TWENTY-SEVEN

Brent knew something was up. The man kept staring at him during the whole meeting, shaking his head almost imperceptibly.

I can’t do this, Weeks thought. I can’t cover for Saint if things like this are going to keep happening.

He and Special Agent Brent had just spent the last hour briefing Police Chief Morris on the extent of their investigations into Howard Saint and Saint Holdings. Brent was running those investigations, and, for the last few months, Weeks had been subtly sabotaging them. Letting Saint know when and where surveillance or an undercover op was headed his way. For a while there, his misdirection seemed to be working. Brent and his team were getting frustrated, even thinking about calling off the investigation.

Not now. Not after the madness that had occurred this morning at the Saint building. Two dead bodies, fifty million dollars falling from the sky, fifty million dollars that, according to Saint’s people, did not even exist . . .

“You’ve given us some good leads here,” Chief Morris said, rising from his chair. “Thanks. We’ll start tracking some of this stuff down.”

“I wish we had more for you,” Brent said, reaching across the table and shaking Morris’s hand. “Resources are kind of tight these days.”

“I understand—believe me.” He held up the folder Brent had given him, then turned to Weeks. “I appreciate you getting involved in this, too, Agent Weeks.”

“Whatever I can do.” He and Morris shook hands as well. “Come on. I’ll walk you out.”

Weeks could feel Brent’s eyes on him as the two of them left the room.

“We’ll keep working NCIC for you, Chief,” Weeks said as the two of them made their way downstairs. NCIC was the bureau’s National Crime Information Center, the biggest database of its kind in the country. “See what we can find on the two dead guys.”

Morris nodded. “Still having a hard time thinking that Howard Saint’s involved in any of this, I have to say. The good that man’s done for the city . . .”

Weeks took a sip of coffee from the plastic cup in his hand. Cold, had been cold the last half hour, but God knows he needed the caffeine.

“Let’s not rush to judgment,” he said. “For all we know, this may not have anything to do with Saint.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that.” Morris hesitated. “Can we speak frankly, Agent Weeks?”

“Of course.”

Morris lowered his voice. “Your man Brent seems to have it in for Howard Saint.”

Weeks almost smiled. This was going to be a lot easier than he thought.

“Kevin’s been investigating him for a long time, Chief. Put a lot of work into the case, with very little to show for it.”

“With nothing to show for it, as far as I can tell.” Morris shook his head. “I am not going to make this case into a referendum on Howard Saint.”

“I understand that. And I agree a hundred percent. For what it’s worth.”

“So you’ll keep your friend on a leash?” Morris’s eyes bore into his.

Weeks suddenly wondered if he was on Saint’s payroll, too.

“I’ll make sure he understands that you’re looking for facts. Not his interpretation of facts.”

“Good.”

They’d reached the front door. Weeks pushed it open and was almost instantly overwhelmed by a crowd of reporters who’d gathered on the steps of the Federal Building, clearly hoping for a further scrap of news on the day’s biggest story.

“Chief Morris!”

“Chief! The shooting at the Saint building!”

“Just a couple questions, Chief!”

A handful of patrolmen managed to hold the reporters at bay long enough for Weeks and Morris to move past the gauntlet and start down the stairs.

Starting down them was about as far as Weeks got.

He dropped his coffee cup.

Frank Castle stood at the bottom of the steps, waiting for him.

His old friend, his Fort Lee running buddy, his Desert Shield compadre, the best man at his wedding, the only man he’d trusted with the truth about why his marriage had fallen apart, the best agent he’d ever worked with . . .

The man whose death—whose family’s death—had been on his conscience for the past three months, every minute of every hour.

It couldn’t be.

“What’s the matter, Jimmy? See a ghost?” Castle asked.

He couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

“Frank?” he croaked.

Next to him, Morris had stopped, too.

“Castle?”

Weeks heard movement—the shuffle of feet—behind them on the marble steps. The crowd of reporters, still trying to get to Chief Morris.

A voice came from over his shoulder.

“Wait a minute . . . the Frank Castle? Mr. Castle . . . a few questions!”

Weeks turned and saw Danny Palmer, from the Tampa Times , push to the head of the crowd. Christ. Palmer had already sniffed out a few things Mr. Saint would have preferred to keep private; if he hooked up with Castle—

“Hold ’em back!” Morris yelled.

More cops surged up the steps to handle the media; Weeks and the chief started down them again, toward Castle.

Frank didn’t look good. His skin was as white as—well, as a ghost, just like his old friend had said. Except, with all that black he was wearing—leather jacket, pants, boots— he looked more like someone from one of those goth bands his daughter always used to listen to: Rage Red, Cardiak. The skull T-shirt only added to the effect. Made him look a little comical. Cartoonish, almost.

Except there was nothing at all cartoonish about the look on his face.

“Jimmy,” Castle said. “Morris.”

His friend’s voice was different, too, Weeks realized. Harsher, more gravelly. As if he’d been drinking all night.

“Jesus, Frank . . .” Weeks tried to think of something intelligent to say. “What are you . . . where have you been?”

“I forget.”

Weeks and Morris exchanged a look. The chief stepped forward.

“Castle, I’m not holding this conversation on the sidewalk. A number of individuals are going to have questions—”

“About Puerto Rico?” Castle interrupted. “Don’t bother. I got shot. I woke up. That’s what I remember.”

“You remember that a lot of other people died there, too, I trust?” Morris asked. “There’s a whole task force of agencies going to want to talk to you about what you saw—”

“Nothing. You subpoena me, that’s what I’ll say. That, and one more thing.” Castle pulled out his wallet, took something out of it, and handed it to Weeks. His FBI shield.

“I quit,” he said.

The two men locked eyes then, and it was all Weeks could do not to fall to his knees and beg forgiveness right then and there.

“You can quit the bureau if you want,” Morris said, “but that doesn’t absolve you of your responsibilities as a citizen, Castle. I want you to—”

“What you want,” Frank interrupted, “doesn’t matter.”

The two of them glared at each other a moment.

Weeks didn’t know what to do. He should call Saint and tell him Castle was back. He should tell Frank to run for his life. He should run for his own life.

“If you’re not going to cooperate,” Morris began, “then you leave me no choice but to—”

“Whoa.” Weeks stepped between the two of them. “Chief, this man has been through hell. Who’s he supposed to trust right now? Let’s get him to a safe house.”

Frank wasn’t having any of it. “I don’t want a safe house. I don’t want witness protection, I don’t want anything. It’s been months since my family was killed. I don’t see one man in jail. All I want to know is, who gave me up.”

Weeks nodded, trying to look sympathetic while, inside, his heart was pounding like a jackhammer.

Morris tried again.

“Obviously, you’re upset—”

“Upset?” Frank wasn’t having any of that, either. “Is that the word? I used to get upset when I had a flat tire. I used to get upset when a plane was delayed. I used to get upset when the Yankees won the Series. So if that’s what upset means— then how do I feel now? If you know the word, tell me, ’cause I don’t know the word for what I really feel.”

“Frank.” Weeks shook his head. “If these people know you’re still alive, they will kill you. We’re trying to protect you.”

Castle turned the full force of his gaze on Weeks.

“Don’t bother keeping me a secret. I’m in the phone book. Don’t be a stranger, Jimmy.”

And with that, he walked away.

Weeks watched him cross the street and climb into a car that was double-parked directly opposite the Federal Building. A beat-up old Plymouth GTO.

The car pulled out into traffic and was soon lost from sight.

Morris stepped up alongside him.

“Is he permitted to carry?” the chief asked.

“Yeah. Class Three.” Weeks knew what Morris was really asking. “You think he did the two guys in the Saint building?” Which was, of course, exactly what Jimmy thought.

Morris didn’t respond for a moment.

“If that man insists on playing cowboy in my city, I’ll have him arrested, and if he resists, I’ll have no choice but to authorize the use of lethal force.”

He turned to face Weeks again, and Jimmy saw he was deadly serious. Just as serious as Castle had been.

People were going to die. A lot of them.

The important thing, Jimmy Weeks decided, was to make sure he wasn’t one of them.

Excusing himself as quickly as he could, he made a call on his cell, to a number he had dialed all too frequently over the last few months.

“How is he still alive?” Howard Saint leaned back in his chair, put his feet up on the desk, and shook his head. “I don’t know. I can’t answer that, Quentin. I wasn’t there.”

Glass stood there, hands behind his back, flushed with embarrassment.

He deserved the long, hard stare Howard Saint was giving him right now. He’d fucked up. He should’ve known better. The only thing that angered him was that he had known better, and he’d let John Saint talk him out of it.

At least John was getting the same treatment he was— normally Howard let his son off much easier. This time, Quentin was happy to see, he’d called John in as well to discuss how—and why—they’d failed at their mission.

The three of them—along with Lincoln and Cutter— were in Howard’s office in the mansion. Normally, Howard didn’t conduct business at home, but, once again, these were not normal times.

Saint’s gaze went from Glass to his son, and then he waved a hand dismissively.

“The how of it, though—that’s all in the past.”

Both Quentin and John nodded. Glass breathed a quiet, barely audible sigh of relief.

They’d been forgiven.

“Why is he still alive, this Frank Castle—now that’s a more interesting question.”

John Saint frowned. “What do you mean, Pop?”

“Maybe he’s still alive because he was meant to suffer even more.”

Quentin Glass smiled. “I think that might be the case indeed, Howard.”

He would certainly welcome a chance to contribute to Castle’s suffering. That was the problem with moving up in the organization the way he had—he never got a chance to use his knife anymore. Last time was with Reston, and that was—what, back in June? Months, now. And Reston’d been half dead before Quentin even got there.

“But we can’t make him suffer if we can’t find him, Quentin.” It was the elder Saint’s turn to frown now. “By now he’s in a witness protection program somewhere.”

John stepped forward. “No, Pop.”

“Castle refused witness protection,” Quentin said. Weeks had called in barely an hour ago with that juicy little piece of information. “He rented an apartment in North Tampa. Dial four-one-one, you’ll get his number. He’s daring us.”

“No. He misses his family, and he wants to die,” Howard replied. “He’s asking for help, so let’s give him some.”

Glass could feel the handle of the knife in his palm already. “It’ll be my pleasure, Howard.”

Saint shook his head. “No.”

“Howard—”

“Quentin, no. I appreciate it, but with what went down today at the Tower, with the governor’s race . . . anything goes wrong, I can’t afford any more bad publicity. I want to bring in someone from out of town.”

Glass nodded, trying to keep the disappointment he felt inside from showing on his face.

“Anyone in particular you have in mind, Howard?”

“The Caiati brothers, Pop,” John suggested. “They do good work. A little messy sometimes, but—”

“No. I want somebody not connected to us at all. A real pro. You make some calls, all right, Quentin?”

Glass nodded. “It’s done.”

“Okay.” Saint put his feet down, and leaned forward on the desk. “So. Damage control. Who’s talking to the press?”

“Rebecca’s going to do it herself,” Glass replied. “Give a written statement tonight, be available for questions tomorrow morning.”

“I saw the statement,” Saint nodded. “Tell her I want to change the numbers. We only lost one million out the window, okay?”

Glass frowned. “Howard, the police already returned three million to us. How’s that gonna play?”

“Who cares?” Saint shrugged. “I just want that smaller number floating around out there, so, come the election, when whoever I’m running against starts in with commercials saying I’m a wealthy asshole who’s completely out of touch with the way normal people live . . . I can say that reports of my wealth have been greatly exaggerated.”

“Great idea, Mr. Saint,” Cutter said, stepping forward from the shadows a second. “If I might be allowed to say so.”

Howard smiled. “You might.”

Glass rolled his eyes. Ass kisser.

“Okay. What about the Toros?” Saint asked. “Have the Toros called?”

Quentin sighed. Not only had they called, he, unfortunately, had been the only one available to answer the phone. Mike and Joe had heard what had happened to their money, and they were not happy. They had no qualms about letting their displeasure be known: they’d kept him on the line a good ten minutes before finally hanging up, in the process calling him—and then Howard—every name in the book that Glass had ever heard, and a few that he hadn’t.

“Oh, they called.” Quentin nodded. “They’ll be here in the morning.”

Saint’s eyes widened. “You invited them to my house?”

“You know I would never do that, Howard.” Glass shook his head. “They invited themselves.”