Then blood began to pool around the fallen bodies, and Frank realized the sound he’d heard wasn’t a car backfiring at all.
The world around him seemed suddenly to stop turning.
“Mom?” he whispered. “Mom?”
The backfiring sound started up again, accompanied this time by screams.
THIRTEEN
Maria was on the beach, running after Will’s errant throw— short this time, as opposed to the last one, which had been way, way long, so long that it had tumbled into the surf and she’d gotten the legs of her pants wet fetching it—when the men came out of the jungle. Four of them, in black T-shirts and black pants, all wearing sunglasses.
Wrong party, she thought, and was actually about to yell that information up to them when the two in the lead raised weapons—all of them were carrying weapons, she suddenly saw, why were they carrying weapons?— and a split second later, she had the answer as all four started firing. Firing at the people gathered around the tables from last night’s party, people eating breakfast, people just sitting around talking . . .
People dancing. Betty and Tommy, who both crumpled to the ground and lay still.
Maria made a noise halfway between a moan and a whimper.
“Mom?” Will stood frozen in place, eyes wide with shock. “Mommy?”
Frank had told her what to do in situations like this. They’d gone over it, time and time again. How to handle yourself in an emergency.
But when she opened her mouth to speak, no words came out.
Quentin Glass stepped out of the jungle and smiled.
Not ten seconds into the attack, and full-fledged panic had erupted already. People were screaming, shouting, begging, crying, in general running around like chickens whose heads had been cut off.
Glass shook his head. He hoped if he had the misfortune to die by violence, he would at least go with his dignity intact. These Castles . . . he was surprised, frankly. Supposedly, there were military men in the family. They, at least, should know the proper way to meet your maker.
Movement to his left caught his attention. Glass turned, and saw a half-dozen people had burst out of the compound, heading toward a group of vehicles parked near the road.
Dante and Spoon stepped out from their positions then, directly in front of the would-be escapees, and raised their weapons.
Shooting fish in a barrel, Glass thought, as the sound of automatic weapons fire filled the air again.
John Saint stepped up alongside him.
“How’s your headache?” Quentin asked.
“Good. Much better, thanks for asking. Any sign of him?”
“Not yet. But—”
There was a sound like thunder. It came from a small bungalow set back perhaps fifty feet from the party area.
A split second later, one of Shusheim’s men flew out of the bungalow door and landed flat on his back, a gaping hole in his chest.
“I suspect that’s our Mr. Castle now,” Glass said.
“Yeah. I suspect you’re right.”
Glass and John Saint raised their weapons then, and stepped forward to join the party.
He would not allow himself to think who, or why. There would be time for that later—recriminations, retribution, all of it. He would call in every favor he was owed, use every connection he had, pick the brains of every junkie, criminal, and terrorist on the planet to find out who had done this thing.
Right now, Frank Castle had only one thing on his mind: survival. Maria’s, and Will’s, and whomever else he and his father could rescue.
Neither man had spoken a word since Betty Castle had fallen. His father had simply blinked, then turned away from the window to the weapons case he’d locked only seconds earlier. He’d handed Frank a shotgun and a box of shells, taken the same for himself, and then joined his son at the window.
Only seconds had passed since the first shots had been fired, but the massacre was in full swing. Frank saw Donal McCarey get shot in the back as he tried to start the motorcycle he’d rented in Boqueron, saw Donal’s daughter, Rachel, and his wife, Kathleen, executed as they cowered underneath the party tables, saw Tommy Castiglione’s little brother, Dom, cut down as he ran toward the beach.
It was too much. He gritted his teeth and raised his weapon.
His father tapped him on the shoulder and shook his head. Frank Sr. pointed. Two men were moving up the path toward them. When the first cracked the door, and then took a tentative step inside, Frank blew him away.
His father, at the window, fired at the second man. Frank heard that assailant scramble backward, the scuff of his boots against stone, and leaned out the bungalow door.
Weapons fire raked the side of the frame. He stepped back.
“By the grill,” his father said, taking up position alongside him. “The propane tank.”
Frank nodded, fixing the target in his mind. A second burst of weapons fire came. The instant it stopped, he was moving, the barrel of the shotgun coming up, his finger tightening on the trigger as he stepped forward again and saw the man was just where Frank Sr. had said he would be, the sole of one boot peeking out from behind the propane tank.
He fired.
The tank went up in a ball of flame, taking the screaming, burning gunman along with it.
Castle bent to reload.
“Good start,” Frank Sr. said, stepping past him.
Her paralysis had lasted only an instant.
Maria had moved then, tackling her son, taking him down to the sand, putting a finger to her lips even as they fell, making sure he understood that they had to be absolutely quiet, absolutely still. Habit, from the things Frank had taught her, though in this instance there was little danger they could make a sound loud enough to attract the attackers’ attention, loud enough even to be heard over the constant chatter of gunfire.
Her eyes scanned the beach, looking for shelter. There. A rowboat turned over in the sand.
She pointed the boat out to Will. He shook his head.
“You can do it,” she whispered. “Come on.”
They ran, staying low. It was only fifty feet from where they’d dropped to the boat, but it felt like a mile, the longest mile she’d ever run.
They reached the overturned craft and scrambled behind it. There was a thick crack in the bottom: Maria peeked out and saw the massacre continuing.
“Mom. What’s happening? Why—”
“Shhh,” she said. She couldn’t afford to stop and think now, the absolute insanity of the moment would catch up to her and she might lose it. She didn’t want Will thinking about it either.
What they had to do was get out of here.
Someone screamed. She looked up and saw little Dom Castiglione, five years old, with the same stupid bowl haircut Tommy insisted on giving all his kids, running from the bungalows toward the beach, running directly toward the boat.
A gunman appeared behind him and raised his weapon.
And then all at once, little Dom wasn’t running anymore, he was flying through the air, and the top half of his head was missing.
He landed in the sand, flopping down inches away from the hull. Will’s eyes went wide, and he made a gagging noise in his throat.
“Shhh,” Maria said. “Oh, honey, God please be quiet.”
She covered his mouth with one hand and turned his head away from the bloody mess. Two more men stepped forward from the jungle.
She knew instantly from their posture, the way they carried themselves, that these two were in charge, the
