TWENTY-EIGHT

The sauce was bland. The cheese was stale. The pepperoni tasted like ham, and the crust wasn’t cooked all the way through.

Dave had ordered from Mr. P’s again. Stanley had told him time and time again not to order from Mr. P’s, but Dave just didn’t listen to him. Stanley didn’t know why. Not only was their pizza the worst in the city, their drivers were terrible, too. By the time the pizza arrived, it was ice cold.

Still, Stanley thought, it was pizza. And it was Wednesday, so they got three for the price of one. Maybe that was why Dave always ordered from Mr. P’s.

Come to think of it, on Wednesdays so did he.

Stanley started in on slice number nine, just as the commercial on Channel 14 ended and the big EYEWITNESS NEWS banner floated across the screen.

“Our top story—two men, employees of Howard Saint, were gunned down in the lobby of the Saint Capital Holdings building during morning rush hour. Outside, the building commuters were experiencing something our own Accu-Weatherman could’ve never predicted—a hailstorm of cold cash.”

Cold cash. Stanley liked that phrase. It made money sound so . . . refreshing. Good enough to eat, almost.

“Fifty million dollars was thrown from the tenth floor of the same building. Authorities investigating the scene are unclear as to whether the incidents are related, who the money belonged to, or any motive involved. No arrests have been made at this time. . . .”

Stanley suddenly realized that the commercial on Channel 8 was over, too, and that Maxine was talking. She was his favorite newscaster. He liked her hair, pretty, long blonde hair, and the way she smiled.

He shifted his attention to her.

“. . . the two men shot by an unknown assailant were apparently guarding the money, of which fifteen million is still unaccounted for. Spokesmen for Howard Saint, chairman of Saint Holdings and owner of the building, had no comment. In other news . . .”

Stanley frowned as Maxine started talking about the senator’s wife again; they were always going on about her, and though he loved to listen to Maxine talk, tonight he was looking for more on one news item in particular. Not the senator’s wife, not the big holdup . . .

He sat back on the couch and scanned Dave’s big bank of TVs slowly. Carefully. Ah.

Channel 16. UPN.

“. . . picture of Francis Castle, the FBI agent presumed dead after his family’s gangland-style execution in June, is alive and back in Tampa. Now for the weather, here’s . . .”

Stanley shifted his gaze again. There. Channel 1, local cable. More about Frank Castle.

“. . . according to sources, was in Tampa participating in a Federal Bureau of Investigation arms seizure that resulted in several arrests back in June, as well as the death of Robert Saint, son of local businessman—”

“Look at this, Bumpo. He got a citation from the president.”

Stanley turned. Dave was across the room, at his big computer. It was beautiful—that, and all these TVs.... Stanley used to wonder where Dave got the money for all his stuff from, because Dave didn’t have a job that he knew about. One time he asked Joan, and she said Dave had financed his entire life on credit cards, which sounded like a good idea to Stanley, until Joan explained that was why Dave never answered his phone or went outside, which Stanley didn’t entirely understand, as he never went outside either. He kept his confusion to himself, though; from the way Joan talked, he decided that he didn’t want any credit cards after all.

Not like anyone had ever offered one to him.

“From the president?” Stanley asked.

“Uh-huh. President of Argentina. Plus a Bronze Star, plus the Medal of Honor, plus a Distinguished Service Cross . . .”

Dave was clicking away on his computer. Different web pages kept flashing by.

“He did two tours with Special Forces. Delta Force. Speaks six languages—”

“What’s Delta Force?”

Dave shook his head. “He’s like Rambo. Only real!”

“Wow.” Stanley couldn’t believe it. Their neighbor was Rambo.

At that second, a familiar sound came from outside. Stanley got up and went to the window.

The GTO was just pulling into the garage.

“It’s him!” he said, turning.

Dave got up and went to his door, pushed it open a crack. Stanley squeezed in behind him.

“Easy, Bumpo. Don’t shove.”

“I want to see.”

“You can see. Just take it easy.”

The front door of the building opened. Heavy footsteps sounded in the entryway and then started down the corridor. He was coming. Frank Castle. Rambo.

“He looks mad,” Dave whispered. “He looks really mad.”

“He always looks mad.”

“Madder than usual.”

Stanley stood on tiptoe, trying to peer over Dave’s shoulder. All he could see was the wall.

Darn it. He wanted to look, too.

The footsteps got closer. Came right up on them, and then went past, down the hall.

“He’s going to his apartment,” Dave said. “He’s taking out his key—”

Stanley leaned on Dave’s shoulder and tried to peer around his friend.

He leaned too hard.

The two of them tumbled out into the corridor. Stanley landed on top of Dave, who pushed him off in a hurry and scrambled to his feet.

Castle was down the hall from them, at the door to his apartment, key out. Just like Dave said.

He did look madder than usual.

“Hi,” Dave said. “Hi, there.”

“How are you, Frank?” Stanley asked.

Castle looked at them a second, then opened the door to his apartment. Stanley smiled at him.

Castle took a second, longer look at Dave and him, then walked into his apartment and slammed the door shut.

“You called him Frank,” Dave said.

“That’s his name.”

“Yeah, but—”

“But what? He lives here. I’m just being neighborly.”

“I don’t think he wants to be neighborly,” Dave said.

Stanley frowned.

“Why wouldn’t he want to be neighborly?”

“Because . . .” Dave sighed and shook his head. “Never mind, Bumpo. Never mind.”

The two of them went back in Dave’s apartment then.

I’ll have to ask Joan, Stanley thought. She knows about stuff like this.

Stanley Richard Bumpo, age thirty-two, developmentally disabled, orphaned two years ago, rent and food paid for from a trust administered by his mother’s brother, Alex Graves, who was siphoning off funds from the account to pay for his mistress’s apartment downtown. Two years from now, approximately, the trust would run dry and Stanley would be out on the street.

David A. Grayson, real name David Daniels, age twenty-nine, graduate Wooster Polytechnical Institute, two years working for the NSA on a highly classified 128-bit encryption method, fired for persistent tardiness, fired from his following three jobs for the same reason, currently being sought by the federal government for income tax evasion and for questioning in an identity theft ring.

Meet the neighbors.

Quite a pair, Castle thought, setting his father’s Colts down on the table. Quite a first impression.

He suspected he’d made a slightly better one today.

He wondered what sort of actions Howard Saint was taking in response. Duka—the man had done well today, no hitches, no last-minute foul-ups—would relay any relevant information the second he heard it. Not that anything Saint could do at this point would matter.

A little more than a week from now, those SAINT FOR GOVERNOR signs he was seeing all over town would be coming down.

Right about the same time that they were loading Saint’s body up for the morgue. Not that he was planning to stick around and gloat, but . . .

He poured himself a glass of whiskey. The message light on his answering machine was blinking. Two calls. He played them back.

The first was from Jimmy Weeks. Wanting to meet him tomorrow, to talk. Pointless. If Weeks knew who’d given him up to Saint, he would have told him. And Castle had nothing else to discuss with the man.

His eyes went to the Colts then, and he thought that maybe he’d leave them to Jimmy. His father would’ve liked that. Frank Sr. and Weeks, they’d always gotten along. He’d consider it.

The second message was from Litton. Calling from London—Castle could hear that funny, transatlantic static on the line before the man started to talk.

“Captain. I just heard the news of your remarkable resurrection.”

Castle took a sip of his drink, and almost—almost—smiled. Litton always called him captain, from when he’d served under Castle, in Bosnia. On Thunderbolt, Gatekeeper—a half-dozen covert missions, joint Delta Force/SAS operations.

“I know you have unfinished business there. I’d offer my help, but I suspect this is something you want to handle on your own. When you’ve taken care of it, do call. You know the number.”

Castle did.

“For what it’s worth, Captain—I’m sorry. About your father, Maria, Will . . .”

Castle thought he heard a catch in the man’s voice then. Litton had a son, too—a few years younger than Will. If anyone could begin to understand . . .

Footsteps in the hall. Castle paused the message.

He heard the door closest to his open, then shut.

His other neighbor. Joan.

Joan Ellen Ames, twice married, twice divorced, two convictions on her record: one DUI, one possession of marijuana. She was currently employed as a waitress at Schurr’s Diner, corner of Wayne and Hudson. Mother of an eight-year-old son, Steveland Van Dyke, whom she had abandoned four years ago. Abandoned her own child.

Castle shook his head. Some people didn’t know how lucky they were.

His eyes went to the photo of his wife and son.

You and I, we’re not lucky. We’re blessed.

He squeezed the whiskey glass in his hand tight. Too tight. It shattered into a hundred pieces.

Castle watched the shards fall to the ground.

Then he got to his feet.

No time for this. He had a lot of work to do.

Tomorrow was Thursday.