Page 21 of Until the End

His approval surprised her about as much as the ridiculous flush heating her cheeks.

Castle went up to a wall-mounted panel fitted with an ocular device next to the elevator. He tucked his shades inside his jacket and brought his eye to the biometric reader for a retina scan.

Jeez. This place had a no-bullcrap security protocol that did squat to ease her jitters. The steel doors opened. Her throat closed, muscles tensed. She was on the cusp of freak-out mode.

Castle strode inside, slipping off his jacket. She began to follow as he turned, facing her, and their gazes collided.

The shock of color in his eyes was unexpected. A startling green bleeding into blue that left her a little breathless. Her toe caught on the threshold and she tripped into the elevator, her body vaulting forward. It was almost certain she’d kiss the floor in a painful face-plant, but he glided in with action-hero reflexes, sweeping an arm around her waist.

Next thing she knew, she was on her feet and plastered against him. He was football-player tall, six-four, maybe six-five, twice her weight and built like a bull, all bone and rock-solid muscle. Castle was a fitting name.

“Careful.” A half grin hitched the corner of his mouth, and something in her chest lifted too. “I’d hate to lose you in an accident.”

Standing this close, she caught the smell of him. Warm, rough-and-tumble masculine without being overbearing. Like his smile, the scent of his aftershave or cologne surprised her.

But if she was close enough to smell him, then he could also smell her. She recoiled, dropping her arms like he was a hot piece of iron and she feared third-degree burns.

He grimaced, stirring confusing emotions she refused to dwell on. A second later, his face was a blank slate. She tore her gaze from him, ignoring the odd fluttering deep in her rib cage that had nothing to do with her heart condition.

More like the side effects of adrenaline and her anger over being dragged into this place. If there had been a moment between them—and there hadn’t—then she was having an early onset of Stockholm syndrome.

The doors slid shut with a hush. Laser beams scanned them from head to toe.

“What is that?” she asked, referring to the light show.

“Technical surveillance countermeasures. The system checks for unauthorized devices. Personal cell phones. Bugs.”

The beams disappeared, and the elevator moved. She glanced at the floor indicator. Negative numbers? “Are we going down?”

“Yes.” He sounded as cold and detached as he appeared. “To the sixth sublevel.”

A dungeon. Not a soul knew where to look for her. Not that there was anyone left who cared enough to file a missing person report.

Thrusting her chin up and pulling on her fearless façade, she braced for whatever might be on the other side of the doors. Survival of the strongest.

06

Gray Box Headquarters, Northern Virginia

11:15 a.m. EDT

A spitfire with a sassy mouth and brass lady-nuts was a hard-hitting rarity. And something Castle couldn’t let get the better of him if he was going to get the job done.

The chief gave leeway to Alistair. It was the Brit’s nature to be a consummate flirt, but with Castle, nothing ever sidetracked him. If the boss caught a glimmer of anything outside the strict bounds of professionalism, he’d be reassigned. Without discussion.

Scrubbing a palm over his smooth head, Castle shored himself up for the task at hand: retrieving stolen bioweapons before a terrorist used them on innocents. This woman had answers and he was determined to get them. Once he started an op, he saw it through to the end.

The elevator doors opened onto the operations floor, sixth sublevel. He strode off and waited for her to kick into gear.

Chin held high, she clutched the strap of her messenger bag and sashayed off with the haughty strut of a runway model. The woman was incredible. If she hadn’t cracked in the car, he would’ve believed this little façade.

He escorted her down the carpeted main hall lined with six-foot high partitions, dividing the Black Ops section from Intel. Despite being underground, the neutral color scheme of sunny beige, soft gray, and seafoam blue imbued the space with the serenity of a perfect day at sea.

Low chatter filled the air from the televisions over in Intel, tuned to news around the world from BBC to Al Jazeera. Her eyes were wide and her head on a swivel.

Reece rounded the corner from an intersecting corridor that led to the break room and administrative offices, where the boss resided. Not surprising Reece and Alistair had beaten him back. Losing the tail and subduing the mystery woman had caused a bit of a delay.

“Hey.” Reece waved to Castle. As he took a sip from his coffee mug, his gaze flickered to the firecracker. “See you bagged our POI,” Reece said, nodding to their person of interest.