Page 38 of Until the End

“Whiskey here. The Jordanians are on top of the other situation. Local law enforcement is following the van, and an intelligence team is inbound via helicopter. But we’ve got to get the hell out of country stat. An old acquaintance isn’t happy I’m here and has a lot of questions that could stir up big trouble for us in little Jordan. My ETA to you guys, two mikes.”

In two minutes, they’d be downstairs, ready to rock and roll.

“The boat is waiting to take us to the exfil point,” Yankee said. “Let’s hustle, people. I want us airborne in two hours.”

12

Reston, Virginia

1:27 p.m. EDT

“We’re here,” Castle said, bringing the vehicle to a stop.

Kit removed her blindfold—no hood this time—and held a palm up to her eyes, squinting to let them adjust to the light. “Thanks for not tying my hands.”

“Thanks for keeping the blindfold on and not forcing me to.”

The NDAs she’d signed were one level of protection. Keeping her ignorant of the Gray Box’s exact location was a second Sanborn had apparently insisted on.

They didn’t fully trust her, and the feeling was mutual.

She glanced at the row of town houses on the tree-lined suburban street. “I thought you’d take me to a hotel. Is this a safe house?”

“You could say that.” He opened his door. “This is my place.”

Her stomach clenched. Wasn’t there a proper procedure for this sort of thing? The Gray Box facility had been built with a no-expense-spared budget, based on the swanky lobby and the high-tech sublevel. But what kind of rinky-dink security detail were they running that left them bringing her to someone’s house?

She climbed out of the SUV and followed him to the front door. “Do you make a habit of taking POIs home with you?”

“Nope. You’re special.” He glanced at her, a wry charm in his tone. But the steeliness to him—as if he was a man always prepared to handle anything—never wavered.

“Whoopee. Lucky me.” She waggled her eyebrows.

Castle shook his head and unlocked his front door.

“Now that I know your address, can I know your last name?”

“Kinkade.”

She stepped inside, eyeing the elaborate security system panel on the wall, and looked around. Dark hardwood floors. Formal dining room beside the living room with worn-in leather furniture. Seventy-inch flat-screen. In the kitchen, dark cabinets, stainless steel appliances, black granite, and another TV. The wall décor, lighting, the special little touches throughout were more high-end than she expected. He’d paid a lot of attention to the details. Each room looked like something straight out of an Ethan Allen catalog.

“I’m surprised you don’t live in a bunker that’s armed and stocked to the nth degree.” She dropped her satchel and vegan leather jacket in a club chair. “Prepared in case of an apocalypse.”

“This is all for show to appear normal,” he said, deadpan, but there was something teasing in his voice that made her want to smile. “The bunker is upstairs.”

She digested his words and laughed. “Ah, you’re joking. Cute.” She winked. “Your home’s warm. Masculine, but cozy in a surprisingly chic way. How long did it take you to decorate?”

“Thirty minutes.”

She raised a curious eyebrow.

“I can’t really take credit for this. I hate going to stores, picking over things, traipsing down every aisle, wasting hours hemming and hawing—what my mom calls shopping. I went online to some furniture sites she recommended and just picked everything from a room that I liked and recreated the look.”

Still, he had excellent taste and a discerning eye. “Well, this place is spick-and-span. For a bachelor, that’s remarkable.”

“Not all single men are slobs.”

“That hasn’t been my experience. I take care of all the cleaning, laundry, and grocery shopping for the guys…” A fresh, raw pang cut through her. She looked away and squeezed her eyes shut for a second, willing her knees not to buckle from the onslaught of anguish. She swallowed past the lump in her throat, fought against the constriction in her lungs.