Alistair sighed. “You’d think with our dynamic duo, we’d get lucky.”
The Brit, staking out the Lower Senate Garden on the other side of the fountain, wasn’t Castle’s first, second, or even third choice of partner on any assignment. To Alistair, lucky equated to getting shot at. And when the MI6 castoff turned Gray Box operative was involved, bullets were guaranteed to fly.
But desperate times, desperate measures.
Since the Gray Box had discovered a shipment of government-manufactured bioweapons had been hijacked, their off-the-books covert organization had been doing everything possible to track down the thieves and recover the bioagents. Their techie, Willow Harper—a hacking, coding, fact-finding genius—had recently struck pay dirt when her keyword-hunter program nailed two online messages. Both contained the text string Z-1984, the top- secret name for the nastiest of the stolen bioweapons.
The messages had been sent via a spoofed IP address through an encrypted IRC—Internet Relay Chat—a real-time-only sea of thousands of chat channels where text history could disappear like ripples in the water. Both messages had gone from a Kit01Y0L0, their first lead and primary target, to Illuminati411, a conspiracy theorist blogger. The last communication had established the specifics for a face-to-face meet at an unnamed park near Massachusetts Avenue, set to happen now.
One problem. There were six parks near Massachusetts Avenue, spread over ten miles spanning from one end of the District to the other.
The Gray Box was comprised of elite talent, running the gamut from former spec ops such as himself to ex-CIA, NSA, and external foreign intelligence services. But they weren’t magicians capable of cloning themselves and were stretched bare-bones-thin on this op.
Castle threw a frisbee across the manicured grassy lawn of the upper section of the park. Achilles shot over the public lawn after it like a black-and-tan ballistic missile. The team’s four-legged buddy officially belonged to Knox Cody, their second-in-command and currently on assignment in the sandbox. Castle had helped Knox train the dog. The Doberman-German shepherd mix caught the frisbee midair and bounded back, happy to stay warm in the crisp air and play along, giving Castle a cover for his presence.
Blending in required substantial effort. At six four and packing two hundred forty pounds of lean muscle, he was taller and broader than most men and stood out like the Washington Monument if he loitered.
Add a dog and a game of fetch, and he became an ordinary Joe enjoying the fall weather. Far easier to disregard. Making it possible for him to get close to a potentially skittish target he needed to bag and drag back to headquarters for questioning.
“Possible eyes on Illuminati411,” Alistair said over comms. “A middle-aged, balding male is passing the reflecting pool, headed your way. The Truth Is Out There sweatshirt and flip-flops. I think we have a winner.”
“Copy.”
A sharp whistle brought Achilles running back to sit at Castle’s feet. Adjusting his sunglasses on the bridge of his nose, he knelt facing north for a clear visual of the steps Illuminati411 would need to take to get to this section of the quiet park. He scratched the dog’s head and fed him beefy bite-sized treats from his pocket.
“Let the others know we have possible action at our location,” Castle said low with a smile, as if speaking to Achilles. “Prepare to reposition.”
Alistair would check in with the operatives spread across the five other parks and relocate to a discreet position where he’d use the miniature parabolic microphone to overhear the conversation without being seen. They’d bag the primary target and find out how the person knew about Z-1984.
A stout, mustached guy wearing sweats emerged from the staircase. The sound of rubber slapping the pavement rose above the bubbling gurgle of the large fountain.
The man turned, surveying the park left and right, shuffling his way down the path. One lone tourist snapped pictures of the Capitol and fountain, then meandered down the opposite set of stairs.
Stopping beside a trash can, the mustached man looked around, winded, as if he’d been rushing. He pulled out a smartphone from the pocket of his sweatpants, checked something on the screen, and plopped down on a concrete bench.
Every passing second wound Castle tighter, heightening his awareness. Those seconds bled into minutes, torqueing him to coiled readiness. Adrenaline fired hot in his veins and he ached for action like a junkie in need of a fix. Still kneeling, he extended his hand and Achilles put his paw on his palm. He pretended to inspect the dog’s mitt, but all the while, his senses were keyed in on the surrounding environment, down to the slightest shift in the wind.
On the edge of the grassy area to the east shrouded by trees, the homeless girl scrambled to her feet. She lowered her head, clutching the blanket around herself, and stepped out of the gloomy patch of shade. Something bulky flapped beneath the fleece material as she strode between the trees toward the walkway dotted with benches. Her head swiveled, nervous eyes scoping out the grounds. Her gaze glided over Castle without a second of hesitation.
Bringing Achilles was turning out to be such a clever idea, he might have to invest in a canine of his own. He petted the dog’s head and fed him an extra treat.
Heavy bells a hundred yards from his position rang in a rich ding-dong for fifteen seconds, marking the third quarter of the hour. 8:45.
The girl crept up to the trash can beside the bench the mustached man sat on. She removed the blanket in a graceful one-handed move Castle had only seen executed flawlessly in movies and stuffed it into the trash. A large satchel hung across her lean body. Beneath the hoodie and a black jacket, the scraggy young woman wore a blue dress with a hemline falling higher than midthigh, showing off the longest, tautest legs—albeit on the too-thin side. She wore ankle boots in navy velvet that shimmered in the sunlight, embroidered with colorful flowers.
He couldn’t tell the difference between a Jimmy Choo and a Miu Miu but had a sister and had been around enough ladies with stylish taste to spot shoes that cost a pretty penny.
Those boots were high-end, far from the typical footwear of a vagrant.
The mustached guy hopped to his feet. She beckoned him to sit with a frantic wave of her hand. Drifting down beside him with slow caution, she stuffed her exposed goldish-brown hair inside her hood, gaze darting about as if expecting someone to jump out from behind a tree any second.
Pink cheeks, a rosy nose and lips from the chilly nip in the air accentuated her milk-white face and pixie-like features. There was something majestic about her—an elegant, regal bearing.
She spoke to him in a hurried, panicked manner. The man’s face hardened. He thrust a finger toward her and spittle flew from his mouth as he spoke.
“We have confirmation,” Alistair said. “She called him Gary, which he didn’t appreciate. He insisted she stick to Illuminati411 out in the open.”
“Notify the others we’re golden,” Castle said, low.