strained: She looked up and saw Frank had grabbed him by the bicep and was holding on tight.
“Ah, Mr. Castle,” Dave said, “you can let go now. Please?”
Frank’s grip relaxed.
Joan patted his shoulder. “Just about done here. Two more stitches, I think, and then—”
Engines roared outside. Tires squealed, and doors slammed.
“Sounds like a couple BMWs.” Dave frowned. “Who owns BMWs around here?”
“That’s an easy one,” Joan said. “Nobody.”
“Right.” Dave sighed. “I was afraid of that.”
Castle reached up then, and tugged her arm. He mumbled something.
“Say that again,” she said, bending closer.
At that same instant, Stanley walked to the window and frowned.
“Uh-oh.” He turned back to the others. “Does everyone with guns in Tampa have this address?”
“No, really—I do hope he’s still alive, Quentin, and I’ll tell you why.” John Saint slammed the door behind him, and started up the front steps of Castle’s building. “Because I want a chance to inflict some pain on him myself. A little payback, for what he’s done. A lot of payback, actually, before he goes off to never-never land.”
“I wouldn’t worry about Castle getting off easy, John,” Glass said, climbing a step behind the younger Saint. “The Russian specializes in pain. Wait.”
They’d reached the top of the stoop. Glass had stopped Saint with an outstretched arm, a foot shy of the building’s front door.
“What?” Saint frowned. “He could be dyin’ in there already, Castle. Let’s get to him.”
Quentin shook his head. “Better safe than sorry.” He was thinking not just about Castle but about Howard and Livia, both of whom had warned him about keeping John Saint safe.
Glass motioned Lincoln and Cutter forward. He and Saint stepped aside as the two men took up positions on either side of the front door.
“On three,” Cutter said. “One . . . two . . .”
They kicked the door wide open.
“Fuck!” Glass screamed at the top of his lungs.
The Russian’s body lay at the bottom of the staircase, burned, battered, and very, very broken.
“Looks like you got your wish, John,” Glass said, unholstering his gun and popping in a fresh clip.
The others did the same, and then they started up the stairs.
“We have to move him,” Dave said.
No shit, Joan thought. The only thing was, Frank was not in any condition to be moved more than a few feet.
“Where?” Stanley asked. “There’s no place to go.”
Castle mumbled something again. Louder this time.
“ ‘See you later’?” Joan asked, frowning. “Did you just say ‘See you later’?”
He shook his head weakly, and tried again.
“What?” Dave asked. “What did he say?”
“ ‘Ebidador,’ ” Stanley said. “I distinctly heard ‘ebidador.’ ”
“What’s an ebidador?” Joan said. A name? A place? A kind of weapon?
“Mr. Castle,” Stanley said, leaning over him. “Could you repeat that?”
But he couldn’t. Frank was fading, Joan saw, eyes rolling back in his head, babbling, incoherent from the pain, probably going into shock.
“Ebideebeebobby,” Castle gurgled, head lolling on his neck. “Ebideebeebader.”
“My apartment,” Joan said. “It’s the closest.”
She took one arm. Stanley took the other. They began dragging him toward the door.
“Wait!” Dave shouted, pointing down at the floor. “Elevator. See?”
Joan didn’t.
“Elevator!” Dave yelled again, running over and grabbing one of Castle’s legs. “Come on! Help!”
He spun the man around a 180 degrees and began dragging him away from the door.
Joan resisted for a second. Then she took a closer look at the floor where Dave had pointed, and nodded.
“Ah. Elevator,” she said, and began pulling in the same direction.
THIRTY-EIGHT
The Russian had given it his all, that was obvious. The building looked as if someone had come through with a wrecking ball, intent on causing as much damage as possible. The hall was trashed, the apartment they’d just come from was trashed, and there was blood everywhere.
“Hey, Mr. Glass.” Cutter pointed to the floor. More blood. A trail. Leading down the hall toward the one apartment they hadn’t checked yet.
Glass motioned for Cutter and John to back off. He took the point with Lincoln this time.
“On three,” he said, ready to kick the door down, but didn’t even bother to start the count. Once he took a closer look, he saw that it was open already.
Glass tapped it with his foot, and it swung wide.
This was definitely Castle’s apartment; he knew that right away. It was in even worse shape than the others—looked like a freaking tornado had hit here, never mind a wrecking ball.
“Give it up, Castle!” he shouted into the wreckage.
No answer. Not that he’d expected one; just because he was outnumbered, Castle was going to surrender? Not a chance in hell. He was going to keep coming after them until they were all dead, or he was. That was the only way this could end.
There was a lot more blood on the floor in here, Glass saw. He wondered if maybe the Russian hadn’t gotten to him after all, if maybe Castle hadn’t crawled back into his hole and died here.
He had a funny feeling they weren’t going to be that lucky, though.
“All right.” He motioned the others forward. “Let’s take it nice and slow. Shoot anything that moves, even if it’s just a rat.”
They moved into the apartment then, he and Lincoln first, John and Cutter a half-dozen steps behind.
No one in this room. They moved on to the next one.
Two guys—a fat one, and a geek with a ring through his nose—were sitting on a couch, looking up at Glass and the others as if this sort of thing happened to them every day.
“What the fuck . . .” Glass frowned. “Who are you?”
“Hi.” The fat one smiled. “I’m Stanley.”
“Dave. What’s going on?”
Glass looked at the geek and shook his head.
“What’s going on? Unbelievable. Lincoln,” he motioned the man closer, “you and Cutter check the other rooms. You see anything suspicious, do not touch it. Call me. Understood?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Glass. Understood.”
They left. John stepped up alongside Quentin.
“Who are these clowns?”
“Who gives a shit?” Glass raised his gun again and leveled it at the fat man. “Where is Castle?”
The fat man blinked. “Castle?”
“That’s right. Frank Castle. Who lives here?”
“Uh . . .”
Glass put the gun right up against Stanley’s forehead. “I asked you a question, fat man.”
“Maybe this fat fuck ate him,” John said, poking the man in the belly with his gun. “That what happened, buddy? You get hungry, eat the guy we’re lookin’ for, huh?”
“Hey. Leave him alone.” The geek stepped forward. “He doesn’t know anything.”
“Oh? Is that right? He doesn’t know anything?” John asked.
“Yeah. Yeah. That’s right.”
“Okay,” Glass said, swinging the gun so that it pointed at the geek’s chest. “Then I’ll ask you. Where is
