04
The third clang of the bell resounded. Thunderous peals stretched, washing from one to the next.
Castle shielded the young woman, sights zeroed in on Frick and Frack, who took controlled potshots from concealed positions at his twelve and two o’clock. Every time they exposed an inch of flesh, Castle pulled the trigger, pinning them behind trees, restricting incoming fire and limiting the chance she’d get hit.
Two more hostiles swarmed in. They moved quickly and precisely without running. Their training was evident as they dug into positions off Castle’s left flank beside the park’s ornate fountain. Alistair maneuvered between trees to an advantageous spot and lay down suppressive fire, but there were too many gunmen spread out to contain them for long.
A surge of adrenaline gave Castle the familiar rush he needed. The addiction to this extreme high was vicious, and recovery was impossible. No twelve-step program for adrenaline junkies. No purging it from your bloodstream. It wasn’t simply about dancing on the razor’s edge of danger. In thirty-nine years, he’d come to the point in his life where staring death in the face was the only time he felt alive.
He’d trained and lived for this action, a family legacy bred into him. As a bonus, he got his kicks from saving his country. There was no greater rush. Yippee ki-yay.
A tug of his jacket and the hard lump of her shoulder nudging his spine told him the woman was still hanging on to him for dear life. He backed up toward the stairs, glimpsing his six. Nothing worse than the enemy getting the drop on you from the rear.
There wasn’t much Castle feared. Not the pain of taking a bullet, not the prospect of ending a life in self-defense. Only the possibility of failure. The idea of losing a teammate or a person of interest he’d been entrusted to protect kept him awake at night.
A fifth melodic ding tolled.
“Headed in, off New Jersey Ave.” Gideon “Reaper” Stone’s voice came over the earpiece. The CIA-trained assassin and current Gray Box wet work specialist bounded up the steps behind Castle.
The tall, lean, fair-haired operative had been stationed at Stanton Park a few blocks over. He met Castle’s gaze, gave him a curt nod, and swept up toward the fountain. Alone, the cold-blooded guy was fearsome at taking out threats. In a team, Gideon was lethal as napalm.
The street below the stairs must be clear. Gideon would’ve already neutralized any hostiles with a hot slug to the brainpan.
Castle reached behind him and tapped the woman’s arm. “Run for the stairs. Go, now.”
No indecision, no delay—she darted for the paved path. Castle moved with her, providing cover with his body, keeping his weapon at the ready. Despite the shrill screaming she’d done earlier, panic wasn’t crippling her one bit. Her backbone was in good working order and so were her feet.
“Achilles, go with her.” He waved a hand. “Go, boy.” The obedient dog dashed after her.
She raced down the stone stairs, cringing, head lowered.
Bullets ricocheted off a tree lining the pathway beside Castle. He ducked behind it and glanced at the stone stairs in time to see her lithe frame disappear down them. He’d follow as soon as the situation in the park was somewhat under control.
To the north, his sister, Maddox—another kick-butt, CIA-trained field officer—closed in on Frick and Frack. She’d been staked out at Lincoln Park, the second closest location.
His team could be outmanned and outgunned. Numbers didn’t determine the outcome in most of these situations. Talent was a superior equalizer, something their boss recognized. The man was a visionary, with the genius to skim the cream of the crop, the best of the best, but from the flawed elite. Those misemployed, undervalued, and discarded for one reason or another.
Their chief repurposed and retooled them, forging each into a stronger, tougher, sharper weapon than they’d been in a previous A-game life.
With the numbers almost equal now and the person of interest no longer on the playing field as a liability, this should be a piece of cake. Apprehending one of those guys alive for questioning would be a boon, but he focused on the primary objective.
Castle turned for the steps. “I’m going after the POI.”
“Copy,” Alistair said over the earpiece. “We’ve got this. I’ll make sure no one follows.”
Castle bolted down the long staircase to the undisturbed shady quiet of New Jersey Avenue. The high walls of the park buffered the suppressed noise of gunfire along with the final bell ringing to mark the hour.
He scanned south toward the Capitol grounds for any sign of the woman and Achilles. Making a break for the Capitol Police would’ve been a smart move on her part, but there was only a clueless passerby in that direction. Taking off to the right, he ran north down the narrow street toward Union Station—a labyrinth of traffic and pedestrians where she could vanish.
One block down, Castle spotted Achilles wagging his tail beside a tree and a navy boot in the grass. Shit. The woman was on the ground, facing in the opposite direction with her back against the trunk, preventing him from seeing if she was wounded or even breathing. He charged down the pavement, eyes peeled for hostiles.
He dashed across the intersection of C Street, passing a row of parked government vehicles, and caught sight of John Reece, former Delta Force operator, sweeping in from the Lower Park past the reflecting pool and headed toward the fray. No telling what kind of standoff was taking place in the Upper Park now that the bells had stopped ringing. Those professionals, whoever the hell they were, would do everything possible for a clean exit. And the Gray Box, an organization that wasn’t supposed to exist, needed to stay under the radar.
But the situation in the park was no longer his immediate concern.
Achilles licked the woman’s cheek with a whimper. A weak hand lifted, shooing the dog from her face. She was alive.
Relief jolted through Castle. She was the only link to the stolen bioweapons, and they needed to question her to have any chance of recovering them. But he was thankful for another reason he didn’t quite understand.
Alive, but she must’ve been hurt. He pounded down the sidewalk, tearing up the distance, just not fast enough for his nerves.
Achilles greeted him with a whine that meant the woman was in trouble. Castle knelt beside her, searching her thin body for any sign of blood. Nothing. Whatever they’d injected into Gary had only taken seconds to drop the man. If one of those pros had hit her with a needle after Castle had lost sight of her, she’d already be dead.
“Are you okay?” He put a palm against her porcelain cheek. The icy smoothness of her skin startled him, gripping him beneath the rib cage. “Are you hurt?”
Raspy breaths scraped past her quivering lips. Dilated pupils swallowed the blue of her irises, highlighting dark circles under her eyes. Bruises marred her legs. Hair that didn’t know if it wanted to be blond or light brown escaped from her hoodie, framing her face. One hand was clenched around a tan prescription bottle.