TWENTY-FOUR

There. Finally.

Frank Castle watched the first truck drive past, then glanced at his watch.

Seven twenty-five A.M. Ten minutes behind schedule. It was the rain. It was only a drizzle, but the driver was undoubtedly under orders to take no chances. So the second truck would be late as well. The only question was how late. Much past eight o’clock, and Castle would have to abort: the traffic would be too heavy.

And if he aborted this morning, he would have to put everything else on hold as well for at least another week. Which would mean another week that Howard Saint and his family got to live their debauched, corrupt lives in front of his face while his wife and son rotted in the ground.

Unacceptable.

He had to take some kind of action. John Saint. Castle saw no conceivable way to use him in the plan. He served no purpose at all. Spent his days lying around the family pool and his nights throwing his father’s money around and fucking anything that moved. Killing him would be a pleasure. Kidnap him, take him back to the loft, really do to him what he’d only pretended to do to Duka . . .

Except he couldn’t. Just getting at John Saint would require going through several bodyguards. He did that, and Howard Saint’s antenna would go up and the whole plan would be threatened. No. If he aborted today, he would just have to wait. Patience. Patience was the key.

Frank Castle leaned back in the seat of the GTO. He was parked in the Channelside parking lot off Cumberland, looking north to downtown. From the lot, Castle had a perfect view of both the Saint Tower, some half-dozen blocks in the distance, and Meridian Street, on which the first truck had just driven past.

Seven twenty-six now. Even if the second truck, by some miracle, was on schedule, he had nineteen minutes to wait.

He would allot ten to review his plan.

There was a manila envelope on the seat next to him. Castle opened it and slid out a photo. Howard Saint, hitting from the tee at the eleventh hole of the Tampa Country Club. Time of picture: eight-fifty A.M., last Wednesday. The eleventh was a long hole, a par-five dogleg: the green was hidden from the tee. The green, in fact, was hidden from virtually everywhere and—conveniently enough—backed up onto the abandoned Parsons Chemical factory and the fence that separated the two. That had made the eleventh perfect for Castle’s purposes. Its isolated location would also allow him to abort the second phase of this morning’s operation should that become necessary.

He slid the photo of Saint back in the envelope and took out another.

This picture was of Livia Saint, coming from a spa, on her way to a movie. Taken at seven fifty-seven P.M., last Thursday. The photo was unrelated to today’s events, but Castle had selected it to review for its place in his larger scheme. Livia’s regular Thursday evening routine was the only part of her schedule that was predictable. He intended to use that predictability against her; two nights ago, it had suddenly occurred to him how.

Quentin Glass. Who’d provided Castle with his only surprise during the entire week of surveillance.

Castle reached into the envelope again, intending to pull out the photo of Glass that had helped crystallize his plan, but instead he came up with a shot of John Saint, parked in front of the Tampa 2001 Odyssey Strip Club, one-eighteen A.M., Sunday night, kissing two strippers good-bye, two more in the car waiting for him.

Castle dropped that picture to the floor and found the one he was looking for.

Quentin Glass, Howard Saint’s right-hand man, using his own right hand on a young boy in a way that—if Castle wasn’t mistaken—was now illegal in the state of Florida. Time of picture: three-fifteen P.M., Saturday afternoon.

He sat and thought then, reviewing details in his mind, refining lines, movements, motivations. It was a complex plan—because it depended so much on the actions and reactions of others, he couldn’t be exactly sure how it would all fall out. But of one thing, he was fairly certain.

At the end of the day, he would have his vengeance.

Seven thirty-nine. He put the pictures away.

Seven forty-seven. The second truck appeared on Meridian. Only two minutes late—this driver, obviously, was not as concerned about the rain. Castle was pleased.

He dropped the GTO in gear and followed.

“Hurry it up, sweetheart.”

Dante put a five down on the counter. The woman at the grill turned and glared at him.

“Money don’t make ’em cook any faster,” she said.

He rolled his eyes. What the fuck—try to provide a little motivation, and people give you attitude. It was just like Mr. Saint was always tellin’ him—the world was divided up into winners and whiners, and this fat broad cookin’ his egg sandwich was definitely a whiner.

He shook his head.

“Never mind.”

Dante picked up the five and headed for the door.

“Hey—what about the sandwich?”

“You eat it.”

“Hey! Goddamn it. You ordered it, you’re gonna pay for it!”

He kept walking. Yeah, he’d ordered it, but he’d said he was in a hurry, and five minutes to cook a fuckin’ egg, forget it.

“Asshole!”

Whoa.

He stopped walking and turned.

“What did you say?”

The woman put her hands on her hips. “I said—you were an asshole who—”

The dishwasher ran out from the kitchen, and stepped between the two of them. Young kid. Looked familiar. “Sorry, Mr. Dante, my aunt she gets a little tense this time of the morning. You gotta forgive her. She don’t necessarily know what she’s saying.”

The woman tried to push around the kid. “I know what I’m sayin’—hey, Nicky, what are you doin’?”

What the kid was doin’ was a smart thing, tryin’ to keep this woman from shootin’ her mouth off again because Dante was about to bitch slap her into next week. Mouthin’ off to him. Another thing Mr. Saint told him: If you want respect from people you gotta let ’em know you deserve it.

But now he knew who the kid was at least—Nicky Cressoti. Margie’s boy. Friend of Bobby’s, he’d seen him at the funeral.

“Hey, Nick,” he said. “How you been?”

“Okay. Workin’. Good to see you, Mr. Dante.”

“Yeah. You, too.” He gestured toward the fat broad. “Tell your aunt there, short order cook means things gotta come in short order, like quick, all right?”

“Yeah. Sure. Sorry, Mr. Dante.”

The woman peeked around Nicky. “Me, too. Sorry.”

She didn’t look sorry, she still looked pissed, but she also looked as if she’d finally clued in to who he was.

Dante nodded. “Sure. No problem.”

“You want some doughnuts instead, Mr. Dante?” Nick asked. He nodded to the display case by the register. “Come in fresh from Sunrise about an hour ago—some nice chocolate ones.”

Dante frowned. He was tryin’ to do that Atkins diet; that’s why he’d ordered the egg sandwich instead of stopping at Waffle House for his usual, but Sunrise doughnuts . . .

What the heck. A little break from the diet wouldn’t kill him.

“Yeah, sure. Gimme a couple. Chocolate frosted.”

Nick smiled. “Comin’ right up.”

“No.” The aunt moved past Nick, smiling herself now. “I get them.”

And she did—not just two, but a half dozen, taking them carefully out of the case and putting them in a pastry box for him. Dante watched her back as she carefully packed them and tied up the box with a piece of string. That was nice. Goin’ out of her way to make up for the bad impression she made.

“On the house,” she said, handing him the box.

“For you,” Dante said, holding out the five.

She shook her head. “No, I insist.”

Dante shrugged. What the heck.

“Okay. Thanks. Catch you next time, Nick.”

“So long, Mr. Dante.”

“Pleasure serving you,” the woman said.

Nice people, Dante thought on his way out the door. Put a smile on his face, turned his day around a little after the lousy start he’d had. The freakin’ dog that kept barkin’ last night, every hour on the hour, had kept him up till it was almost dawn, and then the power in his house goin’ off so that he overslept for the first time in all the years he’d been on the job for Mr. Saint. Which meant that he was late pickin’ up Spoon, which meant that they were gonna be late gettin’ to the tower, which meant Toros’ men would be pissed, but who cared about Toros’ men being pissed?

Not him. Besides, what did they really need him and Spoon there for?

Who in their right mind would fuck with Howard Saint’s money?