FORTY-THREE

“Okay.”

Howard Saint dropped the briefcase on the table and opened it so that everyone could see what was inside.

“Fifty thousand apiece, and fifty more to the man who kills him.”

His men—his enforcers, as he liked to think of them, Lincoln, Worowski and Gable, the Moroni brothers, a half dozen more—all took a step forward, their eyes lighting up with sudden greed.

Predictable, Saint thought. So predictable.

But that was why he loved them.

“Ah.” He held up a hand, and the men stopped moving.

“Just so we’re clear—you take this money, you’re in this until it’s over.”

“When Castle’s dead, Mr. Saint. Is that right?”

Saint nodded at Lincoln. “When Castle’s dead.”

As Saint expected, his words of warning didn’t stop anyone from coming forward. Too bad, he thought, because before this night was finished, he was sure some of them were going to regret their impulsiveness. Castle wasn’t going to go down easily.

But he was going to go down.

Saint let John hand the money out, and he took the stairs up to his office. On the way up, he passed a picture of Livia and him with the boys. He ripped it off the wall and threw it back down the stairs.

In the office, Saint poured himself a drink and sat down behind his desk. He had a lot to sort out; he realized he’d never called Rebecca back about Chadwick, and the announcement, and now he had to tell her to pull all the press about Livia, too. And he had to get some kind of story together for the cops about his wife—when was the last time he’d seen her and all that sort of thing, because her body, or what was left of it, was going to turn up sooner or later. And Glass—he needed another story there. Which struck him funny, all of a sudden, because usually it was Quentin who helped him with things like that. Quentin had a good head on his shoulders.

Saint took a deep breath then and drained his glass.

“Pop?” John was standing in the doorway.

“Hey. Come on in. You want a drink? I’m gonna have another drink.”

“No, thanks. Where were you? Where’s Quentin?”

Saint topped off his glass and sat back down.

“He’s wrapped up in something.”

“Tonight? He’s wrapped up in something tonight?”

“Yeah.” Saint couldn’t help it. He giggled. “He’s gonna be wrapped up in it awhile.”

John looked at him strangely.

“Pop? You all right?”

“Oh, yeah. I’m good.” He took a sip of his drink. Maybe John could help him with this stuff; he’d always been good at making up stories. Good at lying, anyway, when he was a kid. Or was that Bobby?

“I called home before, trying to find you. Nobody answered.”

“I was out.”

“Yeah, but . . . where’s Mom?”

“She’s . . . your mother’s gone, John.”

“What?”

“She’s gone.” He looked up at his son, and, once more, Howard Saint couldn’t help himself. Maybe it was the booze. Maybe it was the stress of everything that had happened tonight. Maybe he was just losing it. “Your mother took the train,” he said, and then he burst out laughing again.

Twelve thirty-four. He returned from the Saint Motors lot, carrying the empty duffel over his shoulder. He put it back in the trunk of the Honda and loaded the weapons bag with the detonators and the remaining charges.

He slipped on the Kevlar vest, and pulled the crossbow from the backseat.

Twelve forty-six. He returned the night-vision goggles to the bag, having completed a sweep of the block around the Saint and Sinners building. No perimeter forces whatsoever. Saint had concentrated all his men inside the building. A tactical error; the man was slipping.

Somehow, Frank Castle was not surprised by that.

Twelve fifty-two. He found the service entrance Duka had told him about, and entered the building.

“I’m gonna say something to him.” Shania Goggins— who had been born Beth Goggins but had changed her name because she looked a little bit like the singer, although she was six inches taller and, on a good day, thirty pounds heavier—pulled another scoopful of cubes out of the ice maker and dumped it in the bucket on top of the bar. Then she started in again. “Because it’s not right. Mel, it’s just not right.”

Melanie Carter looked around nervously. There was no one in earshot, thank God—the only other people in the room, in fact, were Yasmin and Gloria, who were working the other end of the bar, and, of course, Mr. Saint’s men, the men with the big guns—but still, you didn’t want to make a habit of saying anything bad about Saints and Sinners, or the folks who ran it. In her experience, bad things happened to people who did that.

“Listen, honey,” she said, shoving a bottle of Dom Perignon into the newly filled ice bucket. “Speaking as a friend? I would recommend you keep those opinions to yourself, understand?”

Shania shook her head. “No. No, I don’t understand. Mel, how do we make our money? Tips. And who is going to tip us tonight?” She waved her arms to indicate the empty bar. “No one, that’s who. Because we’re closed. So I don’t see why we have to work if we’re closed.”

Melanie sighed. Shania was her friend, but sometimes, the girl could be a little thick.

“Because John Saint called us in, that’s why.”

“What, they need four waitresses for a dozen guys? Does that make sense to you?”

“No. But John’s a good guy. He’ll take care of us, end of the night. Don’t worry.”

“Yeah.” Her friend snorted. “I heard how John Saint takes care of the waitresses around here.”

They both smiled.

“No, honestly,” Melanie said then. “He’s a big tipper. All his guys are.”

“Even those two?” Shania nodded at the pair patrolling the room. “You think they’re big tippers?”

Melanie studied them, then shook her head. “Nah,” she finally said. “They look like deadbeats.”

One of the men looked up then and grunted really loudly.

For a second, Melanie was afraid he’d overheard them talking. Oh God, she thought. We’re in trouble now.

But the man stayed right where he was, looking completely dumbfounded. Looking, for some reason, down at his chest.

Melanie looked, too.

There was an arrowhead sticking out of it.

Shania screamed, and dropped the scoopful of ice she’d been holding in her hand.

“Tony!” The other man patrolling the room ran to his friend. “Tony! What . . .”

He stopped talking all at once, because, as Melanie saw, there was now an arrow sticking out of his throat, too.

It was her turn to scream then.

A man stepped out from the shadows near the kitchen—a big, scary-looking man, carrying a crossbow at his side and wearing a shirt with a huge skull painted across the chest.

“Go,” he said.

Melanie and the others ran.

The skull. Castle thanked Will again—for the symbol, this time, not the shirt.

Because this time, the skull was painted on his Kevlar vest. A little modification he’d made a few days back, after realizing that practical considerations during the assault— practical, as in he might get shot at—would prevent him from wearing the shirt. And he still wanted to use the symbol to make an impression. Now . . .

And a little later this evening.

One oh-nine. He ran a trip wire across the front door of the club and attached a charge. As he headed for the stairs, the intercom by the dumbwaiter buzzed.

“Hey, Tony!”

Castle stopped in his tracks.

What the heck, he thought, and pressed the talk button.

“Yo.”

“We need more champagne up here.”

Castle turned. The champagne, still packed in buckets, sat on the bar where the waitresses had abandoned it. He considered it and the ordnance remaining in his bag, and then he smiled.

He pressed the talk button again.

“Coming right up,” he said.

Then he set down the weapons bag and got to work.

Cutter. Poor Cutter. John Moroni had just called with the news.

In a way though, Howard Saint was glad. Cutter’s death meant Castle was still here in Tampa. That had been a fear of his, momentarily, that after the Russian, Castle would decide to abandon his vendetta and head for greener pastures. But he hadn’t run—or if he had, he’d come back.

And soon enough, they would finally meet. For the first and last time.

Saint could hardly wait.

He removed a Cuban from the humidor and lit it. Crossed his office, and exited out into the upstairs bar. Lincoln and John were playing pool. Worowski, Bob Graves, and three men whose names he forgot entirely—or maybe he’d never met them, actually; now that he thought about it, they were Quentin’s hires—stood around the bar, drinking champagne. They’d gone through a half-dozen bottles already, and Graves was carrying another over to the table, Saint saw. All of it Dom Perignon. What was that, sixty a bottle?

He made a mental note to dock them the money out of their salaries. Christ, he owed the Toros fifty million, he had to start watching every penny he could.

Graves, who’d just pulled another bottle out of the ice bucket, suddenly froze where he stood and said in a loud yet strangely resigned voice: “Oh, fuck!”

Saint saw something running from the bottle back into the bucket. A wire. What—

Instinct made him dive behind the bar. It was the only thing that saved his life.

A huge explosion sounded—the ceiling caved in. The floor shook. Plaster dust and smoke filled the air.

He peeked over the bar. A lot of his men were dead, he saw that instantly. One of Lincoln’s legs was trapped underneath the pool table; Worowski was trying to help push it off. His son was in the office, shaking his head, trying and for some reason failing to get to his feet.

“John!” Saint shouted. “Are you all right?”

Right then, the elevator doors opened, and a man stepped out into the smoke, weapon raised before him. For an instant, the two of them locked eyes.

Castle, Saint thought. And then he shouted: “Kill him!”

Castle stood his ground as gunfire erupted around him.

Two men emerged from a room that the blast hadn’t touched; he cut them down on the spot. Another peered out from behind a door; Castle blew the door and the man away.

The wall next to him exploded. Castle turned in time to take a shotgun blast right to the chest: the Kevlar shredded, and the rifle flew from his hands.

He reached for the Colt, as the man with the shotgun— the man from Puerto Rico, the man he’d left alive, his mistake, which he’d correct now—stepped forward and fired again. Castle staggered; the Kevlar held. He tried to raise the Colt, but he was too slow; the shotgun went off a third time.

The last of the armor shredded. The Colt flew away.

Castle was defenseless.

He lunged forward and grabbed the barrel, twisting it down just as the man fired again, and screamed.

Blood flowed from the man’s shoe, what there was left of it.

Castle grabbed the shotgun away from him and smacked him across the face with the barrel. The man half lunged, half fell forward, and got his hands around Castle’s neck.

He began to squeeze. Castle tried to force the shotgun up between his arms to break his grip, but he didn’t have the leverage, or the strength, or the oxygen.

The man gritted his teeth and squeezed harder.

Castle dropped the shotgun and, in one fluid motion, drew his knife and stabbed upward, into the man’s hand.

The man screamed and loosened his grip. Castle kept driving the knife upward, driving it through the man’s hand and up against the wall, and then into the wall, pinning his hand there.

Then he drew a second knife from his boot and finished it.

Castle stepped back from the wall, breathing hard, still trying to catch his breath. Where had Saint gone? His eyes scanned the area, searching. . . .

And fell on what appeared to be the remnants of an office, and the man trapped within it.

Big Richie, Howard Saint decided as the elevator descended. He would call Richie, get a few of his men up from Miami, and they would handle this psycho. The skull on his chest—what was that about? Who did the man think he was—some kind of superhero?

The elevator doors opened. Saint looked out, half expecting to see Castle waiting for him. But there was no one there. Only the bodies of the men he’d left to guard the front entrance.

Castle was going to kill them all, Saint realized. At which point, he remembered John, in the office upstairs. The two of them were all who were left—he couldn’t leave his son to die.

Maybe they’d taken care of him, Saint thought then. Lincoln, and whoever else was left. Maybe they killed him. Maybe.

He wasn’t going to stick around to find out.

He started heading for the front door.

Worowski burst out of the stairwell just ahead of him. The man saw him and began to babble.

“It’s a slaughter up there, Mr. Saint. A goddamn slaughter. You can keep the fifty large; I can’t do it. I don’t want to do it. I’m out of here!”

Good riddance, Saint was about to say.

And then he saw the tripwire.

“STOP!” Saint yelled.

Worowski’s hand, though, was already on the door.

It was Saint’s son. Bobby’s twin.

One of the men who’d executed his entire family.

John Saint was caught behind a collapsed girder, pinned in place against it, his arm extended as far as it could go, trying desperately to grab hold of his gun, which lay just out of his reach.

He looked up at Castle and snarled.

“You sonuvabitch.”

Castle moved closer.

“Nice biceps,” he said, squeezing one of John’s arms. “You must work out.”

“Fuck you.”

“Ever try isometrics?” Castle reached into his weapons bag then and pulled out a soapdish charge.

“This antipersonnel mine weighs eight pounds. Not much, I know, but hold it with your arm stretched out like that . . . helluva workout.”

He slapped it into John Saint’s open palm, then closed the man’s fingers around it. Then he tied the trip wire to the girder.

Saint’s eyes widened in horror as he realized what Castle was doing. “You sick bastard.” Saint struggled a moment, trying to free his legs, then fell back, helpless.

Castle shook his head. “I’d save your strength.” He pointed at the charge. “You let your fingers relax on that, even an inch, and—boom. Know what I mean?”

“Castle,” Saint pleaded. “Please. Don’t leave me like this.”

The man’s hand was quivering already, Frank saw. He doubted Saint would be able to hold the charge more than another minute, two at the outside.

He smiled at the man.

“Boom,” he said, and headed for the stairwell.

Somehow, he was still alive.

The club behind him was a burning husk, a ruin, but he’d made it out into the street, and here was the Bentley, parked right there in front of him, on the entrance ramp, almost as if it had all been planned.

He would go home, Saint decided. Not home as in the mansion, but home as in Alachua. He was a realist, Howard Saint was. The governor’s mansion was not possible for him, not right now. Too much had happened these last few days, these last few hours. The press would eat him alive. The Toros were another problem. Fifty million: he’d have to give them everything he owned and then some.

No, Alachua was definitely the answer. A place to chill for a couple weeks, maybe even longer. Let Castle try to follow him into the swamps: he’d have the man for breakfast. Feed him to the gators, lose his body in the swamps . . . no one would ever find him.

“Howard Saint!”

The voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Howard Saint.”

There was no escaping that voice, he realized. No escaping the man who went along with it.

He turned around and locked eyes with Frank Castle.

“You took everything from me,” Castle said. “Everything.”

Saint met his anger and matched it. “You killed my son.”

At that instant, a scream came from the club behind him. That was John, Saint realized, and, just as he thought that, another explosion shook the ground.

“Both of them, now,” Castle said. “Both your sons.”

It took Saint an instant to understand his meaning.

And only an instant longer to draw the gun from his holster and squeeze the trigger.

But he wasn’t fast enough.

Castle’s bullet caught him square in the chest, and he went to his knees. He tried to raise the gun again, but he managed to get his arm only halfway up before it fell, and he toppled onto his side.

A shadow fell over him. Castle.

“Gloat all you want, asshole,” Saint managed. “I still win. I still killed your family.”

Castle reached into his pocket then, and dropped papers on him. No, not papers. Photographs. What . . .

“I win,” Castle said. “I made you kill your best friend.”

For a second, Saint didn’t understand. Then his eyes fell on a picture of Quentin in bed with a woman, no, a girl, she was barely developed at all, tiny breasts, and—

Oh, God.

“I made you kill your wife,” Castle said, dropping something else to the ground, something that sparkled as it fell. A piece of jewelry.

Livia’s other earring.

Saint squeezed his eyes shut, begging the voices in his head to be quiet, the voices that were suddenly screaming at him, Quentin’s voice, Livia’s voice, telling him what a fool he’d been, what a gullible, murdering fool . . .

“And now I’ve killed you.”

Castle knelt down then, and was tying something around Saint’s ankle. Rope? No, something thicker. A belt. Saint looked up and saw the man tying the other end of it to the limo. What . . . ?

Castle opened the door of the limo and disappeared inside the car a second. Then he stepped out, looked down at Saint again, and gave the Bentley a gentle push.

It began rolling down the club’s entrance ramp, heading straight for the parking lot of Saint Motors, dragging him right along with it.

“No!” Howard Saint screamed. “Castle!”

One thirty-eight. He reached into his weapons bag and took out the detonator. He pressed it—once, twice, a dozen times. With each touch of the button, another car on the Saint Motors lot behind him exploded.

Castle turned to survey his work.

Of course, it was hard to get the full impact from street level. But it was an impressive display, nonetheless. Probably even more so for Howard Saint, who had been dragged clear across the road behind the limo, into the center of the Saint Motors lot. Where he lay now, screaming as he watched his life go up in flames around him.

Time now, Castle thought, for Howard Saint to go up in flames too.

One thirty-nine. He took the second detonator from the bag and ran his thumb over the button. Once, twice, and then a third time, for luck, even though—as he’d told Jimmy Weeks—Frank Castle was not a betting man.

Then he flicked it down.

The Bentley exploded. Howard Saint’s screams stopped.

One-forty. The pattern was complete. The mission was finished.

Only one thing left to do and then he, at last, could rest as well.