3:15 p.m.
Dread and desperation churned in Kit’s belly. She didn’t struggle as Sanborn hauled her a couple of feet inside the cabin. Feigning resignation seemed like the smartest play. Not that she had much of an alternative.
Khan was gagged and strapped to the steering wheel in the cockpit. She’d overheard the death squad mention they’d used a special material on Khan’s wrists and hands that wouldn’t leave a trace in the fire. It would look as if Khan had been steering the boat when the engine malfunctioned and exploded. Khan would be the scapegoat for Sanborn’s unholy handiwork along with Kit—the leader of the Outliers—as his accomplice.
Not only was Sanborn going to kill her but he was going to make the world believe that she and the Outliers had colluded with terrorists.
She shivered with a sudden burning anger, then stilled when she heard the low, rhythmic click, click, click.
A ticking resonated somewhere on the boat. She hadn’t noticed it outside, but in the quiet cabin, she picked up a faint ticking despite the drone from the inflatable raft’s motor.
“Where are the keys so I can lock these two inside the cabin?” Sanborn asked.
Echo lobbed the set of keys to him.
“I’m going to double-check the bomb below and then we’ll get going,” Sanborn said, pocketing the keys.
“I told you it’s good.”
In a hard, certain voice, Sanborn said, “I believe you, but I also can’t take the chance of the smallest mistake.”
“Suit yourself.” Echo climbed over the left side of the boat and dropped out of sight into the raft while Sanborn went below.
Kit had tossed around every outside-the-box, last-ditch-desperado idea she could think of to survive. There was one slim possibility, but she needed to be outside to try it. When Sanborn came back, he’d lock her in the cabin with Khan and then she’d have no hope of escape.
This was her only chance. Even if she failed, even if she died in the process, she had to try. It was now or never.
Kit had used her Ehlers-Danlos syndrome for party tricks but never imagined her joint hypermobility might actually one day save her life. She made herself as small as possible, wiggling her wrists under her butt, one shoulder shimmy at a time.
Once her hands reached her hamstrings, she leaned forward, dropped both shoulders away from her ears, and stuck her feet through the tight gap, bringing her hands in front of her. She wrenched the bitter-tasting gag from her mouth.
With her ankles zip-tied, she inchwormed her way out of the cabin onto the deck. The propranolol she’d taken earlier was doing its job. Popping another would’ve been ideal, but she couldn’t risk the delay of going to her bag, and without having had any Nitrostat, she didn’t know how much exertion she could handle.
Kit gripped the bulwark and tugged herself up. Hoping the rumble of the motor on the raft was loud enough to mask her splash into the water, she let herself tip overboard.
The cold water was a shock to her system and a whimper slipped from her throat. The salt stung all the little scrapes on her body.
In a matter of minutes, perhaps seconds, Sanborn would notice that she was gone. The only thing she could do was put distance between her and the boat. Be the biggest pain in the ass for him. With a bomb ticking away and the tight schedule he had to keep, maybe he wouldn’t have the time to bother with her.
It was wishful thinking, but going out fighting was all she had.
Kit thrashed against the current, struggling to tread water. She had never been an Olympic swimmer and to say that her tied wrists and ankles complicated her predicament was an extreme understatement.
Her original far-fetched plan had entailed taking the buoy to help her stay afloat and trying to get out of the blast radius. But Sanborn had ruined her idea with his intention to trap her on the boat, leaving her with this desperate measure that was far less practical and far more grueling than she’d envisioned.
Every time she pushed herself forward, undulating the way mermaids swam, she’d gain some distance. Then her head went under. She struggled back to the surface, swallowed a little seawater, taking it into her lungs. Cough and repeat.
This was how someone slowly drowned.
Thrusting her arms and legs for downward pressure, she raised herself high enough to get her mouth above the water. The process was tedious and painstaking.
Her heart pounded against her rib cage.
She’d put a few feet between her and the boat, but it came at a steep price.
An agonizing sensation threaded in her chest, tightening through her lungs. Her airways shrank. It was like trying to breathe through the miniscule hole in a coffee stirrer.
Her chest seized hard and panic rose in her throat.
* * *
Sanborn had been checking the bomb, examining the wiring, ensuring no loose connections—this was his pièce de résistance and would cement everything as a series of terrorist attacks orchestrated by Khan—when he heard the faint splash on the starboard side. He took one guess as to the source.
No doubt it was Ms. Westcott. A woman of many, many irritating talents.
How she continued to be a thorn in his side was an enigma. But he’d rectify the situation soon enough. There was nowhere for her to hide.
Meanwhile, she wasn’t going to distract him. Nothing and no one would rush him through this critical step.
The fail-safe was in place—cut the green wire to neutralize the primary bomb and it’d trigger a smaller, secondary one to blow. He noted the countdown—sixteen minutes—and set the timer on his watch to coincide. More than sufficient to get to the rendezvous point and flee the area with time to spare. He activated the backup detonator, put it in his pocket, and turned off the jammer onboard to prevent the wireless electronic signal from being blocked.
Now, in the improbable event the timer failed, he could still detonate the bomb remotely.
No glitches. No mistakes.
On his way up to the deck, he grabbed the telescoping pole that had a hook on the end from the wall. Each step he took, he cursed Katherine Westcott’s name, cursed her involvement with Castle, cursed her ability to slither into his protégé’s head. He cursed her very existence.
Topside, he spotted her.
She was flailing, taking in more seawater than air by the looks of it. If time had been of no consequence, he would’ve enjoyed watching her drown. A slow, agonizing death was nothing less than she deserved.
But Sanborn was acutely aware of every second ticking by.
He removed his suit jacket, tossing it to an oblivious Echo on the other side of the boat, and rolled up his shirt sleeves.
She’d only made it ten feet, hardly worth the effort she was putting in flopping about, but if her goal had been to nettle him, on that score, she’d succeeded.
Reaching over the side, he snagged the hook of the pole between her wrists and pulled her back to the boat. He hauled her onto the deck, doing his best not to get his shoes wet and allow her to be any more of an inconvenience. She was heavier than expected for someone so small.
Sanborn dragged her into the cabin with no regard for her comfort and slung her against the wall. Her face was ghost-white. She clutched her chest, sputtering and gasping like she couldn’t catch her breath.
“Medicine,” she said in a low, strained voice that was barely audible.
Ah yes. She had a faulty heart.
Westcott pointed to something on the floor. He glanced at her bag that was within his reach and turned back to her, relishing the anguished look on her face.
With any luck, she’d have an excruciating coronary that’d last until the boat blew.
Sanborn snatched her bag, went to the cabin door, and locked her inside. His one regret was that he wouldn’t see her die, but knowing that the wretched woman was suffering down to her final moment brought more satisfaction than ending it quickly for her with a bullet.
* * *
Castle raced uphill across the wide lawn, running the fastest quarter mile of his life. His reflexes were still dulled but adrenaline had him moving.
He couldn’t wrap his head around it all. The many years of loyalty, friendship, mentorship, and Sanborn’s sacrifices for the Gray Box, for his people—place those on the scales against all the dark, devious shit he’d done. The good outweighed the rest.
Didn’t it?
There had to be an explanation. Some misunderstanding.
Reaching the dock, he ducked behind a row of hedges as an inflatable motorized raft pulled up. In the distance, a larger vessel bobbed on the water.
Sanborn and another man dressed as a prison guard climbed out of the raft, tying it off to a post, and walked down the dock.
Castle would rather go up against a squad of jihadis than Sanborn. He was a living legend, the man you never wanted as an enemy. Castle had heard the stories about him—former special forces, a fearless, ferocious meat-eater, the shrewdest Black Ops Whisperer ever. Unfortunately, Castle was learning firsthand how true it all was, but what filled his mouth with an ugly, bitter taste was that just a few hours ago, Sanborn had been the person he’d respected and admired most in the world.
There was no sign of Kit in the raft. It was Castle’s best guess that she was on the boat with Khan like Ashley had described, but only Sanborn would be able to tell him for certain.
This was as good a time as any to strike first, while both men had their guns holstered and Castle had the advantage of surprise.
He took aim at one of the men who’d invaded his home and helped abduct Kit. Steadying his hand, Castle lined up the gun sight and pulled the trigger. A single shot to the head and he dropped.
“Come out.” Sanborn’s voice carried in the wind as he held up his right hand, clutching something in his palm. “Or I’ll blow the boat with Westcott onboard right now. And in case you were wondering, I turned off the jammer, so the signal won’t be blocked.”
A headache pounded at Castle’s temples. He’d completely missed the detonator.
It was almost as if Sanborn had been expecting him, prepared for every eventuality.
Firing without anticipating that had been sloppy. Reckless.
With Sanborn’s finger on the trigger, Castle wasn’t going to gamble with Kit’s life by shooting him. And they both knew it.
Drawing a heavy breath, Castle came out from behind the row of bushes into the open.
Sanborn stepped off the dock onto the lawn. Even though he’d shed his suit jacket and his starched shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows, he still had an immaculate, suave air to him. The only thing to spoil his civilized businessman look was his shoulder rig holstering a suppressed gun and a detonator in his hand.
“Toss your weapon,” Sanborn said, “behind the bushes, and really put your back into it.”
Castle hurled his gun, chucking it as far as possible. Then he faced the chief.
“I need you to listen to me, son, before you form a judgment.”
They were well beyond judgment and had reached condemnation, but he’d listen if it meant saving Kit.
“Remove your gun.” Castle approached with his palms raised in the air. “Put it on the ground along with the detonator and I’ll listen to whatever you have to say. I swear it.”
Sanborn crouched down, setting the gun and the detonator on the grass beside his foot. An easy arm’s reach away for someone with Sanborn’s skill set, but Castle would have to take it.
“Please, tell me it wasn’t you,” Castle said. “That you weren’t the one who hijacked a shipment of bioweapons.” Please, tell me you haven’t turned into a full-fledged monster.
“I am responsible,” Sanborn said without a drop of contrition.
“No, no. No.” Castle shook his head, half-disappointed, half-dumbfounded that Sanborn didn’t even try to deny it. The admission struck at the heart of everything Sanborn believed in, that Castle believed in, a cornerstone of the Gray Box itself. Some things you could hide, lie about, but Sanborn’s principles had been consistent since the first day Castle had met him. “You abhor the thought of biological weapons. You wouldn’t steal them. You wouldn’t use them.”
In a strange way, Castle was begging him to change his tune, sing a song he could rally to, because the alternative, this rapidly evolving new reality, was unfathomable.
“Biological warfare is heinous,” Sanborn said. “For a select few to take it upon themselves to hide in the dark, to create monstrosities behind the backs of the American people, that is unforgivable. They used me.” Sanborn’s face twisted in disgust and he pressed a palm to his chest. “They used my people when I was in the CIA. The compound we stole was used to engineer pathogenic viruses, toxins, and bacteria to be more virulent. They used me to create weapons of mass destruction, the deadliest enemy of mankind.”
The moral affront must’ve cut Sanborn to the quick. The insult, the hurt was splashed across his face.
“I couldn’t abide it,” Sanborn said. “How they made me complicit in their sins.”
Castle scrubbed a palm over his head. “So your answer was to steal the weapons?”
“My answer was to protect our republic from those who have gone rogue. My answer was to ensure that abominable program would be permanently shut down and to punish those who sought to create an evil empire.”
Black ops was a gray world where they often had to make tough decisions and hard sacrifices. Where they paid the price for others’ civil liberties with blood-stained hands. This profession left them raw. Empty and wounded, haunted by ghosts in the darkness.
But bad deeds done to achieve a good end was only asking for trouble. “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”
How had this all started for the Gray Box?
Castle thought back to three months ago, replaying everything and connecting the scattered dots. “Willow found out about the sale of smallpox-M in an auction on the black market. Do you mean to tell me that you were the seller?”
“Yes,” Sanborn said, flatly.
The answer was a blow so crushing it sucked the air from Castle’s lungs. “Selling bioweapons spits on every righteous idea you’ve ever espoused. It makes you a hypocrite.”
“I controlled the game,” Sanborn said. “I picked the players. Figured out how to put the Gray Box on the field. We were always meant to win.”
The terrible truth was an unbearable weight that Castle wished he’d never known. “That’s why you picked Maddox for the assignment? Because you learned Cole was alive and connected to his arms dealer brother. You were banking on him still caring about Maddox and that if you got him into enough trouble with the Russians, offered to take care of his problems, that he would help her. Help the Gray Box.”
Sanborn nodded.
And it had worked.
Something inside Castle withered at the knowledge of how far Sanborn had gone, how low he had sunk.
Sanborn took a step toward him, reducing the gap, renewing that cherished sense of affinity between them. But Castle wasn’t so foolish as not to also see it as Sanborn moving further away from the gun. Something Castle could exploit.
“The middleman,” Sanborn said, “the broker who conducted the auction was a confidential informant for the government. We owned him already. I meant for the arms dealers who were invited to the auction to be arrested in the operation, the bioweapon to be recovered and—”
“And rack up a big win for the Gray Box.” Castle hung his head, thinking back to what Ashley had told him about the water treatment facility. The enemy stacked the game and torched the rules and didn’t care if the world burned as a result. Not them. Not ever. Not Sanborn. “But you didn’t factor in Aleksander Novak.” Novak had been an assassin with a vendetta. He’d crashed the auction, stolen the smallpox-M weapon and made their lives hell. “Novak almost killed twenty thousand people because you tried to play God.”
“It all worked out.” Sanborn extended his hands, palms up, and took another step closer. “The team recovered the weapon.”
By the skin of our teeth! Had he truly gone mad?
“And Novak was captured,” Sanborn said triumphantly.
And Maddox and Cole had both almost died stopping him.
“I’m the one who makes the hard decisions, without doubts,” Sanborn said, “and I live with them. I don’t crack. I don’t wallow in regret. We’re the same.”
Most of what Sanborn had said was true. At their cores, there were striking similarities, but there were fundamental differences between them too. “We’re not the same. You started out with convictions and principles and ended up here. Corrupted. Telling yourself and me whatever you have to in order to justify the terrible things you’ve done. The things that you’re still doing.”
Sanborn had gone off the rails, full-blown dark side.
“You can stand there and lecture me on morality.” Sanborn’s voice softened as he edged forward. “Or you can acknowledge that sometimes we have to do things that keep us awake at night so that the rest of the country can sleep safely and soundly.”
Castle would swallow his tongue before he admitted that Sanborn’s point was valid. If he voiced any credence, no matter how slight, it’d only feed into this manipulation technique to get Castle to believe and obey, to impair his ability to discriminate between what Castle thought was right and what Sanborn thought was necessary.
“The five million dollars that you walked away with, what did you do with it?” Castle asked. “Buy an island in the Caribbean for yourself?”
Sanborn gave a scathing laugh devoid of any humor. “You think so little of me? Do you really see me as a selfish, greedy opportunist?”
No, Castle didn’t. But he hadn’t seen Sanborn as Darth Vader before today either. What else was he supposed to think?
“We’ve suffered tremendous financial cutbacks,” Sanborn said. “Lee Pomeroy and Ed Boswell have been siphoning money from the Gray Box to fund biological weapons. They continue to tie our hands, limit our resources, make us do more with less. They were risking the lives of my operatives to fund their dirty program.”
Being short-staffed, they never had enough downtime to fully recuperate from one mission before heading out on the next. Limited resources meant shortcuts had to be taken. And shortcuts eventually led to the loss of lives.
They already gave so much in this thankless job. Government officials stealing money from the Gray Box was unforgivable. At the top of the list, right beneath launching a bioweapons program.
It was hard for Castle to disagree that he and Sanborn did indeed share a common enemy and a worthwhile fight, but this was bigger than the two of them.
“What did you do with the money?” Castle demanded.
“Part of the five million has gone into the Gray Box, enabling me to pay Tanaka Enterprises the outstanding debt I owed for the state-of-the-art gear you all have. Another portion was to pay my under-the-table operatives. I have several with families. They need to cover health insurance payments, put their kids through college, afford to retire from this ugly business one day. And the rest funded this operation. To destroy the enemies of the republic. Lee Pomeroy. Boswell.”
The more Sanborn confessed, the more Castle’s paradigm warped and the less he knew what to think.
“Why target the Outliers?” Castle asked.
“Ever Shield. You and I both know it was a threat that couldn’t be left unchecked.”
He was right. Another harsh, bitter truth. “But why kill them?”
“If they were good and meant no harm, then why did they accept a job that they knew was dirty?”
CONTRA84 had passed his test, rejecting the offer of two million in exchange for doing something illegal. Proved their skills weren’t for sale to the highest bidder. So they got to live. Unlike the Outliers.
Castle’s gaze flickered to the boat. “Kit isn’t a threat to you.”
“Isn’t she?” Sanborn cocked his head to the side. “She knows too much. She’s a liability and can’t be trusted to keep her mouth shut—not like you. Let me finish what I have to do here today, and things can go back to normal. I’ll resign and let Knox take over.”
Knox. He’d been gone an eternity on some mystery mission, too classified to discuss. “Is his op even real?”
“I have him chasing his tail. He would’ve gotten in my way otherwise, and I didn’t want to have to kill him.”
“What about me?” Castle asked. “I’m standing in your way.”
“You don’t have to. I don’t want to kill you either. It doesn’t have to come to that.” Sanborn sighed. “Hackers like Kit are human garbage. She’s beneath you. She’ll never understand or respect people like us.” His voice quieted, a lethal edge creeping into it. “Once she’s gone, your head will clear, and you’ll come back to your senses, son.”
Castle’s heart dropped into the bottomless pit of his stomach.
He understood what Sanborn was fighting for, the necessary lengths he’d gone to, and why. Some of it he agreed with, was even grateful to Sanborn for ensuring the Gray Box had adequate funding, for taking a stand against a horrific biological weapons program. And all the rest of it—to his shame—Castle would’ve accepted and conceded. If it hadn’t been for Kit.
“Let her live.” Castle was pleading, for both their sakes. He needed Sanborn to understand what this meant to him. What Kit meant to him.
For a moment, in the silence thickening between them, an irrational stab of hope speared Castle.
Then Sanborn’s eyes hardened. Ice-cold dread spilled through Castle, saturating every muscle, drowning that hope.
“You’re conflicted because you blatantly disregarded my orders and got invested in that parasite, but the world will be a safer place without her.” Sanborn’s tone turned glacial. “I have endeavored to protect this country for most of my life. Since you came to the Gray Box, I’ve protected you too, kept all of you under my charge safe from harm. But you seem to have forgotten who I am. That we’re family!”
There was no reasoning with Sanborn and there would be no peaceful resolution.
Inches of physical space separated them, yet they were miles apart in every other way that mattered.
“I don’t make decisions lightly, without careful consideration.” Sanborn glared at him, reeking of disappointment. “You look at me right now and think I’m some misguided, heartless monster. I. Am. Not. When I strike, it is with precision and it is with justified cause. It is your duty, your responsibility not to interfere. Not to get in my way.” Each word burned with fury and vitriol. “And you are never, absolutely never to choose one of them”—Sanborn stepped back and pointed to the boat—“over me. Is that clear?”
The bedrock of Castle’s life disintegrated. He’d always counted on being able to tell the good guys from the bad guys and now it was a blur. The one thing anchoring him was Kit—a woman he was never supposed to like, never supposed to get close to, never supposed to love, but he did. He loved her.
Kit’s life was nonnegotiable. The idea of Sanborn killing her sent a bolt of intense rage surging through him, but this battle wouldn’t be won with unchecked emotions.
“If you’re not with me,” Sanborn said, his face darkening until he was almost unrecognizable, “then you’re against me. And you will lose.”
Sanborn had drawn a line of blood in the sand, forcing Castle to make an impossible choice.
“I can’t stand with you on this.” A revving sensation sparked inside Castle as he shut down emotion, reined in anything that might keep him from saving Kit. The second his gaze reflexively dropped to the gun and detonator on the grass, he knew Sanborn would take it as a declaration of war.
So he acted first.
Castle launched himself, lowering his shoulder, and rammed into Sanborn’s torso. The force of the impact sent both men crashing down onto the dock. A crunch resounded beneath their weight. They tumbled, kicking and punching until Castle’s back slammed into a post, knocking the wind from him.
Spinning, Sanborn grabbed a broken piece of wood from the dock, raised it over his head, and bashed Castle in the abdomen.
Blinding pain exploded through Castle’s body. For a second, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. He fought through it, cleared his vision in time to see Sanborn aiming the two-by-four at his head.
Castle rolled out of the way.
A cracking thud of wood on wood smashed in where his skull would’ve been. Blocking the next blow, Castle’s forearm bore the full brunt of the strike, agony blooming in the bone.
Another hit like that would break something. Castle swung his right elbow, hand back toward his head. It collided with Sanborn’s jaw, leaving him stunned, staggering. Seizing the brief advantage, Castle knocked the wood block loose.
With a blink, the upper hand was gone. Sanborn charged him, growling, eyes ablaze, throwing both men back into the water. The chief was fast and relentless, clawing at his eyes, hurling wicked punches.
Castle swung, but the cut on his bad hand prevented him from bringing his thumb in.
Almost as if sensing the vulnerability, Sanborn grabbed Castle’s extended thumb, yanked back, and twisted.
Under the water, Castle gave a guttural, agonized scream, taking water into his lungs. But he was a SEAL, part fish.
They thrashed in a tangle, kneeing each other, using their elbows as deadly weapons.
He had to break free, even for an instant. Castle slammed his forehead into the chief’s, repeated the headbutt, and kicked out with all his strength.
Breaking the surface of the water, he came up for air. A deep lungful. Spotting shore, he made a beeline to it, hauling himself up and out onto the land. His gaze darted over the grass.
The gun was a dull glint in the light. He grabbed it, raising the weapon in one sweeping motion, and spun.
But Sanborn already had him dead to rights—locked in the sights of a second weapon. A Beretta Bobcat. Sanborn’s backup weapon that he kept in an ankle holster.
Every memory Castle had of Sanborn flashed before him—the good, the bad, the treasured—leading here. To this moment that’d become inevitable when Castle had fallen for Kit and veered off course, putting two high-speed trains on the same track headed for this collision.
The world slowed and distilled to one thing—the steely, fixed look in Sanborn’s eyes. He radiated pure menace.
All Castle heard was the roar of his raging pulse, the ragged inhalation of his breath.
His gut drew up tight as a drum, heart slamming against his chest. Instinct beat through him, driving his reflexes, and training took over.
Castle fired.
The whisper of the bullet spitting from the suppressor stung his ears as he saw it. The chief had moved his finger off the trigger.
Sanborn caught the bullet in the chest by his collarbone. The impact knocked him backward into the water, his arms flailing out wide as he fell.
Chaos erupted inside Castle. It had happened so fast, had only taken three heartbeats. He ran to him, treading over quickly.
The water around him darkened, suffused with blood.
Castle scooped Sanborn into his arms and pressed down on the chief’s wound to slow the bleeding. A major artery had been hit. God, the shot was fatal.
Blood spurted between Castle’s fingers. There was nothing that could be done.
“Why didn’t you shoot?” Castle’s voice was rough with pain. Sanborn had had him and could’ve taken him out first.
“The future. You. Knox. What’s it all for if not the future?”
Tears welled in Castle’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”
For once in his life, why couldn’t his aim have been less true, missed the mark?
“I’m glad it was you, son.” Sanborn clasped Castle’s wrist and squeezed. Affection filled his eyes.
Castle held him tighter, longing to rewind the last few seconds.
“Do something for me. Blame Khan. Don’t…don’t tell them it was me.” Blood trickled from his lips. “It’ll hurt the Gray Box.” He drew a shallow breath. “Knox. He’s the best of us. Light in the darkness. Bring him. Home.”
“I will.” The wound gushed beneath Castle’s palm and he pressed down harder.
“Stay away. From boat.” Sanborn grimaced in pain. “Bomb. On timer.” He swallowed and coughed, spitting up blood. “She’s…already…dead,” he said in a dying whisper, and one last breath left his body.