Two people running away. A woman and a boy.
“John,” he said, tapping Saint on the shoulder.
The man turned to see where he was pointing, just as Castle’s wife and son reached a parked vehicle—a Jeep— that had been hidden behind an outcrop of jungle.
The sound of the engine starting up reached their ears.
Simultaneously, the two of them raised their weapons and broke into a jog.
He was moving in the shadows.
There weren’t many, this time of morning, so he had to move slowly, much slower than he would have liked, but Castle hadn’t heard gunfire for almost a minute now, which he hoped was a good sign. He hoped it meant that Maria and Will, at least, had gotten away, that someone would live past this awful day. Maybe, after he killed every one of these attackers, after he found out who they were and why they’d done this thing, he would be able to join them someplace safe. Maybe.
Part of him didn’t want to.
Because this was all his fault. He knew that for a fact, simple process of elimination—no one hired assassins to go after, say, a dentist because their fillings broke.
Castle almost laughed out loud at the thought. What was it Tommy had wanted Will to do—that’s right, get his molars sealed. Maybe this was all because the seal on some other kid’s molars went bad, the kid’s mom freaked out, hired somebody to take it out on Tommy.
He pictured that mom then, a soccer mom, in her minivan, pulling up to some deserted street corner, and a guy in a black T-shirt strolling over to her window, and her taking out her checkbook, asking who should she make it out to. . . .
No. Castle bit his lip hard, forced himself to concentrate.
He couldn’t afford to lose it now.
Everything depended on him. They were all alone here— deliberately isolated from the town and everyone in it. The only people who even knew they were here right now were Mr. and Mrs. Gutierrez, who were coming back this afternoon to cook tonight’s dinner, but that wasn’t for—he looked at his watch—a couple hours yet, at the earliest.
The Rolex. Jimmy Weeks. Shit, he’d never called him. Imagine if he had. Imagine if Weeks were here now. The two of them together again . . . that would have been something. Just like in Khafji.
Footsteps sounded. Castle peered around the corner and saw two men running away from him, down toward the beach. He heard a car start up and tracked the sound in that same direction.
“Maria,” he whispered, hope filling his heart as he recognized his wife and son.
He broke from the shadows, sprinting after the two men in black, raising the shotgun and sighting down the barrel even as he ran, noting that something about one of the attackers—the younger one—seemed somehow familiar. If the man would just turn his head so Castle could get a look at him full on, he could—
Someone ran into him from behind. The impact stunned him—his weapon flew from his hands, and he hit the ground hard with his chest, managing to turn just enough at the last second to catch the ground with part of his shoulder, too, so that he could use the momentum to roll to his feet.
As he turned to face his attacker, he heard the gunfire begin.
Maria slammed the gas pedal down, and the Jeep shot forward.
In the passenger mirror, she saw four men chasing them—the two who’d been searching the beach, and two others, including the younger one who’d been looking for her and Will before. Not good. All had their weapons out, and pointed straight at the Jeep. Worse.
“Down!” she yelled, pressing Will under the dashboard as the clang of metal on metal—bullets striking somewhere on the Jeep, or the trailer, she hoped to God nowhere critical— filled the air.
Maria looked up again just in time to see Frank Sr.’s bright red pickup, parked half on, half off the road, looming directly in front of them.
She spun the wheel hard to the left. The Jeep struck a fallen log—she bounced up and down on the seat. Will’s head clipped the underside of the dashboard.
The trailer fishtailed behind them, slamming into the pickup with a resounding clang. At that second, she realized just how hard it was going to be to maneuver down these little roads with it attached; it was going to be like trying to run while carrying a sack of cement, but she didn’t have any choice in the matter. She had to reach Boqueron. There were people there, though she wasn’t exactly sure what ordinary people could do to help; she needed the army. No, what she needed were the Marines, and thinking that, she thought of Frank, but thinking of Frank was not something she could afford to do at this second—she would lose it—so she shut down her mind entirely.
And glanced in the rearview mirror, where she saw something that made her blood run cold.
Frank Sr.’s pickup, rounding the corner behind them. Two of the black-clad men in the cab, the other two riding in the truck bed behind them, rifles out and pointed right at them.
They were gaining.
“Mom?” Will asked from the floor. “Where are we going?”
“Hang on, honey.” She put the pedal to the floor. “Mom’s going to find help.”
Glass turned in his seat and passed his spare magazines through the window, placing them carefully in Dante’s outstretched hands. The truck was bouncing up and down like a jackhammer; he made sure not to let go until the man had a firm grip. The last thing they could afford right now was to lose ammunition. Dante and Spoon had gone through every magazine they’d brought already, and Castle was still somewhere out there, loose, apparently with weapons of his own.
John Saint, in the driver’s seat, apparently shared his concern.
“Find Castle!” he shouted to Cutter, who had come up alongside them, running full out in an attempt to leap into the truck bed.
The man nodded and dropped back.
Glass looked at his watch. Twenty-five minutes since they’d landed on the island, fifteen since they’d begun the operation. The schedule called for them to be back aboard the boats and out of range by one P.M. Not only were they running out of ammo, he thought, they were running out of time.
It was the man he’d knocked out with the shotgun before. Back for seconds. He didn’t have time.
“Get the fuck out of my way, and I’ll let you live,” Castle said.
The man sneered and drew a knife. He circled, holding the weapon at his side, his eyes giving away nothing.
Not a complete amateur, then, Castle thought.
Right then he heard the Jeep roaring off. Go, honey, he urged silently, risking a glance in its direction. At that moment his dad’s pickup truck came to life and started after it.
Shit. He really didn’t have time for this.
The man lunged. Frank stepped back out of range, barely avoiding the blade.
“You better pay attention, Frankie. Otherwise . . .” The man smiled and waved the blade again.
He called me Frankie, Castle thought; at that second, the last, tiny shred of doubt in his head about whom the attack was directed at and why vanished.
My family, he thought, and as the man came at him again, something inside him snapped.
Instead of lunging back, out of the way, Castle lunged forward, turning to the side.
He grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted. He heard bone crack, and thought: Mom.
The man screamed.
Castle kneed him in the groin. The man gasped, and Castle kneed him again, in the solar plexus this time, and again, he heard the satisfying crack of bone.
Dad.
The man fell to the ground. Castle scooped up the knife he’d dropped and brought it to the side of the man’s throat. Pressed.
Donal.
A drop of blood appeared. Seeing it, Castle blinked and came back to his senses.
What was he doing?
His head snapped around. The two vehicles—Maria’s Jeep and his dad’s pickup—were barely visible on the
