reason—
She choked out a sob.
The entrance to the ramp was so close. A hundred feet away. They could do it. They had to do it.
Will stumbled again. Again, she caught him, put her arm around his shoulder, and drew him close.
He looked up at her, chest heaving, gasping for air, and said: “Mom?”
“I’m right here, baby,” she said, tears starting to fall. “I’m right here with you. Always.”
The roar of the pickup filled her ears.
FIFTEEN
Frank came around a long sweeping curve and saw, lying just off the road, the Jeep, smashed and mangled almost beyond recognition. He roared to a stop next to it, ran to the cab, his heart pounding with fear.
There was no one inside. Where—
He looked around, scanning the jungle, the beach, the pier. . . .
Then he frowned. There was his father’s pickup, the one that had been chasing Maria and Will, at the very end of the dock, just now coming to a stop.
Something—two somethings—lay on the pier between the truck and him.
“No,” he said. “No.”
Frank Castle began to run then, an unbearable, unthinkable certainty growing in his mind with every step.
Saint pointed off the end of the pier.
“Quentin. Those are the boats, am I right?”
Glass squinted and saw Saint was indeed correct. Off in the distance, moored to a small thin spit of land, the two cigarette boats they’d used to mount the assault bobbed in the ocean.
“We could swim to them from here, I bet. Whaddaya think?”
Glass shook his head. “Not a good idea. John, we need to get back to the compound. Find Castle, take care of him, and get out of here.”
“Right. You’re right, Quentin.” Saint smiled. “That’s why my dad pays you the big bucks, isn’t it? ’Cause you’re always right.”
Saint nodded. “That’s one of the reasons.” Another being that, unlike you, my young friend, I know my ass from my elbow . . . but of course he didn’t say that out loud.
Saint dropped the truck into reverse, turned to check his mirrors, and smiled. “Hey look who just showed up, Quentin,” he said.
Glass turned to look and then smiled himself.
Goddamn if it wasn’t Frank Castle, come to join the party.
He dropped to his knees, and took them into his arms.
They felt so small, so light. Like nothing at all.
But they had been his entire world.
Why had it taken him so long to see that? Why had he wasted so much time, fighting other people’s battles, and let the days, the months, the years pass by apart from them? Years he could never have back now.
Maria’s hair had fallen down over her face. He brushed it back and touched her cheek.
The voices in his head were too much to bear.
“You’re my hero, Frank Castle.”
“It means you’re a badass.”
“You turned out all right.”
“You’re my hero, Frank Castle.”
“We ought to have another.”
“You married a Castle, honey.”
“You get the rest of ’em, Frankie.”
“You’re my hero.”
He heard another voice then, behind those voices, a voice that grew louder and louder until it was the only thing he could hear. This voice spoke no words, though—it simply made a single, continuous guttural sound. A scream.
It was him, Frank Castle realized. He was screaming.
His wife and son, his mother and father, his entire family, all were dead, and he was screaming because it was his fault.
He became aware that the pier beneath him was vibrating.
Castle looked up. The pickup truck had turned around and was bearing down on him now. There were four men in it— the two riding in the bed had weapons out, pointed at him.
He had a weapon, too, Castle remembered.
He laid his wife and son down gently on the dock.
Maria. Will.
He rose to his feet, cocked the trigger, and charged.
“The guy is fucking certifiable,” Saint said. “Look at him.”
Glass was looking. Castle did indeed look certifiable, was certainly behaving that way; this was without a doubt the first time he’d seen anyone attack a pickup truck—but just because he was crazy didn’t make him any less dangerous.
“Shoot,” he yelled, turning so Dante and Spoon could hear him. “Shoot him, damn it!”
They
The windshield shattered.
“Fuck,” John Saint said. “Hang on!”
The truck swerved, and Glass did indeed hang on, as best he could.
Maria, he thought, or screamed; he couldn’t tell which. Will.
The truck was coming at him fast, the men in back firing, the man in the passenger seat drawing his own gun now, the driver’s mouth open in surprise, looking suddenly, hauntingly familiar, and Castle thought—
Him. Shoot him—and his arm swiveled; he sighted down the barrel, looking right into the driver’s eyes, and saw the man curse and turn the wheel.
The truck swerved hard to the right, flew past him, missing by inches, and slammed into the concrete pilings at the end of the pier.
Castle strode quickly toward the wreck, wondering if he had enough bullets left in the revolver to kill all four men. Probably not, but that was just as well.
He’d prefer to use his hands, anyway.
The two men who’d been riding in the bed both lay still in it now. The driver was shaking his head, trying to clear it. The man in the passenger seat was trying to open his door, but was not succeeding. It looked to Castle as if the frame was bent.
Take care of them first, he wondered, or the other two? The ones in back, he decided, were just soldiers, following orders. Kill them quick, use the bullets. Take your time with the other two.
As he was deciding that, one of the men in the back suddenly rolled over, raised a weapon, and shot him.
He felt the bullets tear into his shoulder and leg; then he was kneeling on the ground, vaguely aware of the physical pain, but what the fuck did physical pain matter to him now.
He raised his revolver and squeezed the trigger.
But the only sound that came out of the gun was a single, pitiful click.
Sonuvabitch. He’d used up all the bullets.
All right. He’d have to do this the old-fashioned way, by hand. First things first—on your feet, soldier.
He used an old trick from his Delta training—the only worthwhile thing that prick Cauley had ever taught him. Project past the pain, to your opponent. Visualize the attack.
Castle visualized himself rising up, walking over to the man who’d shot him, and squeezing his throat till his
