by Juno Rushdan
She cringed, knees buckling, wanting to curl up like a baby, but the big guy’s immense body held her upright, fastened to him. Prickly bark dug into her calves, scratching at her bottom through the thin fabric of her dress. He peered around the side of the tree, firing back. She couldn’t catch her breath but needed to regulate it before she hyperventilated and passed out.
Curling a hand around the back of her head, he tucked her face into his solid chest and engulfed her twitching body with the formidable plane of his. Her kidnapper—turned timely protector—nearly crushed her in an effort to keep her safe. The surreal scene had her drawing herself in tight against him, burrowing into his heat. She momentarily absorbed the strange comfort of the granite shelter he provided, and for a harebrained second, the sensation of being held overcame the chaos.
“Do you see the others circling in, Alistair? When the hour strikes, lay down suppressive fire so I can get her to the car.”
He wasn’t crazy and now she knew his partner’s name, but that left a huge question. “Who are you?”
“Government operative. Name’s Castle.”
Double crud. A government agent—freaking spook—was worse than the cops. And she was stuck. Without his help, she was going to die. With his help, she might end up interrogated at some gruesome black site.
She knew all too well how the CIA made hackers disappear.
But as slim choices went, he was better than Bravo and Delta. For the moment, anyway.
The bells stopped and so did the gunfire. She raked in shaky breaths, straining to steady her escalating pulse. He looked down at her, and she wished she could see his eyes.
“I need you to trust me,” he said. “Things are about to get really hairy.”
“Huh?” Really hairy? As if what had just happened wasn’t bad enough?
“That was the preliminary chime. The large bell is about to toll the hour. They’ll have almost a minute to fire and close in. We have to move.”
Move from behind the cover and protection of the tree? Was he serious? “No. No. If we move, they’ll shoot us.” She shook her head and pushed against him. The man didn’t budge, keeping her lodged in place with the anchor of his startling weight. Hard as a boulder and probably not an ounce of extraneous fat.
“W-we should wait it out.” Her voice trembled worse than her body.
He pressed a warm hand to her face, cradling the base of her skull, and his callused thumb swept over her cheek. She stilled, and the scream cranking up in her belly flattened. His touch was like a grounding conductor, preventing her system from overloading and going into shock.
“Stay behind me. Move as I move so I take all the fire,” he said slowly, calmly, as if this was an ordinary day at the park. Maybe getting shot at was his norm. “Don’t freeze up. I’ll shield you to the stairs, then you hightail it to the street.”
Yeah, okay. Him taking all the fire was a plan she could work with. If this was her only chance to escape, she’d take it. She gathered her courage and managed a nod.
“Now.” He shifted her behind him, sidestepping out from the tree, and whistled.
His dog leapt up, mirroring their steps, walking so close his fur grazed her legs. Her airway started tightening, her chest constricting.
Coughing, she gripped the back of the agent’s jacket, fighting the impulse to bolt like a frightened rabbit or freeze like he’d warned against.
Step by step, with a superhuman effort, she kept pace with him.
Spots of light danced in her eyes. Slow. Steady. One, two, three…
The ethereal bell clanged and the momentary calm shattered.
Bedlam erupted in a wave of hot gunfire from more than two directions.
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.
He took the pills from her grasp and read the label. “You have a heart condition?”
She nodded. “Need a minute…meds…kick in.”
The wheezing faded from her breathing and she didn’t appear to have any major injuries. She’d be fine if her medication worked.
Castle slipped his arm underneath her legs, banded the other around her waist, and hoisted her up. Her head lolled against his chest, body settling into the tight cradle of his grip. She was lighter than she looked. No more than a buck thirty. With her height of five eight, maybe five nine, a little extra meat on her bones would do her good. So would a shower.
She didn’t smell the best. Safe bet she hadn’t slept, showered, or eaten a decent meal in a while.
Hustling to the car, he clicked his tongue to ensure Achilles kept close.
The woman shivered against him. Her delicate body trembling in his arms triggered a strange protectiveness. One that eclipsed duty, stirring him on some primal level.
He shook it off before he softened, rearranging his thoughts.
Teeth chattering, she trembled and gasped for air as if she’d run a marathon. The combination of cold and shock must’ve been getting to her. The eye-popping dress she wore wasn’t helping. Three inches shorter and it would’ve failed to cover her ass. Ridiculous to wear the skimpy thing on such a breezy, frigid day.
Best to get her warmed up, comfortable, and safe at the Gray Box, fast. He picked up his pace and glanced down to check if her meds were taking effect. Her anxious gaze met his, and he was momentarily awestruck by the sweetness of her face up close, her arresting bone structure, those crazy-beautiful eyes—a raw mix of wildfire and a haunting fragility.
He opened the passenger’s side door of the bulletproof government SUV and tucked her gently inside, careful not to hit her head on the frame. Throwing him an uneasy look, she clutched her messenger bag close to her chest. He flipped the latch on the frame of the door to engage the detainment function. Sort of like a child safety lock to prevent someone from opening the door from the inside but for adults taken into custody.
The fine hairs on the nape of his neck raised—that instinctual sense of warning. He wheeled around, scanning the area. All clear. Nothing and nobody stood out.
He hurried to the driver’s side. With a whistle, he let Achilles hop in. The dog scooted between the front seats to the back. He had stayed with the young woman the entire time. Best damn mutt ever had earned himself a steak dinner.
“I’ve secured the target,” he said to Alistair over comms, gunning the engine, and peeled out of the parking spot, hitting Louisiana Avenue. “Headed back to headquarters.”
“You missed the rest of the fun. Those boys cleared out like ghosts, scattering to the four winds as soon as the bells stopped ringing.”
His palms itched. It was that familiar whisper of warning. “Their degree of self-control, the impeccable timing, something about it bothers me.” Castle cranked on the heater to help warm the woman. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear they were operatives.”
“This line of work, sometimes we’re two different sides of the same coin. Reaper and Maddox are in pursuit of two via car. We lost the others. I’ll hitch a ride back with Reece.”
“Roger. See you at headquarters.” He removed his earpiece and set the wireless device, half the size of a thimble, onto the console. “Any idea who those guys were and why they want you dead?” He glanced in his rearview mirror and then over at his passenger.
She held a small canister of pepper spray aimed at his face. “Stop the car. Let me out.”
Well, she’d recovered faster than expected.
“Depressing that in a compact, enclosed environment wouldn’t bode well for either one of us. Besides, I’m one of the good guys.” He sped up as the traffic light turned yellow, whizzing across D Street. “Just saved your life, remember? I only want to get you somewhere safe to talk.”
He glanced in the rearview mirror.
Behind them, a silver SUV tore around a black sedan, cutting into the opposite lane, and ran the red light. They had a tail. Damn, these guys were impressive.
“You said you were a government agent but haven’t shown me any ID. Even if you’re telling the truth, it doesn’t necessarily make you one of the good guys.” She eyed him with her spine pressed against the door but tracked their position in traffic with furtive glances out the window. Probably gauging their approach toward Massachusetts Avenue and Union Station. “Pull over, up ahead. Columbus Circle.”
Zero possibility of letting her go. The Gray Box couldn’t afford to lose her. She obviously knew something important, and with the serious heat on her ass, she wouldn’t make it much longer on her own. But Castle had her and he wasn’t going to let anything unfortunate happen. Like her taking a hypodermic needle loaded with only-God-knows-what to her neck or a bullet between the eyes.
“Skepticism is smart.” He swiped the canister from her hand and tossed it onto the floor underneath his legs. Her eyes flared wide, blinking with surprise. “But unnecessary with me.”
H
e stopped the car at the green light, waiting to enter the two-way flow of traffic at Columbus Circle. Vehicles behind him skidded to a halt, and a series of horn beeps followed.
She turned for the door and jerked the handle. Dead click. Locked.
“Unlock it.” She yanked the handle over and over, cheeks reddening. Distress and fear splashed across her face. “Let me out.”
Annoyed drivers honked behind them, but Castle tightened his composure with calculated resolve. “Sorry, can’t let you out. Matter of national security. I need you.”
“Stop saying that.” She narrowed her eyes like she wanted to claw his from their sockets. “You Uncle-Sam thugs throw around national security like it was a license to strip citizens of civil liberties, spy on us without court orders, and lock us in black sites for reasons too classified to discuss. I’m calling national bullcrap.”
Great. She sounded like one of those antigovernment, antimilitary—which pretty much meant anti-Castle—nutcases. Probably the reason she’d turned to a loony conspiracy theorist blogger for help rather than authorities. The chief would have a field day with her.
The traffic light flashed yellow.
In the side mirror, he sighted the silver SUV two cars back. Horns blared. His passenger screamed for help, banging on the darkly tinted window, drawing attention from lookie-loos.
Castle tuned it out, steeling himself, and waited for the right moment to move.
The traffic light switched to red. He resisted the urge to drive for three seconds, letting the adrenaline fire through him rather than control him, then punched the accelerator. He plowed into the thoroughfare as merging traffic began flowing.
The silver SUV whipped through an empty parking space and slammed up over the curb onto the sidewalk. People scattered, ducking out of the way. Their pursuers dove back into traffic on the main avenue, wheeling in front of several vehicles, but got hung up behind two buses.
Castle made a hard right, hung a left, and hooked another right to lose them. His POI shrieked nonstop—one long, high-pitched scream that grated on his eardrums.