THREE

His name was Otto Krieg.

And Otto Krieg was in a world of trouble.

“What is this?” Micky Duka shouted, looking around the dock wildly. “What’s going on? Otto?”

Duka’s eyes met Krieg’s. Otto reached into his belt and drew a gun.

“You brought a cop, Micky,” he said. “And he brought his friends!”

“Don’t look at me!” Duka shouted. “I swear, we didn’t—”

“Shut up,” Krieg said, and turned.

Astrov’s men had formed a protective circle around Yuri, and were backing away from the unloaded crates, back toward the gangway leading to the ship. Krieg’s eyes found Astrov’s, and the two men exchanged a look of understanding.

Otto knew exactly what his boss was thinking. Stay calm. Don’t panic. That’s our only chance.

Good advice, Krieg thought.

This Bobby whom Duka had brought, though . . .

He wasn’t listening.

“This is not good,” the young man said, shaking his head. “My father’s going to kill me.”

Krieg frowned. He didn’t understand.

“Your father? Who is your father?”

The man ignored him, continued to look around in fear. He had reason to be concerned, of course; the pier was filling with law enforcement personnel.

FBI, local police, SWAT teams in full body armor—it was hard for Krieg to tell who was who, there were so many of them.

His eyes fastened on a man in a suit at the head of one group—a black man, in a SWAT team helmet, carrying a megaphone.

The man’s eyes, in turn, fastened on him.

“You are under arrest for the importation and sale of contraband firearms,” the man said, continuing to move forward. “Drop the gun.”

Krieg considered the situation a moment. Astrov and his bodyguards had stopped moving, halfway to the gangplank. Duka had stopped, too, had his hands high up in the air, rooted to the spot.

Bobby, though, was still looking around frantically, searching for a way out.

The fool didn’t understand yet that there was none.

“Drop the gun,” repeated the man advancing on Krieg. “I won’t say it again.”

Otto shook his head, his eyes still fastened on Bobby.

In the countless number of times he’d played this scene out in his mind, it had never gone quite this way. He’d arranged this deal between Astrov and Duka, thought he’d calculated every possible way it could unfold, but the presence of this man, this Bobby-whoever whom Duka had brought to help finance his deal . . . it was like a joker turning up in a game of straight five-card draw. It threw everything off.

But there was nothing he could do about it now, other than play the cards as they’d been dealt.

Krieg turned suddenly on the agent with the megaphone, raised his gun, and took aim. For a split second, he had the drop on the man. Had a clear shot.

But, somehow, it was the other who fired first.

The bullet struck Krieg square in the chest. It felt like getting hit with a battering ram—he staggered backward, and swayed on his feet. The pain was incredible.

“Otto!” Duka shouted.

Krieg toppled to the dock. His head hit metal—hard— and his vision swam.

He looked up at the night sky, and saw blinking lights. A plane flying high above.

He looked down toward his chest, toward the pain, and saw red. A stain on his shirt that spread as he watched.

He looked up, and his eyes found Micky Duka’s.

And just beyond Micky, he saw Bobby’s hand reach into his belt, saw the glint of metal there—a gun, why had the man brought a gun?—and he knew the joker was wild, wilder than he had thought possible, and that everything was about to go horribly wrong.

He searched for his voice and managed only a croak.

“Drop the gun!” the man who’d shot him yelled, now turning on Bobby, his weapon still raised. “DROP THE GUN.”

Bobby wasn’t listening.

“This wasn’t my deal,” Krieg heard Bobby say, his voice sounding very far away, distorted somehow, almost as if it were coming from underwater. “I don’t even know these people.”

Bobby’s movements matched his voice—herky-jerky, awkward. Unpredictable. The worst possible thing to be in the middle of this kind of standoff, where the slightest wrong move could trigger unimaginable violence.

And then it happened.

By the gangplank, one of Astrov’s guards, maybe reacting to a movement of Bobby’s, or a sudden shift in position by the SWAT team, drew his weapon, uttered a curse, and fired.

The response was immediate and overwhelming.

Gunfire blazed across the dock, sounding like string after string of firecrackers going off.

The bodyguard who’d drawn his weapon jerked in the air like a marionette, then went down. A second later, so did Astrov, and then another bodyguard, who managed to draw his weapon and fire as he fell.

Bullets flew everywhere, ricocheting off the dock, splashing in the water, bouncing off the hull of the cargo ship. Micky Duka dove to the ground and covered his head with his hands.

Duka’s friend Bobby, though, stood stock-still in the middle of the pandemonium he’d created, then a split second later was caught in the cross fire.

He danced for a moment in the spotlight, spraying crimson everywhere.

No, Krieg thought. No.

“Bobby!” he heard Duka scream. For a moment, the sound echoed.

And then there was silence.

Time slowed. He was vaguely aware of sound, and movement, and pain, above all pain in his chest where the bullet had hit him. An ambulance siren. Duka whimpering.

Two men in white uniforms—EMTs hovering over him— pressing something to his chest, then shaking their heads.

“He’s done,” someone said. “I’m calling it. One thirty-seven A.M.”

Krieg tried to move and found he couldn’t. He felt his legs being lifted, then his arms, and the sensation of something plastic against his skin. A body bag, he realized.

Was this what it felt like to die?

The zipper closed over him, and everything went black. He felt movement, as if he were being carried down a long dark tunnel. And in the darkness, his mind continued to race.

The first thing he thought was this: Yuri Astrov was done, as was the arms-trafficking organization he ran, the organization for which Krieg had spent the last two years of his life working. No one would emerge from the ranks to take Astrov’s place, because no one else had the personal connections to so many of the old Kremlin higher-ups.

The second thing that came to mind was an image. The image of Duka’s friend Bobby, standing frozen on the dock as the bullets struck him.

Could Krieg have prevented the boy’s death? He tried to gather his thoughts, analyze his actions and reactions back on the pier, but soon he realized that what he was feeling had more to do with emotion than objective truth. Guilt. And this was no time for guilt; he would have to wait until later, when he was away from the theater of battle, to examine Bobby’s death again.

For now, he had to maintain his focus.

Because eventful as the night had been so far, it was a long, long way from being over.

The vehicle he was riding in came to a sudden stop. Doors opened and slammed shut, shoes pounded on concrete, doors opened again.

Light—bright, harsh, omnipresent—flooded in on him.

Otto Krieg—aka FBI special agent Frank Castle, ex-Marine, ex–Delta Force, and soon to be ex-agency as well— sat up, his legs still inside the body bag, and blinked.

His immediate superior, Jimmy Weeks—sans SWAT team helmet, sans the gun he’d “fired” on Castle/Krieg only minutes before—stood over him, concern etched on his face.

“You all right?”

Castle managed a nod.

“The part of the job you never get used to. Gimme a hand, Jimmy.”

Weeks did, steadying the gurney so Frank could climb the rest of the way out of the body bag and get to his feet.

“Well, ‘Otto’—thank God I don’t have to listen to that terrible German accent of yours anymore.”

“You wouldn’t know a good German accent if it bit you on your frankfurter,” Castle shot back, peeling off his stained shirt. Underneath, the squibs that had exploded when Weeks ‘shot’ him hung loosely from an ultrathin nylon filament— Weeks tugged on the filament to pull it off, and the wire cut into Castle’s shoulder.

“Hey. Take it easy.”

“Hurry up. We gotta get you out of here.”

“Here” was the staging garage they’d called home for the last six months, since the decision had been made to shift operational HQ for Ares down to Tampa. A garage, ironically enough, located just a few minutes away from Tampa Trans-national Pier, where Astrov’s freighter had docked, where even now local PD were scrambling to clean up a mess that no one would want to have to explain in the morning.

At least Weeks and his team had made it easier for the authorities by removing the bodies, Castle saw. Five body bags lay on gurneys next to the one he’d just risen from.

“Frank . . .” Weeks prompted again. “Come on.”

“Hold on a second.” He had a flight to catch, a chopper would be here for him any minute, but there was a little time, at least. Castle went to the nearest body bag and unzipped it.

Yuri Astrov, his face frozen in a rictus of surprise, stared up at him. Castle stared back, remembering the hundreds of hours he’d spent in the Russian’s service, and all at once he realized that the man had died thinking the two of them were friends, that the oblivion death had brought to him had also spared Astrov the sting of betrayal, the pain of learning that the man he’d considered his right hand was in fact his bitterest enemy.

Death, too, had spared him the sting of a lifetime in prison, a lifetime of long, cold, desolate nights and empty days, a lifetime to reflect on his crimes and the pain he had caused, pain Castle had planned to remind him of by visiting Astrov as often as possible.

Castle shook his head. “What the hell happened back there, Jimmy? Who was that kid that Duka brought?”

“Don’t know. Definitely not in the plan. We’ll deal with it, though—not to worry.” Weeks clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on—no long faces. You did good work back there. Good work for the last two years. We beat the spread, Frank.”

“This isn’t football.”

“Figure of speech.”

“People weren’t supposed to die out there.”

“People are never supposed to die.”

Castle could only nod. One of the EMTs moved in between him and Astrov’s body then, and zipped the bag the rest of the way open.

“Forget this one—we know who he is,” Frank said. “Let’s get the others ID’d, and get ’em to the morgue.”

The EMT looked past him to Weeks.

“We’ll handle it, Frank,” Jimmy said. “Now, come on. Sandoval’s waiting.”

Castle’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Waiting? You mean he’s here?”

“Not here,” Weeks snapped. “He’s going to fly back to Washington with you—do the debriefing himself, on the plane.”

“You sure about that?” It didn’t make any sense—why would the deputy director want to debrief him personally, in the middle of the night? Why wouldn’t he wait for Weeks, who was AIC on the op, who hadn’t been half unconscious when gunfire erupted, to file his reports?

“Those were the orders I got,” Jimmy said. “Believe me, I wouldn’t be rushing around like this without a damn good reason.”

With a final nod to the EMTs, Weeks exited the staging area. Castle was a step behind him.

“I guess we’re not going to be able to grab that beer then,” he said.

“No.” Weeks shook his head. “I guess not.”

Frank searched for words, for what he wanted to say next.

He’d known Jimmy Weeks for more than a decade now, since they’d served together in Desert Shield. After the mess with Lanauer in Bosnia, it had been Weeks, already a bureau veteran, who’d helped Frank make the decision to leave Delta Force and come over to the FBI. The two of them had stayed close, despite working in different parts of the country, until fate—and Ares—had brought them together again here in Tampa.

That close association was about to end, though.

Because Castle was leaving Tampa tonight, and the country itself a few days after that. A new assignment—a desk assignment—in London. He’d hoped to have a chance to say good-bye to Jimmy—in more than a few words—before flying back to his family this evening.

Now it looked as if those few words were going to have to do.

“Hey, Jim,” he said. “Hold up a minute.”

Weeks kept on walking.

“Jimmy, listen up, will you? There’s something I want to say.”

Weeks turned a corner and disappeared from sight.

Castle frowned after him. What, had the man suddenly gone deaf? He quickened his own pace, turned the corner . . .

And walked, all at once, into a sea of familiar, smiling faces.

Fleury and Carter from the Tampa field office, Clark and Shannon of Task Force C, virtually everyone on Ares support, and Weeks himself, grinning like a pig who had just stepped in shit.

“What—” was all he had time to say before everyone reared back and yelled at the top of their lungs:

“Surprise!”

Castle blinked, and looked up. A banner hung on the wall just in front of him: HAPPY RETIREMENT, FRANK.

For the second time that night, and for an entirely different reason, Castle had trouble finding his voice.

“A surprise party,” he said dully.

“Yeah. A surprise party. You didn’t really think Sandoval was going to leave Quantico just to talk to you, did you?” Weeks shook his head. “You’ve been out of touch with reality too long, Frank.”

Castle could only smile at that. It was true. He’d been out of touch with reality—with real life—for way too long.

Which was, after all, the reason he was giving up this part of the job.

Someone pressed a glass of champagne into his hand. Well-wishers congregated around him, slapped him on the back, told him how much they appreciated working with him, how much he would be missed. The change in 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— My father’s going to kill me—and thought: Well . . . you don’t have to worry about that anymore, kid.

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.