Page 82 of Until the End

“I have to treat that,” Castle said. “Do what you can to slow the bleeding for now.” He handed Alistair the kit and got in the driver’s seat.

Castle peeled out of the lot and cut onto a main street, headed away from campus.

In the back, Alistair groaned with each turn and bump in the road. He ripped open a packet of gauze treated with Celox, a blood-clotting agent, and stuffed it down his pants, pressing it on the wound.

“Where are we going?” Kit asked.

“Safe house. We have one in most major cities.” Fortunately, their sole safe house in New England was here in Boston, the largest metropolitan area. Castle had confirmed the location and access codes once he’d learned they were headed to MIT. With Bravo popping up, hot on their asses, there was the off chance they’d need it. And he was right.

One thing his special warfare training had taught him, if nothing else, was to always do your due diligence. It could mean the difference between survival and bleeding out.

Driving as fast as traffic allowed, he took turns with the fluidity of a race car driver, all to ensure they weren’t being followed. With two different teams after Kit, that was the last thing they needed.

Castle programmed the address he’d memorized into the GPS. The projected arrival time popped up on the screen. Closer would have been better. “It’s an hour away. Can you make it?”

The vehicle slammed over another pothole, bouncing and rocking.

Alistair grunted, sliding along the bench, and snatched hold of the rear grab handle, keeping himself from crashing against the front seat. His wound must’ve stung with each jolt. If Castle could’ve given him a smooth, cushion-padded ride, he would’ve.

“Hungover. Knackered. Shot,” Alistair hissed. “And I have to contend with you driving like a tosser too. Bloody hell.”

Yep. Allie was going to make it.

27

“Yes, sir,” Wheeler said on his cell phone as he walked across the courtyard, oblivious Bravo was so close that he could almost reach out and touch him. “We had her but—”

A pause on Wheeler’s side as he listened, shaking his head, his chest heaving.

“She isn’t alone. She had help.”

An aggravated sigh. Wheeler ran his fingers through his hair like he might rip the strands from his scalp.

“What that means, sir, is I lost six good men today. Two dead. Two arrested, another two with broken arms. This is going to cost extra. A million on top of what you’re paying Zanteon. The money comes directly to me.” Entering a parking lot, he took out a key fob. “Yes, it is a big number. But that’s what it’ll cost to get this done.”

Wheeler tapped the key fob. Lights flashed on a black SUV. Still on the phone haggling. Still distracted.

“Think it over, sir, while I regroup. I’m your best option.”

We’ll see about that.

Wheeler disconnected, slipping his phone in his jacket pocket as Bravo whipped out what appeared to be a six-inch-long ballpoint pen. The instrument was nothing so ubiquitous or harmless.

Unscrewing it in the middle, he removed the cover and unsheathed a stainless-steel ice pick that had an armor-piercing point.

Wheeler’s instincts kicked in too late. He spun, drawing his weapon.

Bravo grabbed the wrist of Wheeler’s gun hand and held the muzzle away and down. Bravo rammed the sharp end of the shaft up to the hilt through the ballistic nylon vest and between Wheeler’s ribs, popping his lung. The body armor had been made to stop projectiles but offered little protection against chisel-like blades. The maneuver was executed with deft speed and proficiency that the thirty-three-year-old had spent more than a decade honing.

Wheeler staggered back, hitting the door of the SUV. He clutched his chest, sliding down the side of the car to the ground. His eyes filled with shock and confusion. Then panic and pain. Blood seeped from his lips.

Bravo stood over him, listening to the slight gurgling sound coming from him.

Killing Randall Wheeler solved little. The person who hired him would find a replacement. Killing Wheeler wasn’t personal either.

Their paths had crossed once before, the nature of which had been drearily neutral. No quarrels, no levied threats. All rather forgettable, except that Bravo never forgot a face or a name.

Killing Wheeler had simply been quick, fun. A glorious release from days of pent-up rage. The sport: hunting a fellow predator.