by Juno Rushdan
Only the Westcott bitch was still on the loose, kicking up God knows how much dirt into the air. No telling what she knew or the damage she could do.
A vein in his temple throbbed. He was Winthrop Lee Pomeroy III. The rainmaker of DC, for Christ’s sake! But he’d yet to conjure a damn drop with regard to her.
Lee popped a handful of antacids and had his driver pull over by the National Mall and get out of the car, giving him privacy. He looked at the phone but didn’t recognize the number. “Who is this?”
“Your favorite plumber.”
Lee sat upright with almost an immediate hard-on at hearing that voice. “Howe?” Howe Fuller. “You sly devil. To what do I owe the unexpected pleasure of this call?”
Divine timing. Or it would have been if Howe weren’t the most unholy thing on earth.
“There’s been a change in my circumstances. I’m free to take the job you offered.”
Immense relief flooded Lee, a smile curling on his lips. “You don’t say. As you know, you were always my first choice.” An unparalleled, cold-blooded cutthroat. “But I’ve hired someone else to take care of the problem.” Lee always played his cards close to the chest. Never let them catch the scent of desperation like blood in the water.
“Don’t tell me you picked that incompetent Zanteon dipshit Randall Wheeler.”
Lee would rather eat a bowl of steaming shit than admit he’d made a mistake. “I heard you and Wheeler have a bit of a rivalry. Does it bother you I went with your competition?”
“You heard wrong. I have no competition,” Howe said, lightly, coolly. His confidence was a little more than impressive. “I thought you said the hole in your pipe needed to be fixed quickly. Permanently. With Wheeler, it’ll drag on. But if your faith in him is so unshakeable you’d pass up the chance to have me, then—”
“Don’t go jumping to conclusions. Unshakeable is a strong word.”
“Look, we both know you regret your decision to use Wheeler. I know you want me. Because I’ll get it done.”
Enough games. Lee did want Howe, plain and simple. What fool would pick a barracuda when he could have the finely honed killing machine of a great white? Howe was an apex predator.
Damn skippy, Lee wanted Jaws. “How much?”
“One million.”
Lee sighed and strummed his fingers on his stout thigh. Was every assassin for hire getting off on asking for a million bucks today? “That’s a bit steep, don’t you think?”
“All of it up front.”
Lee paused, cleared his throat. Every minute he spent quibbling over money that was coming from a black budget, not his personal account, was another minute Westcott had a chance to talk about Z-1984.
“Half now, half upon completion.” Lee flicked a piece of lint from the cuff of his bespoke suit. The pounding in his head subsided, the flames in his gut extinguishing. “Per the usual arrangement.”
“This isn’t usual. If this problem isn’t fixed, your entire house of cards comes tumbling down.”
That was the understatement of the century.
Lee had spent too many years stabbing people in the back, slitting throats—both proverbial and actual—and building as many bridges as he’d torched to carve out his niche. He would not abdicate his throne. No going out quietly in the night for him.
“One million wired to the same offshore account as last time,” Howe said, true to form, “and you pull Zanteon. I don’t want them getting in my way.”
“I want this contained. If there’s collateral damage, fine.” No kid, cop, or puppy dog was going to be an obstacle. Howe could stomach it. Hell, that psychopath would probably consider it entertainment. Keeping Howe on a leash with rules of engagement was safer, but Lee was willing to take the risk to ensure Westcott was silenced. Let Jaws have at it. “I want proof of death and I need a guarantee of time for completion.”
“No later than the end of the week. But I have a lead on her already.”
Lee smelled rain in the air. Big fat drops of moisture on the horizon. Maybe he was up for a juicy porterhouse and warm popovers after all. “We have a deal. One million it is.”
“Pleasure to be of service.”
33
Boston, Massachusetts
1:37 p.m. EDT
Castle was no more capable of making his reluctant attachment to Kit evaporate than he was all the water from the ocean. He clenched his jaw, gritting his teeth as the helicopter approached.
Fortunately, he didn’t have to face Sanborn until tomorrow. Once he had time to come to terms with things. Castle had more affection for Sanborn than he had had for his own father. The idea of misleading him, even to protect Kit, wasn’t easy.
It wasn’t that Castle hadn’t loved his dad. As an Agency case officer, Robert Kinkade had been a good man who’d died for his country. As a patriarch, he’d been a tyrant and browbeat his family into obeying his orders. Something Castle vowed he’d never emulate.
In Sanborn, Castle found a role model he admired and in whose footsteps he was proud to follow.
The chopper landed at the coordinates Reaper had given Castle, setting down in the field in front of them. Kit reached over and grasped his hand. Her fingers were trembling.
“It’s going to be okay,” he said. “Two minutes. I’ll help Reaper get Alistair loaded into the helicopter, turn over the hard drives, and then we’ll get on the road.”
She looked back at Alistair in the back seat.
The drugs would keep him sedated another hour at least.
Kit put her hand to Castle’s cheek, bringing his mouth to hers in a quick kiss. The crush of her lips and the sweetness of her tongue eased the anxiety roiling inside him.
There was such an intoxicating brightness and warmth in her.
Need buzzed beneath his skin. He was grateful for the ache, but she was making him more and more vulnerable.
“Two minutes.” She threw him a hopeful smile, but her eyes were haunted.
Castle grabbed the two hard drives. Just as quickly, her smile disappeared like the sun behind a cloud. Kit had managed to copy the relevant data from the third drive to the other two and doctored the time stamps in between them fooling around. She wasn’t giving her talents enough credit, and he didn’t mean in the sexual department. Although she was stellar there too.
Adopting his usual icy reserve, he got out of the Hummer with the drives and hustled to greet Reaper.
But the passenger-side chopper door opened, and Bruce Sanborn got out first.
The sight of his boss pierced Castle’s stoic determination. Dread licked through his veins. He kept moving, not slowing, organizing his thoughts rapid-fire.
To have the director of the Gray Box hitch a ride on this bird to collect Allie and the data was no small matter. Pretending otherwise was career suicide.
The rotor blades slowed, and the turbine engine was cut.
Reaper got out next, followed by Daniel fucking Cutter.
“Hello, Castle,” Sanborn said as Cutter and Reaper jogged over to the SUV.
“Sir.” Castle proffered the hard drives.
Sanborn took them and stared at the black rectangular boxes. “Two?”
“Ms. Westcott lied about how many she’d taken.”
With his eyes shielded behind a pair of Oakleys, Sanborn’s face was as unreadable as Castle hoped his own to be. The sunglasses were a small barrier but a substantial one, providing emotional distance he’d once never needed.
“This is everything?” Sanborn cocked his head.
A slight tremor stole through Castle’s right hand, the one he’d broken in PTSD therapy when he had punched it through a wall.
He pressed his middle finger to his thumb and the tremor went away.
“I looked at the contents of the drives,” Castle said. “The files cover the right dates. I
’m sure Willow will sort through it quickly and find something we can use.”
Sanborn stared at him, his staunch countenance betraying nothing. The silence in the air between them metastasized like a cancer as Reaper and Cutter loaded Alistair into the chopper.
Castle fell back on his cultivated composure, not letting anyone see him sweat. Quite literally.
On Sanborn’s recommendation, Castle had had endoscopic thoracic surgery to stop his hands and armpits from perspiring and prevent him from giving anything away.
He was dry as tinder.
“What is Cutter doing here?” More important, why was Sanborn here?
The chief removed his shades, the action feeling like an omen. A bad one. His expectation for Castle to do the same was clear. He took his off as well. The glare of the harsh sun over Sanborn’s shoulder hit Castle’s eyes like a nuclear detonation.
He squinted, letting the black spots dissipate, and met his boss’s level gaze.
“Danny Cutter is taking over your protection detail,” Sanborn said.
Castle’s mind somersaulted, tumbling over itself for a safe spot to land. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. He worked to keep his eyes on Sanborn’s, not veering in the slightest.
This was a test. He couldn’t pass unless he abandoned Kit, which wasn’t an option, making this a no-win situation. His Kobayashi Maru.
There was only one feasible thing to do. Castle had to redefine the scenario.
“Sir, I vowed to keep Ms. Westcott safe. This is a matter of integrity and a reflection of my character.” He slowed his cadence but didn’t lessen the intensity of his voice. “I intend to honor my word, which you agreed to.”
“Yosef Khan,” Sanborn said, changing gears without missing a beat, “is on American soil.”
Shit. Khan was a high-ranking facilitator in ISIS, a big-time money and idea guy. Men like him didn’t move senselessly or without a specific purpose.
A hundred questions lined up in Castle’s head. His instincts fired hot to pick up the chase and smoke the bastard’s ass before he did any harm.
Then Castle realized what was happening.
Sanborn was doing a little redefining of his own, and it was working.
Castle dragged a hand over the day-old stubble covering his head. “How did he get in? Where is he?”
“Private flight from Canada, registered under a new alias. Surveillance cameras at Dulles caught him. There was a lot of SIGINT chatter the day prior, and we obtained electronic intercepts mentioning Khan and an incident planned to take place in America on or around October tenth. The timing, considering what we know from this video of Westcott’s, can’t be coincidence.” Sanborn paused, letting the shiny bait work its magic.
Without a doubt, Castle was tempted. He was hardwired for this. Three thousand eight hundred and ninety-nine days pulling off extraordinary renditions—capturing and exporting terrorist suspects offshore for interrogation—and killing confirmed baddies. Rinse. Repeat. But he wasn’t a programmed robot.
He was a man, with free will, and had already made his choice about this.
“Your whole life has been preparing you for this.” Sanborn rested a hand on Castle’s shoulder.
Instantly, Castle felt like Atlas, bearing the weight of the world.
“Your vigorous training as a SEAL,” Sanborn continued. “Years hunting the enemy in Afghanistan and Iraq. Then with me, those treacherous skills fine-tuned to perfection.”
No one was perfect. A lesson Castle had learned the hard way. Regardless of how much talent someone had, everyone got tripped up sooner or later. This business chewed up and spit out all.
“Counterterrorism is your specialty.” Sanborn gave Castle’s shoulder a quick squeeze and let go. “Not babysitting.” He made a whimsical gesture. To anyone else, it would’ve been overlooked, but Castle saw it for what it was. A sign of disgust. “I need you on this, son. Track and find Khan. Cross him off my list of most wanted terrorists. For me.”
The wording, the tonal inflection stilled Castle. Was he so much like Sanborn that he’d spoken to Kit in the same manner when he’d convinced her to agree to store Ever Shield in a safety deposit box for safekeeping?
His life so far had led him here. To this defining moment. To this mission.
But it wasn’t to hunt Yosef Khan.
“I’m nothing special, sir. No counterterrorism superhero. I’m just a man. No more competent or capable than the other operatives you already have working this problem.”
“If you weren’t special, you wouldn’t be one of mine.” Sanborn’s steely tone suggested the offense he’d taken from Castle’s comment.
“I meant no disrespect. I don’t know if leaving this war front to join that one will have an impact. I do know deep in my gut that if I abandon my duty to Ms. Westcott, she’s as good as dead. I can make a difference here.”
Sanborn was always extremely guarded, the best spy left from a dying era, but his eyes darkened with concern. “Your judgment may be clouded. Are you sure your commitment to this is purely professional? Have things gotten personal between you two?”
Professional. Personal. Primal. Providence. His commitment to keep her safe was all those things. Perhaps more, but the minute he admitted to losing his objectivity in the slightest, he’d be pulled.
He stared at Sanborn, the lie on his tongue, but he couldn’t voice it.
Yes, he was bending the rules. The lines were so blurred they’d faded completely. Yes, he’d omitted details and deceived, but he had never told Sanborn a bold-faced lie.
The distinction, however minute, was important.
“I need to do this, sir.” If he didn’t and something happened to her, it would weigh on his conscience for the rest of his life. “I need to finish what I started.”
It was the most honest response he could give.
Sanborn looked him over with a searching gaze. “Castle, adhering to protocol isn’t just for the sake of national security. It’s meant to protect an operative. Even from himself.”
There was no room for fear or doubt in this business. He’d made up his mind and wasn’t going to second-guess it. Carefully, Castle said, “I understand.”
“Is there anything else you have to say to me?” Sanborn tucked the hard drives under his arm, looked as if he wanted to say something more, but flashed a brittle smile.
“No, sir.”
Sanborn shook his head and gave a long, blustery sigh. The look of disappointment darkening his eyes stirred up nausea in Castle’s gut. “You are not just a man. You are a Gray Box operative and one of my finest. Cutter will replace you and you’ll go back to black ops. That is an order. I trust you’re still following those.”
“There’s no way I’m letting him behind the wheel of my truck. Give me twenty-fours. To drive back. To rest up.” To figure out how to get around this.
“Fine. You have twenty-four hours. Get whatever is going on between you and Ms. Westcott out of your system. Sublimate your personal emotions, hand her over to Cutter, and then help find Khan.”
Sanborn knew, somehow, about Castle and Kit.
The gravity of that revelation sent a chill creeping down Castle’s spine.
Sanborn put on his Oakleys, turned on his heel, and walked away.
Kobayashi fucking Maru.
34
Rye, New York
5:10 p.m. EDT
Parked in front of a coffee shop that had free Wi-Fi, Kit sat with Castle’s laptop plugged into the power outlet and propped on her legs.
Combing through the copies on the external hard drive, she fished for any clues as to how the Outliers had gotten into this mess. She’d assumed Jasper had gone looking for a big payday, but what if Bravo had found him instead?
The idea hadn’t occurred to her until Castle suggested the possibility
.
Last Monday, Jasper had saved several links to messages on Pastebin in a folder on his computer. The only way to see them was directly on the website.
“They’re copies of chat logs. Floating messages he wanted to keep. You were right,” she said to Castle, who stared out the window. “Jasper misrepresented himself as the new handler for the Outliers. Bravo approached him about the job.” She scrolled through the rest of the text. “Insisted on meeting in person for—”
Kit stopped talking, because he clearly wasn’t listening.
“Castle.” She put her hand on his forearm. “Did you hear me?”
“Hmm.” He seemed to rouse from a daze. “Yeah, Bravo found Jasper, not the other way around.” His focus remained outside the window. “Good work.”
“You’ve been quiet since we got on the road.” Since he’d spoken with Sanborn. “Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing.”
Two minutes in Sanborn’s presence—that was all it had taken to drive a wedge between them. “I can tell something is bothering you.” Distress radiated off him, more toxic than gas fumes. “What is it?”
A heavy weariness had settled over him that she longed to banish. She set the laptop on the footwell under her legs and turned to him, but he still didn’t look at her.
“Tell me,” she insisted and punched his leg, hard enough to get his full attention but without hurting her fingers.
Castle scrubbed a hand over his head, gaze lowered to his lap. “Sanborn is like a father to me.” He paused, her heartbeats bleeding together for so long she wondered if he’d continue. “Calls me son. I know it’s just a figure of speech, but it’s one he doesn’t use with anyone else. Not even Knox. And I deceived him for the first time, trying to hide whatever this is we have going on.” He hissed an expletive and took a deep breath. “But he knows. Sanborn knows about us.”
A slimy ball of panic rolled through her stomach. “How?” She choked on the question. “Are you sure?”
