change that, so easily.

“Mr. Chekov.”

The sound of his name is tense, a warning. He does not look toward the man emerging from the shadows just as he does not outwardly acknowledge the warning. He keeps his gun trained on the unconscious body of Kirk. “I do not understand vhy you vill not let me kill him.”

“He is more useful alive” comes the low, dangerous response. “You will not harm him.”

Chekov looks at the tiny puddle of blood pooling under Kirk’s head and thinks with satisfaction that he already has. He thumbs the safety back into position on his gun and finally turns to look at his boss.

“I can be a merciful man,” he says, “but I believe it is wiser to be the one who is not merciful. If you let him live, that is your mistake.”

“Duly noted, Mr. Chekov.”

Activating the feed on his walkie-talkie, Chekov listens for a moment then advises, “You have ten minutes.”

Spock has already lifted Kirk into a fireman’s carry. “You will be notified with further instructions.”

“Yes, Sir,” he murmurs and moves toward the other end of the hall. He does not ask about this particular change of plans or of the sudden desire of Mr. Spock to kidnap Kirk as well as McCoy. It is not his duty to ask, not his concern.

They will arrive soon, those foolish men who think they know him. Chekov eyes a wide, paint-peeling pillar running from floor to ceiling. With the nozzle of his firearm, he traces an imaginary X in one spot at his height. Then tossing the gun to the floor (safety off again), he grabs a hold of the pillar, closes his eyes, breathes in once, deeply, and proceeds to slam his forehead against the concrete, face perfectly angled for optimal damage.

Pain blinds him for a second, makes him stumble to his knees. His fingers come away wet from the fresh wound.

That is how they find him, poor rookie Pavel, dazed and groping blindly for his lost gun.

“What happened?” somebody asks of him.

“The Keptin! You must help him!” he cries pitifully, swallowing hard, certain he looks ill, for his head throbs horrendously.

“Pavel!” The snap of Sulu’s unyielding tone demands his attention, despite the gentleness with which the man tilts Chekov’s cheek in his direction. “Where is the Captain?”

“There vas a man, I do not know, a man and the Keptin saw him and yelled—” He breaks off, not bothering to hide his soft moan of pain.

“Kelso, get the fuckin’ medics over here! Pavel, Pavel, can you hear me?”

He nods weakly.

“What happened to Captain Kirk?”

“I do not know, sir,” he says, pale-faced and earnest, looking into Sulu’s eyes. “I vas attacked… from behind, I think.” He drops his head, going limp in the arms of the officer supporting him, and whispers, “Forgive me, I do not know.”

-Fini

The Case of the Mondays, Part 8

Related Posts:

• Another Day, Another Dollar, Part 4 (#40, J ‘N B Series) (40/40) – from March 29, 2013
• The Light In Which We’re Cast (#39, J ‘N B Series) – from March 20, 2013
• Playing Life to Win (#38, J ‘N B Series) – from March 14, 2013
• An Intergalactic Fandom (#37, J ‘N B Series) – from January 15, 2013
• We Fight to Win (#36, J ‘N B Series) – from January 4, 2013