mood— from the gunfight on the dock to this celebration—was jarring. Too much for him to handle, really. He could only manage monosyllabic answers to everyone’s questions; after a while, he fell silent entirely.
Weeks caught his eye and saw his discomfort. His friend tapped on a glass for quiet.
“Don’t take it personally, folks—but this is going to be the shortest going-away party in history. Our friend Frank Castle here—” Weeks gestured, and the assembled agents broke into a spontaneous round of applause “—he says he’s retiring on account of his wife and child, and having lost mine to this damn job, I’m not going to argue.”
Jimmy raised his glass.
“To Frank Castle—the finest soldier, finest undercover op, and finest man I’ve ever known. What am I gonna do without you?”
“Get a girlfriend,” Castle shot back, smiling.
But even as the assembled agents broke into applause, his eyes sought out Jimmy’s, and he gave him, with a look, what he couldn’t bring himself to say in words. His appreciation, his thanks.
Weeks moved forward then, and the two men clasped forearms.
“You say hi to Maria, and Will. You tell them I’ll get to London as soon as I can.”
“I’ll do that. Jimmy—”
“And have fun in Puerto Rico, Frank. Say hello to your folks.”
“I will. You know the invitation is still there—if you can get away . . .”
“Don’t think it’s gonna happen, buddy. Not this time.”
“These things don’t happen that often, Jim. Try and make it.”
Weeks gave him a wan smile. They were talking about the Castle/Castiglione/McCarey reunion, which was less than a week away. Forty-odd members of Frank’s extended family, who were jetting down to his parents’ Puerto Rico vacation compound for several days of fun in the sun.
“Anyway,” Weeks said, “in lieu of my presence at your getaway, I got you a little something to remember me by.”
“What?”
Weeks held up his right arm.
“Thirteen years ago,” he said. “You gave me this.”
Weeks pointed to the military-issue Rolex he wore—top of the line, stainless steel, diamond-and-gold-inset clock face.
Back in 1991, it had taken half of Frank’s savings to purchase.
“Small payment for saving my life,” he said.
Weeks shrugged. “Ah, hell. That Iraqi would have missed.”
“He was three feet away.”
“Yeah. I guess that’s so.” Weeks smiled. “Here.”
For a second, Castle thought he had taken the Rolex off his arm and was offering it to him. He started to shake his head.
And then he realized that Jimmy had, somehow, found the watch’s twin.
For the third time that night, Castle was speechless.
And for the first time in a long while, an honest-to-goodness smile, an expression of genuine pleasure, crossed his face.
“I thought they weren’t making this model anymore,” he said.
“They’re not. Believe me, it took quite a while to track down.”
“Jimmy.” Castle shook his head. “You shouldn’t have.”
He really shouldn’t have, Frank suddenly realized, because as big a dent in his savings as that watch had put thirteen years ago, it had to have put an even bigger cramp in what little free cash Weeks had to his name. Not only did Jimmy have alimony, child support, and his own living expenses to take care of, but he’d apparently picked up a nasty habit that Frank had only recently heard about—an affinity for the casinos that, according to agency scuttlebutt, had taken a sizable bite out of his savings. Castle had been meaning to talk to him about it for some time now, see if he could help his friend through the problem, but being undercover twenty-four/seven hardly lent itself to long, soul-baring chats with law enforcement personnel.
Weeks shrugged.
“I would’ve sprung for the matching radio wristwatches, but I figured we’ll be able to talk on the agency’s dime once you’re settled in at the London desk.”
“You know we will,” Frank said. “We’re not going to lose touch, Jimmy.”
Outside of the staging area, he suddenly heard the whir of an approaching chopper. His chopper. Transport out to Tampa International, where he’d hop a charter back to Arlington, and home. Maria and Will. It was almost too much to believe.
A man suddenly appeared at Weeks’s shoulder. Frank took a second to place him—one of the EMTs from the staging area, now out of his ambulance uniform and back in civilian clothes.
“Special Agent Weeks?” he said, and held out a wallet to Jimmy. Weeks took it and flipped it open.
His face fell.
“Shit.”
“What?” Frank asked.
Jimmy just shook his head. Castle looked to the newly arrived agent.
“That kid Duka brought,” the man said. “It was Bobby Saint. Howard Saint’s son.”
“Shit is right,” Frank chimed in; at that same instant, he flashed on the very last words Bobby had spoken to him, back on the pier—
Though once Howard Saint heard the news about his son, there was indeed going to be trouble.
“Jim,” he said, turning to Weeks. “Maybe I should—” But his friend was already shaking his head. “Go. It’s nothing we can’t handle.”
“You sure? I don’t have to be back for a couple days yet. I can—”
Weeks stepped forward and flung open the door to the landing pad outside. The whirr of the copter’s blades was deafening.
“Go home, Frank,” he said. “We’ll be fine.”
Castle hesitated a moment, then at last nodded and took a step toward the door.
He paused at the threshold and looked Weeks straight in the eye.
“Do me a favor, Jimmy. Stay out of the casinos.”
His friend gave him that same wan smile in response. “What, me?”
“Yes, you. You take care of yourself.”
“Don’t worry Frank. It’s all good.”
But as Castle climbed into the waiting helicopter, as it rose into the night sky and the lights of Tampa flew past beneath him, he had a sudden premonition, a flash of concern for his friend Jimmy Weeks and for the other agents he was leaving behind. A feeling that the file on Ares wasn’t closed just yet, that there were still repercussions to come from what had happened tonight.
And at that moment, he was very glad indeed to be putting this place—and everyone associated with it—far behind him.
FOUR
Howard Saint held his sobbing wife gently in his arms, let her rest her head on his shoulder. With one hand, he gently stroked her hair. With the other, he held Livia tightly to him, to prevent her from collapsing a second time.
“Shhhh,” he whispered in her ear.
Behind her, his son John stood impassively, whatever grief he was feeling tucked away someplace deep inside him. In that respect, he was just like his father—Howard Saint had never let his boys see him weak, or scared, or full of self-doubt, and he was not about to start now. He’d learned his lesson young—in this world, only the strong survived. John had picked up that knowledge from him long ago.
Poor Bobby never had.
