Page 72 of Until the End

“I remember how you like to have your TAs at your beck and call.” Kit’s eyes narrowed, but that fake smile stayed on.

The professor lowered his head, a blush rising to his cheeks. “The receiving facility is just on the other side of the court in the Stata Center.”

“How big is the center?” Alistair asked.

“I don’t know exactly,” Mendoza said. “About seven hundred thousand square feet, spans almost three acres.”

Castle exchanged a quick glance with Alistair. “We need comms.”

They went back to the Hummer parked nearby. Castle fished out the communications gear from the trunk and thumbed the case open. He tossed an earpiece to Alistair and inserted his own.

Holding up a third one, he gave Kit a crash course. “Wireless, Bluetooth comms device. To talk, touch this button.” He showed her the tiny spot. “We’ll be able to hear everything you say until you tap it again. Got it?”

Kit placed the flesh-colored communications device in her right ear. “If you’re going to be with me, why is this necessary?”

“Just a precaution in case things go sideways.” Castle closed his trunk and bent down, pulling out his Beretta 21A Bobcat from a holster strapped around his ankle. At twelve ounces with a two-and-a-half-inch barrel, it was comparable in size to a smartphone as well as reliable, accurate, and ultra-concealable. “Take this too.” He handed her the weapon he hoped she wouldn’t need. “Put it in your bag.”

“Will this baby-sized gun pack a punch?” She stuffed the Beretta inside her satchel beside the encrypted laptop they’d taken from his place.

“Most definitely,” Castle said.

“Excuse me, is there some danger I need to be aware of?” Mendoza asked.

“Nothing for you to worry about,” Alistair said, his tone jovial and dismissive. “The bad guys only want her and the package.”

Taken at face value with all the jokes, Alistair didn’t seem worth his weight in salt. But when it came to killing, he was one of the most lethal operatives in the Gray Box.

Mendoza blanched. “Maybe we should call the police. Let them handle this.”

“They’re better than the police.” Kit put a reassuring hand on Mendoza’s shoulder, but his qualms didn’t appear to subside.

He pulled her off to the side, still within easy earshot. “When did you start working with federal agents?” he asked in Spanish. “The Kit Westcott I know would sooner swallow her own tongue. And she would rather chop off her own hand than hold a gun.”

Castle’s gut twisted at the look that settled on Kit’s face. Pure shame.

24

“Are you under duress?” Lenny asked in fluent Castilian.

“No. I’m cooperating of my own free will. Now. It’s a long story.”

“How well do you know these men?”

Kit wasn’t sure how to answer. On the car ride to campus, Castle had urged her not to divulge any of what had happened.

“As well as you know me?” Lenny clasped both her shoulders, kneading her muscles as he’d done when they’d been lovers, trying to bend her to his will. “Let’s at least call campus security.”

“I trust Castle with my life.” She moved out of his grasp and gave a docile, saccharine smile. One so sweet it’d make your teeth ache. That was what Lenny liked. Something Kit could never truly be. Funny, every smile she’d given Castle had been genuine. “They have good reasons for the way they work. If we listen to them, you’ll be done with this in a few minutes. Please, Lenny. As a favor to me.”

God knew, the bastard owed her. Six years ago, Kyle had just committed suicide, his body not yet cold in the ground, when Lenny had seduced her, taking advantage of her grief. He’d wanted Kit to speak to her mother about making a large donation to the EECS Department, in Kyle’s name of course. The short-lived affair ended the moment Kit had discovered he was still sleeping with both of his TAs at the time. Thankfully, before a check had been written.

No wonder he never had any energy with Kit, giving her his sloppy leftovers. It was apparently hard work sleeping with three different women and swimming sixty laps every day.

Castle was a finer man by a mile. Last night in his bedroom, she’d thrown herself at him, in desperate need of comfort. He could’ve slept with her but hadn’t. Instead, he’d been the first guy to put on the brakes when she’d been ready to go.

In hindsight, doing so would’ve made his job easier. Not that he would’ve known it. Every time she slept with a guy, she ended up lowering her defenses, tripping over her libido, and falling for his ruse. Like an idiot.

She should be a cynic. Life’s brutal lessons were a testament that the butterflies-in-your-belly kind of love didn’t exist, but she didn’t know how to relinquish her idealism. Deep down, she was a hopeless romantic with a healthy sexual appetite.