Maria. Will.
The elevator doors opened.
He looked up and, for the first time since that horrible morning three months earlier, smiled.
How the fuck can he still be alive, was Dante’s first thought.
What is with that shirt, was his second.
Frank Castle, whom Dante had last seen bleeding, burning, and flying through the air, was now standing in front of him. In a badass black leather jacket, wearing a T-shirt with a creepy-looking skull on it.
Almost as creepy-looking as Castle, whose skin was about ten shades paler than it had been the last time he’d seen the man, whose eyes were like little black dots, whose expression told Dante that he ought to be drawing his gun right then and there.
But this was just plain wrong. Nobody lived after taking the kind of punishment Castle had taken that morning. And yet here he was, in living black and white.
“Good business, murder?” Castle asked, in a creepy, gravelly voice; he sounded just like that guy who was always on the talk shows, Harvey something. “Does Saint pay you for each one? Or do you give him a group-rate discount?”
Dante was trying to think of what to say, if he should say anything, when Castle took a step forward.
The movement broke the spell.
Dante went for his gun. Next to him, he saw Spoon going for his, too. This time, he was gonna make sure. This time, Castle was going to—
Something hit him in the chest. Bile rose in his throat. Tasted like . . .
Tabasco sauce?
All of a sudden he was lying on the ground.
Dante blinked once, then closed his eyes.
Castle allowed himself fifteen seconds to soak in the moment.
The decision to wear this shirt had been the correct one. He’d seen Saint’s goons, both of them, stare at it flat-footed, wasting precious seconds that they could have used to run. Few people would be so stupid as these two, but still . . .
He would wear the shirt again.
He’d found it the day he’d returned to the compound with Candelaria, knotted in a clump of seaweed, buried in the sand. He’d almost left it there until he remembered why Will had given it to him. What the skull meant.
That he was a badass. Not to be messed with.
Eight forty-one.
He took in the dead bodies one more time, picked up the Halliburton case full of cash, then exited through a little-used side door, melting away into the crowd.
Howard Saint was in a much better mood.
It was partly the Danish, which Lincoln had gone back to the clubhouse to fetch for him after the ninth hole. Good Danish. They had a Swedish woman working here in the kitchen, did a nice job with all the pastries but with the Danish, in particular.
It was partly the cart, which Lincoln had come back with at the same time. Saint normally liked to walk the course, but as the rain kept coming, his new golf shoes—the ones Livia had picked up for him last week at Gianfreddi’s—kept getting dirtier and dirtier, and he was not happy about that. Why he’d sent Lincoln to the clubhouse in the first place.
But most of all, Saint was in a better mood because John had at last been found. No need to ask where he’d been (what a tomcat his son was; at some point the kid was gonna have to learn to keep it in his pants), but he was on the way. They should be able to hook up on the fourteenth, play a couple holes, have a chance to talk things over before the photo shoot.
All in all, it was shaping up to be a good morning. His shot was now working, too—two over for the course right at this point, and, considering the rain, that wasn’t bad at all. That was very good, in fact.
The cart stopped. Saint got out. The eleventh was the toughest hole on the course as far as he was concerned, you had the dogleg and then this rise up to the green. Too steep for the cart to make it, had to get the shoes dirty again. Couldn’t even see the pin from down where he was right now.
But he’d hit a good shot to the green, he knew that. Even though the flag was missing for some reason—he’d have to talk to the groundskeeper about that, first guy on the course in the morning, it should be perfect for him— he should be able to hole it out in one. Stay on par.
“Ten bucks I get it inside the leather from here,” he said.
Walking alongside him, Cutter smiled.
“Can’t take that bet, Mr. S. Not the way you’re hittin’ ’em this morning.”
“You’re a smart man, Cutter,” Saint said. His phone rang. Lincoln handed it to him.
John again.
“Yes?”
“Pop, you’re not going to believe this.”
Believe what, he was about to ask, thinking this was going to be another lame excuse on his son’s part for not showing up, which was going to require another long talk about the responsibilities of being a Saint, when he reached the top of the hill and saw the eleventh green.
And stopped dead in his tracks.
“Oh, I might,” he said to John.
Because whatever his son had to tell him, it couldn’t be as unbelievable as the sight before him right now.
A headstone, in the middle of the eleventh green. Rammed right into the ground where, he saw, the pin had been set. The flag lay crushed underneath it. His ball lay next to it.
It was Frank Castle’s headstone. It had his name on it. Beloved husband, father, son, all that crap. Date of birth, too.
But the date of death had been chiseled off.
“I know it sounds crazy, Pop,” John was saying, “but that Castle guy—he’s back. And the Wednesday shipment—”
Already, Howard Saint didn’t want to hear it. He handed the phone back to Lincoln.
“Cancel the shoot,” he told Cutter, starting back down the hill. “And have everybody meet me back at the house.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Brent knew something was up. The man kept staring at him during the whole meeting, shaking his head almost imperceptibly.
I can’t do this, Weeks thought. I can’t cover for Saint if things like this are going to keep happening.
He and Special Agent Brent had just spent the last hour briefing Police Chief Morris on the extent of their investigations into Howard Saint and Saint Holdings. Brent was running those investigations, and, for the last few months, Weeks had been subtly sabotaging them. Letting Saint know when and where surveillance or an undercover op was headed his way. For a while there, his misdirection seemed to be working. Brent and his team were getting frustrated, even thinking about calling off the investigation.
Not now. Not after the madness that had occurred this morning at the Saint building. Two dead bodies, fifty million dollars falling from the sky, fifty million dollars that, according to Saint’s people, did not even exist . . .
“You’ve given us some good leads here,” Chief Morris said, rising from his chair. “Thanks. We’ll start tracking some of this stuff down.”
“I wish we had more for you,” Brent said, reaching across the table and shaking Morris’s hand. “Resources are kind of tight these days.”
“I understand—believe me.” He held up the folder Brent had given him, then turned to Weeks. “I appreciate you getting involved in this, too, Agent Weeks.”
“Whatever I can do.” He and Morris shook hands as well. “Come on. I’ll walk you out.”
Weeks could feel Brent’s eyes on him as the two of them left the room.
“We’ll keep working NCIC for you, Chief,” Weeks said as the two of them made their way downstairs. NCIC
