FIFTEEN

Frank came around a long sweeping curve and saw, lying just off the road, the Jeep, smashed and mangled almost beyond recognition. He roared to a stop next to it, ran to the cab, his heart pounding with fear.

There was no one inside. Where—

He looked around, scanning the jungle, the beach, the pier. . . .

Then he frowned. There was his father’s pickup, the one that had been chasing Maria and Will, at the very end of the dock, just now coming to a stop.

Something—two somethings—lay on the pier between the truck and him.

“No,” he said. “No.”

Frank Castle began to run then, an unbearable, unthinkable certainty growing in his mind with every step.

Saint pointed off the end of the pier.

“Quentin. Those are the boats, am I right?”

Glass squinted and saw Saint was indeed correct. Off in the distance, moored to a small thin spit of land, the two cigarette boats they’d used to mount the assault bobbed in the ocean.

“We could swim to them from here, I bet. Whaddaya think?”

Glass shook his head. “Not a good idea. John, we need to get back to the compound. Find Castle, take care of him, and get out of here.”

“Right. You’re right, Quentin.” Saint smiled. “That’s why my dad pays you the big bucks, isn’t it? ’Cause you’re always right.”

Saint nodded. “That’s one of the reasons.” Another being that, unlike you, my young friend, I know my ass from my elbow . . . but of course he didn’t say that out loud.

Saint dropped the truck into reverse, turned to check his mirrors, and smiled. “Hey look who just showed up, Quentin,” he said.

Glass turned to look and then smiled himself.

Goddamn if it wasn’t Frank Castle, come to join the party.

He dropped to his knees, and took them into his arms.

They felt so small, so light. Like nothing at all.

But they had been his entire world.

Why had it taken him so long to see that? Why had he wasted so much time, fighting other people’s battles, and let the days, the months, the years pass by apart from them? Years he could never have back now.

Maria’s hair had fallen down over her face. He brushed it back and touched her cheek.

The voices in his head were too much to bear.

“You’re my hero, Frank Castle.”

“It means you’re a badass.”

“You turned out all right.”

“You’re my hero, Frank Castle.”

“We ought to have another.”

“You married a Castle, honey.”

“You get the rest of ’em, Frankie.”

“You’re my hero.”

He heard another voice then, behind those voices, a voice that grew louder and louder until it was the only thing he could hear. This voice spoke no words, though—it simply made a single, continuous guttural sound. A scream.

It was him, Frank Castle realized. He was screaming.

His wife and son, his mother and father, his entire family, all were dead, and he was screaming because it was his fault.

He became aware that the pier beneath him was vibrating.

Castle looked up. The pickup truck had turned around and was bearing down on him now. There were four men in it— the two riding in the bed had weapons out, pointed at him.

He had a weapon, too, Castle remembered.

He laid his wife and son down gently on the dock.

Maria. Will.

He rose to his feet, cocked the trigger, and charged.

“The guy is fucking certifiable,” Saint said. “Look at him.”

Glass was looking. Castle did indeed look certifiable, was certainly behaving that way; this was without a doubt the first time he’d seen anyone attack a pickup truck—but just because he was crazy didn’t make him any less dangerous.

“Shoot,” he yelled, turning so Dante and Spoon could hear him. “Shoot him, damn it!”

They were shooting, he realized. The pier around Castle splintered even as he watched. Glass reached for his own weapon. But the man was still coming, firing as he charged, taking aim directly at—

The windshield shattered.

“Fuck,” John Saint said. “Hang on!”

The truck swerved, and Glass did indeed hang on, as best he could.

Maria, he thought, or screamed; he couldn’t tell which. Will.

The truck was coming at him fast, the men in back firing, the man in the passenger seat drawing his own gun now, the driver’s mouth open in surprise, looking suddenly, hauntingly familiar, and Castle thought—

Him. Shoot him—and his arm swiveled; he sighted down the barrel, looking right into the driver’s eyes, and saw the man curse and turn the wheel.

The truck swerved hard to the right, flew past him, missing by inches, and slammed into the concrete pilings at the end of the pier.

Castle strode quickly toward the wreck, wondering if he had enough bullets left in the revolver to kill all four men. Probably not, but that was just as well.

He’d prefer to use his hands, anyway.

The two men who’d been riding in the bed both lay still in it now. The driver was shaking his head, trying to clear it. The man in the passenger seat was trying to open his door, but was not succeeding. It looked to Castle as if the frame was bent.

Take care of them first, he wondered, or the other two? The ones in back, he decided, were just soldiers, following orders. Kill them quick, use the bullets. Take your time with the other two.

As he was deciding that, one of the men in the back suddenly rolled over, raised a weapon, and shot him.

He felt the bullets tear into his shoulder and leg; then he was kneeling on the ground, vaguely aware of the physical pain, but what the fuck did physical pain matter to him now.

He raised his revolver and squeezed the trigger.

But the only sound that came out of the gun was a single, pitiful click.

Sonuvabitch. He’d used up all the bullets.

All right. He’d have to do this the old-fashioned way, by hand. First things first—on your feet, soldier.

He used an old trick from his Delta training—the only worthwhile thing that prick Cauley had ever taught him. Project past the pain, to your opponent. Visualize the attack.

Castle visualized himself rising up, walking over to the man who’d shot him, and squeezing his throat till his eyes popped out of his head.

But his leg wouldn’t obey. It buckled beneath him, and then he felt pain—a sudden, stabbing pain.

His vision blurred.

“Sayonara, Charlie.” The man who’d shot him stepped forward and raised his weapon again.

No. It couldn’t end like this. He’d taken on the best soldiers in the world, the most lethal terrorists out there, the cream of the scum, like Litton used to say. He couldn’t die on a pier in the middle of nowhere. No. Maria. Will.

“You’re my hero, Frank Castle.”

Get up hero, he told himself. Get up and live.

“Hey, hold on, Dante. I wanna do this asshole, right?”

Castle heard a door open, heard footsteps coming toward him. He tried to focus—was able to make out two figures coming toward him, one on either side. Flanking manuever. They would attack together, so . . .

He flipped the gun in his hand around so that he had the grip to use as a weapon.

Someone kicked it out of his hand. Before he could think of what to do next, he was being lifted up off his feet, two sets of arms holding him, yanking him hard in one direction and then the other. And then no one was holding him.

His back smashed into something—the dock railing— and he heard wood crack. Then he was falling.

A thousand-pound weight slammed into him from behind, knocking all the air out of his chest. Everything went black, and he lay still for a moment.

Voices from above reached him.

“. . . screwing around, and do this quick.”

“Quentin. Relax. Quick is a relative term, my friend. We can spare an extra minute.”

Castle opened his eyes. He was lying spread-eagle on the refueling dock. Every bone in his body felt as if it was broken. He tried to move, but the pain was too much. Too much.

The sun beat down on him. He blinked, and lay back.

“You’re my hero, Frank Castle.”

No, he thought. I’m no one’s hero. I fucked up so bad, honey. I’m so sorry.

Water lapped against his arm. The ocean—he could smell it, mixed in with the odor of gas from the pump nearby. Except, a second later, the gas smell became overpowering, and he realized that he wasn’t just smelling it. . . . He was lying in it.

He pushed onto his elbows and saw an overturned drum of gas on the dock ten feet away from him; the man from the passenger seat stood behind it, regarding him impassively.

Castle bit back a groan and pushed himself onto his feet. He swayed a moment, trying to gain his balance.

The driver was walking down the ramp from the pier to the loading dock, walking toward him, a broad smile on his face, a pistol in his hand. It was the first really good look Castle had gotten at the man.

He blinked.

It was Bobby Saint.

An instant later, he realized that it wasn’t.

It was Saint’s twin, John. He’d read about that; Howard Saint had had two sons.

Howard Saint. That was who—

The man stopped a yard away from him.

“My mother and father send their regards, Otto. Frank. Whatever the fuck your name is.” He raised the gun. “Sorry to tell you, chief—this time, they’re not blanks.”

He fired.

The bullet hit Castle square in the chest.

He gasped and staggered backward. Fell to his knees, right in the exact same spot from which he’d just gotten up.

The man from the passenger seat walked to the refueling pump and turned it on. He threw the hose on the ground— gasoline spewed everywhere, flooding what parts of the dock weren’t soaked with fuel already.

Then he joined Saint and the others, ascending the ramp, heading back toward the pier.

Castle tried to focus. He had to get off the pier, too.

Only problem was, his body refused to move.

He blinked and looked up at the men who’d killed him. Who’d killed his family. All because of a stupid accident that Castle would have done anything in his power to avoid.

From the pier above, John Saint waved down to him, then shouted something, a shit-eating grin on his face. The passenger knelt down next to the ramp, which all at once erupted in flames.

Get up, Castle. Get up or die.

The fire surged toward him, faster than he could conceive of moving. He could feel the heat from it, getting closer, and braced himself.

It would be over in an instant, he thought. A very painful instant, but he’d felt pain before. He’d been tortured before, and the trick was to keep your mind someplace else.

He put his where he always did. With Maria, right before he’d left for Desert Shield, the bus door open behind him, the engine running, tears in her eyes as she had looked up at him and said, “You’re my hero, Frank Castle.”

The flames leapt toward him, brushing past the gas pump.

And the world exploded.

“Sonuvabitch,” John Saint yelled. “Did you see that fucker fly?”

He was pointing down at the refueling dock, or what was left of the refueling dock, which had just blown sky-high, taking the gas pump, the little motorboat moored next to it, and Frank Castle right along with it.

“Like a fuckin’ Frisbee, boss,” Spoon said.

“Like fuckin’ Superman,” Dante chipped in.

“Not Superman. Just another dead Fed.” John Saint smiled and clapped Dante on the back. “That was good shooting before. Good work, everybody.”

Glass frowned. “I think,” he began, “it might not be a bad idea to find the body. Make sure that—”

“Ain’t no body left, Quentin. Look at that fire.”

Glass looked. It was a big fire, indeed, but still . . .

“That’s thirsty work. I need a fuckin’ beer, is what I need,” John Saint said. “Now where can I get a beer around here, hey?”

“Maybe back at that other place,” Dante suggested. “They had food there.”

“Yeah. That’s a good idea,” John Saint replied. “We gotta go back there anyway, get Cutter. Right?”

The three men started walking toward the truck. Glass continued to study the fire. As he watched, the refueling dock—what was left of it—slid into the water and disappeared from sight.

For once, he decided, John Saint was right. Castle was dead. No doubt about it.

But as the truck pulled back down the ramp, he continued to scan the ocean. Just in case.

The water was warm, and pink. Pink with his blood. Warm from the fire that raged above on the surface. He couldn’t swim through that fire, and he couldn’t swim around it.

All he could do now was die.

Frank Castle sank like a stone to the bottom of the ocean, too numb to feel anything at all, save his lungs, gasping for oxygen.

“You get the rest of ’em, Frankie.”

I tried, Dad. I swear I tried.

Something tugged at his belly. He looked down and saw a nurse shark—just a little one, not much more than a few feet long—helping itself to a piece of skin dangling from his chest. He swung awkwardly at it, and the shark retreated, its eyes never leaving his for a second.

Dead man’s eyes. The skull on the shirt his son had given him.

“It means you’re a badass, Dad. Not to be messed with.”

But they’d done just that; messed with him, messed him up as if he was nothing at all. Howard Saint and his kid and their goons. They’d killed his whole family, and there was nothing he could do about it. Not now, not ever.

Castle saw it all happen again: saw his mother fall to the ground, saw his father shotgunned from behind, watched Tommy and Rachel, Dom and Donal, and all the others slaughtered like animals; worst of all, he saw Maria and Will lying still on the pier, limp and lifeless, never to laugh or cry or kiss or love again. For a final, futile second, anger surged through his body.

What he wouldn’t do for one more chance at those bastards. God, he thought. Somebody. Anybody.

His vision blurred and darkened around the edges.

And at that second, the current shifted, and Castle saw something glinting in the water ahead of him. Metal. Round. A cylinder of some kind.

With the last of his strength, with his one good arm, he dragged himself forward to get a closer look.