Page 23 of Until the End

“Are you staying?” Alistair asked.

“Of course.” The answer should’ve been obvious.

“Then so am I.” Alistair folded his arms. “We’re partners on this. Bagged her together.”

“Sheesh.” She plopped in a seat across the table from Alistair. “Could you fellas use a different word? No one bagged me.”

Castle didn’t spare Alistair a glance, his gaze locked on the mystery woman as he spoke to the Brit. “Get lost. I want to limit the number of swinging dicks in the room.”

“Why?” she asked.

Alistair cleared his throat, stealing her focus. “It can be a bit much for a civilian.” His British accent rolled smoother than normal, and Castle swore the guy had deepened his voice an octave. “With all the muscles and testosterone and sizzling heat we’re packing. And I don’t mean the hardware in our holsters.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Stow it, Allie,” Castle said.

Secretly, he envied Alistair’s chatty, loose manner that never hindered his performance in the field and sometimes had a surprising way of getting people to lower their guard.

Alistair pulled his feet off the table and rested his forearms on the glass surface, his full attention on her. “Ignore that abrasive beast, luv. He’s always got a cob on around me, so jealous of my irresistible charm and dashing good looks.” He winked at her.

Bastard had the balls to wink. “Shut your mouth and you can stay,” Castle said.

“Deal.” Alistair clamped his lips closed, pretended to lock them with a key, and tossed it. If only it was that easy. The moratorium on his silence wouldn’t last long.

“I’m going to grab the chief.”

“Castle, wait.” Her lips parted as if to say more. A deep crease furrowed her brow and she clutched the arm of the chair, knuckles losing all color.

He was stumped at first, but then the reason for her alarm hit him. In the car, he’d promised not to leave her side. He’d doubted she’d remembered, but it was the only explanation for the shift in her composure.

Beneath her tough-girl pretense, she was terrified. He shouldn’t care, considering that scared was the best state of mind to get someone talking, but he did.

“Alistair, would you go get the chief?”

The smart aleck’s eyes danced with amusement as he shook his head. He pressed a finger to his sealed lips and indicated he was staying glued to the seat.

Weighing his promise to the woman against expediting her departure from the facility, Castle said, “Two minutes. I’ll be right back. The sooner I get the chief in here, the faster you can leave.” Hopefully.

She didn’t have a colluded-with-terrorists vibe, but she did know about the classified existence of Z-1984. And someone had already gone to a helluva lot of trouble to try and kill her.

07

Washington, DC

11:30 a.m. EDT

Winthrop Lee Pomeroy III, director of national intelligence, sat in the private room he’d specifically requested, overlooking H Street, at the prestigious Metropolitan Club. Once men-only until the nasty little Supreme Court ruling that had forced the policy change requiring the admittance of women and minorities.

Still, you had to be cream of the crop, wealthy, powerful—heck, you had to exude greatness—just to fit in. The place even smelled of exclusivity.

More importantly, it catered to a discreet clientele like the key players Lee was meeting. House rules forbade the use of cell phones or the taking of pictures, and they swept regularly for planted listening devices.

Lee leaned back in his leather chair, sipping twenty-five-year-old Glenmorangie Grand Vintage Malt. It was five o’clock somewhere in the world. Nothing tasted better.

Too bad he couldn’t enjoy it.

“How are we supposed to prevent this from leaking?” asked Edward Boswell, chairman of the U.S. Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. “This Westcott woman popped out of nowhere and has disappeared just as quickly. How in the hell did she find out about Z-1984?”