Page 83 of Oddly Fine

“Yeah, and Agent Carter doesn’t actually give a flying fuck what happens to you as long as he gets a big hurray for arresting a crime family!”

“I think we’re getting away from the discussion,” Hayes remarked calmly in an effort to settle the rising tension.

“Are we?” Beckett asked, still outraged. He glared at Hayes, daring him to argue. “Franklin’s a fucking moron who got involved with an actual mob boss and is now actively helping to bring down the final boss—who, lest we forget, has so little empathy and sense of morality, that he’s too extreme in the eyes of his mob-trained nephew! But, you know—it’ll all be fine! Perfectly fine even! I’ll just have to give another fucking speech at his real funeral in a couple of months.” Beckett smiled grimly and crossed his arms over his chest.

Hayes took a moment to compose a response, but Franklin beat him to it.

“Make it better than you did at my first. You sounded like a real prick,” Franklin said, wincing in embarrassment for Beckett.

“You were there?!”

“No, of course not—” Franklin replied, waving away Beckett’s concerns. “The agents had a live feed running at the service.”

Hayes didn’t know exactly what it was about that statement that triggered Beckett, but before he could even blink, Beckett launched himself over the table to reach for his brother. It was really the final straw, as Beckett had wanted to snap him in half ever since he walked into the safe house. Franklin hastily scrambled to his feet, but he wasn’t fast enough to avoid Beckett pressing him up against the wall and wrapping his hands around his throat.

“You fucker! Maman is inconsolable! Maggie thinks she fucking killed you! Do you fucking realise what you’ve done?” Beckett snarled through gritted teeth, every muscle in his body tense and ready to rip Franklin’s head off his shoulders.

“Beckett,” Hayes said, as he approached the pair carefully. Four Marshals burst into the kitchen with their guns aimed at Beckett’s head, which was too many for Hayes to take down while dodging bullets.

“Agent Thérault, step back! Now!” A Marshal who Hayes did not recognize commanded harshly.

“I know,” Franklin said to Beckett, ignoring the chaos. “I know,” he repeated, his voice high and strained because of Beckett’s pressure on his trachea. “But it was the only way I knew to make sure you’d catch on.”

Beckett must have seen sincere regret in his eyes because he eased his grip on his throat.

“I couldn’t tell you. They wouldn’t let me. At first, they wanted me to pretend I was getting transferred out of the country, but I refused.” Franklin looked around at the Marshals in the room, wondering if they would tell him to shut it. Since they didn’t, he continued. “I knew if I pretended to kill myself, you’d get suspicious. I knew you wouldn’t believe it, and I needed you to see through the bullshit.”

“Why?” Beckett asked, releasing his brother completely and stepping back, looking puzzled.

Franklin rubbed his throat and took a deep breath of relief.

“Because I need you to kill him.”

“Who?” Beckett asked, although he already knew what Franklin was going to say.

“Matthew’s uncle,” he said, in a rush. “I need you to take him out so Matt will be safe for good.”

The Marshals had re-holstered their weapons and looked relaxed, but when they heard what Franklin wanted Beckett to do, they tensed up immediately.

“Mr. Thérault, I highly advise you stop talking right now!” One of the scarier looking Marshals gave Franklin an icy look.

Beckett looked around for Kolinsky, but he wasn’t in the room.

“Which Thérault you talking to?” Beckett asked, just to be contrary, as he counted the guns in the room and calculated three different ways to take their asses down.

“Both—and don’t even think of going for it. I have three guys posted outside. You’ll never make it past the porch,” the scary Marshal said with a large hand on his gun, which was holstered at his hip, and something about the way he moved told Beckett he was no rank amateur by any means.

“But will I have time to scream stranger-danger really loudly?” he responded with a toothy smile.

The Marshal did not entertain him with an answer.

“I think your time’s up, gentlemen,” the Marshal announced with a quick jerk of his head towards the front door. “My colleague is waiting for you in the car outside. He’ll drive you back to your car.”

“Pencil-pusher-with-a-gold-star said what?” Beckett replied, baffled by the Marshal’s claim.

“Let me make things very clear. You can either leave now, or I can shoot your ass right out of this damned house.” The Marshal stepped forward again, unholstering his gun and aiming it directly at Beckett’s head. No wavering of any kind. He was obviously a pro at making sure people followed his orders, and if they didn’t, well, it looked as if he was okay with removing them from the gene pool.

Beckett dropped his head back and sighed in defeat, then looked at the Marshal again. He studied him closely for clues as to his background. He didn’t look like a Marine to him, although his stance was certainly evidence of military training. Navy, perhaps? Unlikely, since ex-Navy guys weren’t inclined to join law enforcement. So, what did that leave for him to choose from?