Could Krieg have prevented the boy’s death? He tried to gather his thoughts, analyze his actions and reactions back on the pier, but soon he realized that what he was feeling had more to do with emotion than objective truth. Guilt. And this was no time for guilt; he would have to wait until later, when he was away from the theater of battle, to examine Bobby’s death again.
For now, he had to maintain his focus.
Because eventful as the night had been so far, it was a long, long way from being over.
The vehicle he was riding in came to a sudden stop. Doors opened and slammed shut, shoes pounded on concrete, doors opened again.
Light—bright, harsh, omnipresent—flooded in on him.
Otto Krieg—aka FBI special agent Frank Castle, ex-Marine, ex–Delta Force, and soon to be ex-agency as well— sat up, his legs still inside the body bag, and blinked.
His immediate superior, Jimmy Weeks—sans SWAT team helmet, sans the gun he’d “fired” on Castle/Krieg only minutes before—stood over him, concern etched on his face.
“You all right?”
Castle managed a nod.
“The part of the job you never get used to. Gimme a hand, Jimmy.”
Weeks did, steadying the gurney so Frank could climb the rest of the way out of the body bag and get to his feet.
“Well, ‘Otto’—thank God I don’t have to listen to that terrible German accent of yours anymore.”
“You wouldn’t know a good German accent if it bit you on your frankfurter,” Castle shot back, peeling off his stained shirt. Underneath, the squibs that had exploded when Weeks ‘shot’ him hung loosely from an ultrathin nylon filament— Weeks tugged on the filament to pull it off, and the wire cut into Castle’s shoulder.
“Hey. Take it easy.”
“Hurry up. We gotta get you out of here.”
“Here” was the staging garage they’d called home for the last six months, since the decision had been made to shift operational HQ for Ares down to Tampa. A garage, ironically enough, located just a few minutes away from Tampa Trans-national Pier, where Astrov’s freighter had docked, where even now local PD were scrambling to clean up a mess that no one would want to have to explain in the morning.
At least Weeks and his team had made it easier for the authorities by removing the bodies, Castle saw. Five body bags lay on gurneys next to the one he’d just risen from.
“Frank . . .” Weeks prompted again. “Come on.”
“Hold on a second.” He had a flight to catch, a chopper would be here for him any minute, but there was a little time, at least. Castle went to the nearest body bag and unzipped it.
Yuri Astrov, his face frozen in a rictus of surprise, stared up at him. Castle stared back, remembering the hundreds of hours he’d spent in the Russian’s service, and all at once he realized that the man had died thinking the two of them were friends, that the oblivion death had brought to him had also spared Astrov the sting of betrayal, the pain of learning that the man he’d considered his right hand was in fact his bitterest enemy.
Death, too, had spared him the sting of a lifetime in prison, a lifetime of long, cold, desolate nights and empty days, a lifetime to reflect on his crimes and the pain he had caused, pain Castle had planned to remind him of by visiting Astrov as often as possible.
Castle shook his head. “What the hell happened back there, Jimmy? Who was that kid that Duka brought?”
“Don’t know. Definitely not in the plan. We’ll deal with it, though—not to worry.” Weeks clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on—no long faces. You did good work back there. Good work for the last two years. We beat the spread, Frank.”
“This isn’t football.”
“Figure of speech.”
“People weren’t supposed to die out there.”
“People are never supposed to die.”
Castle could only nod. One of the EMTs moved in between him and Astrov’s body then, and zipped the bag the rest of the way open.
“Forget this one—we know who he is,” Frank said. “Let’s get the others ID’d, and get ’em to the morgue.”
The EMT looked past him to Weeks.
“We’ll handle it, Frank,” Jimmy said. “Now, come on. Sandoval’s waiting.”
Castle’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Waiting? You mean he’s here?”
“Not here,” Weeks snapped. “He’s going to fly back to Washington with you—do the debriefing himself, on the plane.”
“You sure about that?” It didn’t make any sense—why would the deputy director want to debrief him personally, in the middle of the night? Why wouldn’t he wait for Weeks, who was AIC on the op, who hadn’t been half unconscious when gunfire erupted, to file his reports?
“Those were the orders I got,” Jimmy said. “Believe me, I wouldn’t be rushing around like this without a damn good reason.”
With a final nod to the EMTs, Weeks exited the staging area. Castle was a step behind him.
“I guess we’re not going to be able to grab that beer then,” he said.
“No.” Weeks shook his head. “I guess not.”
Frank searched for words, for what he wanted to say next.
He’d known Jimmy Weeks for more than a decade now, since they’d served together in Desert Shield. After the mess with Lanauer in Bosnia, it had been Weeks, already a bureau veteran, who’d helped Frank make the decision to leave Delta Force and come over to the FBI. The two of them had stayed close, despite working in different parts of the country, until fate—and Ares—had brought them together again here in Tampa.
That close association was about to end, though.
Because Castle was leaving Tampa tonight, and the country itself a few days after that. A new assignment —a desk assignment—in London. He’d hoped to have a chance to say good-bye to Jimmy—in more than a few words—before flying back to his family this evening.
Now it looked as if those few words were going to have to do.
“Hey, Jim,” he said. “Hold up a minute.”
Weeks kept on walking.
“Jimmy, listen up, will you? There’s something I want to say.”
Weeks turned a corner and disappeared from sight.
Castle frowned after him. What, had the man suddenly gone deaf? He quickened his own pace, turned the corner . . .
And walked, all at once, into a sea of familiar, smiling faces.
Fleury and Carter from the Tampa field office, Clark and Shannon of Task Force C, virtually everyone on Ares support, and Weeks himself, grinning like a pig who had just stepped in shit.
“What—” was all he had time to say before everyone reared back and yelled at the top of their lungs:
“Surprise!”
Castle blinked, and looked up. A banner hung on the wall just in front of him: HAPPY RETIREMENT, FRANK.
For the second time that night, and for an entirely different reason, Castle had trouble finding his voice.
“A surprise party,” he said dully.
“Yeah. A surprise party. You didn’t really think Sandoval was going to leave Quantico just to talk to you, did you?” Weeks shook his head. “You’ve been out of touch with reality too long, Frank.”
Castle could only smile at that. It was true. He’d been out of touch with reality—with real life—for way too long.
Which was, after all, the reason he was giving up this part of the job.
Someone pressed a glass of champagne into his hand. Well-wishers congregated around him, slapped him on the back, told him how much they appreciated working with him, how much he would be missed. The change in
