by Juno Rushdan
It’d been the same for the Outliers. The critical difference was that the government routinely abused its power.
“I don’t like it, but I get it.” Her voice was raspy, her throat dry as sandpaper. “Do you have anything to drink?”
“I’ll get you water inside.”
The asphalt path curved, leading to a giant gray box-shaped building with pillars along the front. He pulled into the oddest parking lot, as if the asymmetrical spots had been planned around the trees.
He parked close to the entrance and killed the engine.
After letting the dog out of the car, he strode around to her side and opened the door. A chilly breeze perked her up. Shivering, she threw her feet on the ground and stood. Dizziness waylaid her and she swayed, grasping the door. Starved, exhausted, in dire need of a shower, now dehydrated…things were taking a toll.
“You okay?” he asked in that calm, commanding voice and curled a gentle hand on her shoulder, steadying her. “I can carry you if necessary.”
He stepped in, caging her between the open car door and his jaw-dropping wall of muscle. Not in a threatening way. More in a make-her-knees-weak sort of way.
“Do you want me to carry you?” he repeated.
Oh gosh. She was staring, tingling…
“No.” Her cheeks burned from the lie and she bit her lip. No should’ve been the truth. Bald, brawny, Big- Brother kidnappers weren’t her type. Not now. Not in a million years. “I’d rather crawl than be carried by some G-man.” She hoped the razor-sharp disdain was enough to cut and knocked his hand from her shoulder.
His perfect superhero jaw went so taut, it didn’t look real.
She clenched her hands, snapping to her full height of five feet eight inches. Ten including the chunky heels.
Still, she had to tilt her head back to get closer to a face-to-face position of strength.
He lowered his head, bringing them nearly nose-to-nose, sunglasses shielding his eyes.
The barely-there contact, the proximity, should’ve roused her hackles. It didn’t.
Her fingers twitched, but oddly not to bash him. That inconvenient tingle spread to parts of her that would definitely be interested in parts of him under different circumstances.
What in the Sam Hill was happening?
Stress must’ve done a number on her if she was distracted by the stirrings of something that should not be labeled. He was about to haul her into an undisclosed government facility, and she should be fighting tooth and nail.
She shook off her visceral reaction to him, not wanting to dwell on it. He was irritating enough without psychoanalyzing all this.
“I guarantee letting me carry you would be more fun. But suit yourself.”
Was that supposed to be a joke? There was no smile, no laugh lines, no warmth in his tone, and he didn’t strike her as a kid-around Joe, but how else to take it?
“I don’t see anything remotely humorous about this,” she said.
“I’m doing my best to put you at ease here. You don’t know me, but that’s saying a lot. And you’re right. There’s nothing funny about terrorists stealing Z-1984. I guarantee whatever they have planned for it will be horrifying.”
She swallowed hard. Her Outliers had colluded with terrorists. Anything she admitted now could be used against her in a court of law. Why hadn’t she fought harder to stop Jasper in the first place? Despite the team vote against her, who would believe she hadn’t been involved?
This was bad. Prison time kind of bad.
“And G-man is reserved for the FBI,” he said, “which I’m not.”
“G-man, company man, yes-man with a badge and a gun. Whatever. The point is I don’t need to be carried by my kidnapper, secret agent or otherwise.”
“What you do need is clarification, so I’ll make this crystal clear. Kidnapping is illegal. Bringing you in for questioning is within the scope of the law. And when you were having your little heart episode earlier, you most certainly needed to be carried by this field officer, who also happened to have saved your life.”
He took a step back, his long legs giving her plenty of space.
A chill raked her at the sudden loss of his body’s protection from the wind.
With his chin, he gestured let’s go.
She pivoted on her heel and strode to the giant gray box, head held high like an innocent person. Inwardly cringing, she still worked her bravest you-can’t-touch-this strut.
Inside the building, he swiped an ID card across one of two turnstiles located on either side of a metal detector and directed her to walk through the sensor. No alarm sounded.
The lobby was a wide space with dark polished concrete walls and floor. A curved ivory marble desk veined with bluish-gray and gold sat as an eye-catching centerpiece.
Castle spoke to the two guards behind the desk using lots of acronyms and jargon like POI and topside. The only bit she understood clearly was the guys behind the desk agreed to take care of Achilles, who apparently belonged to someone named Knox, until Janet was ready to take the dog home.
“Who are Knox and Janet?” she asked.
“Knox is our second-in-command. He’s been deployed forever. Janet, the boss’s assistant, is pet-sitting Achilles until he gets back.”
They passed the security desk, crossing the lobby under a second level balcony toward the elevator. No other exits. One way in. One way out.
The banana she ate for breakfast curdled in her stomach. “Who runs the show here?”
“The chief. One of a kind, old-guard. They don’t make them like him anymore.” The reverence in his voice made her skin prickle with unease. “You’ll meet him.” Castle’s menacing swagger conflicted with his casual tone. “Since you didn’t want to answer my questions, you’ll get to answer his.”
“Whoopee.” She waved her hands in mock excitement. “That sounds about as fun as an enema with a fire hose.” She pushed back the hood of her sweater, fluffed out her shoulder-length hair, and ran a hand along the shaved side patch on her head.
Castle gave her the side-eye. Unwelcomed awareness rippled through her. No hood, no makeup, nothing to hide behind.
Under normal circumstances, she prided herself on nonconformity and thumbed her nose at convention, but the people here were going to judge her based on her appearance, demeanor, and, most importantly, her answers. Maybe Castle was forming a new judgment about her now.
His sunglasses concealed his eyes, but the intensity of his gaze made her armpits sweat. She chewed the inside of her lip, wishing he’d stop staring.
“Edgy,” he finally said, giving a little nod.
His approval surprised her about as much as the ridiculous flush heating her cheeks.
Castle went up to a wall-mounted panel fitted with an ocular device next to the elevator. He tucked his shades inside his jacket and brought his eye to the biometric reader for a retina scan.
Jeez. This place had a no-bullcrap security protocol that did squat to ease her jitters. The steel doors opened. Her throat closed, muscles tensed. She was on the cusp of freak-out mode.
Castle strode inside, slipping off his jacket. She began to follow as he turned, facing her, and their gazes collided.
The shock of color in his eyes was unexpected. A startling green bleeding into blue that left her a little breathless. Her toe caught on the threshold and she tripped into the elevator, her body vaulting forward. It was almost certain she’d kiss the floor in a painful face-plant, but he glided in with action-hero reflexes, sweeping an arm around her waist.
Next thing she knew, she was on her feet and plastered against him. He was football-player tall, six-four, maybe six-five, twice her weight and built like a bull, all bone and rock-solid muscle. Castle was a fitting name.
“Careful.” A half grin hitched the corner of his mouth, and something in her chest li
fted too. “I’d hate to lose you in an accident.”
Standing this close, she caught the smell of him. Warm, rough-and-tumble masculine without being overbearing. Like his smile, the scent of his aftershave or cologne surprised her.
But if she was close enough to smell him, then he could also smell her. She recoiled, dropping her arms like he was a hot piece of iron and she feared third-degree burns.
He grimaced, stirring confusing emotions she refused to dwell on. A second later, his face was a blank slate. She tore her gaze from him, ignoring the odd fluttering deep in her rib cage that had nothing to do with her heart condition.
More like the side effects of adrenaline and her anger over being dragged into this place. If there had been a moment between them—and there hadn’t—then she was having an early onset of Stockholm syndrome.
The doors slid shut with a hush. Laser beams scanned them from head to toe.
“What is that?” she asked, referring to the light show.
“Technical surveillance countermeasures. The system checks for unauthorized devices. Personal cell phones. Bugs.”
The beams disappeared, and the elevator moved. She glanced at the floor indicator. Negative numbers? “Are we going down?”
“Yes.” He sounded as cold and detached as he appeared. “To the sixth sublevel.”
A dungeon. Not a soul knew where to look for her. Not that there was anyone left who cared enough to file a missing person report.
Thrusting her chin up and pulling on her fearless façade, she braced for whatever might be on the other side of the doors. Survival of the strongest.
06
Gray Box Headquarters, Northern Virginia
11:15 a.m. EDT
A spitfire with a sassy mouth and brass lady-nuts was a hard-hitting rarity. And something Castle couldn’t let get the better of him if he was going to get the job done.
The chief gave leeway to Alistair. It was the Brit’s nature to be a consummate flirt, but with Castle, nothing ever sidetracked him. If the boss caught a glimmer of anything outside the strict bounds of professionalism, he’d be reassigned. Without discussion.
Scrubbing a palm over his smooth head, Castle shored himself up for the task at hand: retrieving stolen bioweapons before a terrorist used them on innocents. This woman had answers and he was determined to get them. Once he started an op, he saw it through to the end.
The elevator doors opened onto the operations floor, sixth sublevel. He strode off and waited for her to kick into gear.
Chin held high, she clutched the strap of her messenger bag and sashayed off with the haughty strut of a runway model. The woman was incredible. If she hadn’t cracked in the car, he would’ve believed this little façade.
He escorted her down the carpeted main hall lined with six-foot high partitions, dividing the Black Ops section from Intel. Despite being underground, the neutral color scheme of sunny beige, soft gray, and seafoam blue imbued the space with the serenity of a perfect day at sea.
Low chatter filled the air from the televisions over in Intel, tuned to news around the world from BBC to Al Jazeera. Her eyes were wide and her head on a swivel.
Reece rounded the corner from an intersecting corridor that led to the break room and administrative offices, where the boss resided. Not surprising Reece and Alistair had beaten him back. Losing the tail and subduing the mystery woman had caused a bit of a delay.
“Hey.” Reece waved to Castle. As he took a sip from his coffee mug, his gaze flickered to the firecracker. “See you bagged our POI,” Reece said, nodding to their person of interest.
“Oh, please.” She made an appalled sound. “You need to come up with less offensive terminology. We”—she pointed between herself and Reece—“have different definitions of bag. And don’t talk about me as if I wasn’t standing right here.”
Reece rocked back on his heels, tipping his ball cap that read The Hustle and Grind is Real. “Pardon me. Meant no offense, Miss…what’s your name? Or should I call you POI?”
“Poy works,” she said, stringing the letters of the acronym into a word.
“Not poi, like the Hawaiian dish.” Typical grit roughened Castle’s tone. “POI as in person of interest.”
“Whatever.” She rolled her eyes, jutting her chin high enough to put a crick in her neck.
Second time she’d said whatever to him in her snippy, kiss-off tone. A third occurrence would be met with a swift lesson in manners, and he was the perfect teacher.
“POI works too.” Her bearing was composed, her air of confidence almost believable.
Reece’s eyebrows shot up. “The meeting with the chief should be interesting. I can’t wait to witness it.”
“Sit this one out,” Castle said, “but I could use Willow and Doc in the conference room.”
Reece took a swig from his mug. “Padding?”
Castle nodded, grateful for Reece’s easy-rolling, discreet nature. Their POI was suspicious and tight-lipped. Padding the room with females might soften her and incline her toward cooperation.
“With this one,” Castle said, gesturing with his head at Jane Doe, “it’s best.”
“Excuse me, can you see me from way up there on your high horse?” She waved both hands in front of his face. “Because you’re talking about me again as if I’m not standing beside you where I can hear you.”
“You should watch your sharp tongue,” Castle said.
Her eyes flared with irresistible fire. “Or what, big bad secret agent? Hmm?”
The art of smooth talking to get what he wanted was lost on him, but even if Castle had been an expert, she would’ve tested him. He drew a deep breath, bottling his quick temper.
“I see you’ve got your hands full.” Reece raised both eyebrows. “Willow’s at her desk. I’ll grab her and look for Doc.”
Castle nodded his thanks and ushered their POI further down the hall.
Passing the clocks lined on the wall displaying times from eastern standard to Japan, his gaze fell on the conference room. The transparent walls had been darkened to an opaque slate, hiding the occupants. Maybe the chief was already inside, ready to rock and roll.
“I’m a bit disappointed,” she said. “Thought you’d be capable of mustering a retort worthy of a shudder back there.”
He stopped in front of the conference room door and pointed a finger at her while giving his fiercest look. “Careful what you wish for. You just might get me completely unfiltered and unfettered.”
She didn’t bat an eyelash. “Is that a promise or a threat?”
Sweet hell. Her unvarnished directness left him speechless. She was pushing all his buttons in god-awful ways. But he didn’t hate it nearly as much as he enjoyed it.
“I suggest you don’t let your mouth bite off more than you can chew. Much less swallow. Wouldn’t want you choking on all that gall.”
“I may have a faulty heart, but you’d be amazed by what I can handle. Don’t underestimate me.”
Her warning was loud and clear, and he respected the hell out of her for it. If he didn’t find a backbone of steel in a fiery woman so damn sexy, he might’ve been peeved.
“I’ll remember that.” He pushed the door open and hiked his thumb, directing her inside.
She waltzed into the conference room with her ready-to-take-on-an-army attitude and he bit back a smile, schooling his expression.
Alistair was seated, feet propped on the black glass table, ankles crossed. “My, oh my, what a difference no hoodie makes.” He flashed a flirty grin at her. “I’m Alistair. Can I get you something to make you more comfortable, dear? Coffee? Tea? Me?”
Castle shook his head at Alistair’s typical garbage. “Scram. I’m limiting the numbers in the room when the chief talks to her.”
“Are you staying?” Alistair asked.
“Of cours
e.” The answer should’ve been obvious.
“Then so am I.” Alistair folded his arms. “We’re partners on this. Bagged her together.”
“Sheesh.” She plopped in a seat across the table from Alistair. “Could you fellas use a different word? No one bagged me.”
Castle didn’t spare Alistair a glance, his gaze locked on the mystery woman as he spoke to the Brit. “Get lost. I want to limit the number of swinging dicks in the room.”
“Why?” she asked.
Alistair cleared his throat, stealing her focus. “It can be a bit much for a civilian.” His British accent rolled smoother than normal, and Castle swore the guy had deepened his voice an octave. “With all the muscles and testosterone and sizzling heat we’re packing. And I don’t mean the hardware in our holsters.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Stow it, Allie,” Castle said.
Secretly, he envied Alistair’s chatty, loose manner that never hindered his performance in the field and sometimes had a surprising way of getting people to lower their guard.
Alistair pulled his feet off the table and rested his forearms on the glass surface, his full attention on her. “Ignore that abrasive beast, luv. He’s always got a cob on around me, so jealous of my irresistible charm and dashing good looks.” He winked at her.
Bastard had the balls to wink. “Shut your mouth and you can stay,” Castle said.
“Deal.” Alistair clamped his lips closed, pretended to lock them with a key, and tossed it. If only it was that easy. The moratorium on his silence wouldn’t last long.
“I’m going to grab the chief.”
“Castle, wait.” Her lips parted as if to say more. A deep crease furrowed her brow and she clutched the arm of the chair, knuckles losing all color.
He was stumped at first, but then the reason for her alarm hit him. In the car, he’d promised not to leave her side. He’d doubted she’d remembered, but it was the only explanation for the shift in her composure.
Beneath her tough-girl pretense, she was terrified. He shouldn’t care, considering that scared was the best state of mind to get someone talking, but he did.