The morning came too early, announced by my phone buzzing insistently on Elizabeth's nightstand. I reached for it with the arm that wasn't currently pinned under her head, squinting at the screen through sleep-blurred eyes.
6:47 AM. A text from Burke: *Need you and Castle at FBI offices by 9 AM. Markov's talking. Bring coffee.*
I set the phone down and became aware of two things: first, that Elizabeth was already awake, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my chest, and second, that her leg was hooked over mine in a way that suggested she had plans for the immediate future.
"Work?" she murmured, her voice still rough with sleep.
"Burke wants Castle and me at the FBI offices by nine."
"That gives us at least an hour." Her hand drifted lower, nails dragging lightly across my abs. "Plenty of time for a shower."
"A shower," I repeated, catching her hand before it could distract me further. "Just a shower?"
"Well, we need to conserve water. Environmental responsibility and all that." Her smile was pure wickedness as she rolled on top of me, the sheet falling away. Her red hair cascaded around us like a curtain, and the early morning light coming through the windows made her skin glow. "It's the civic-minded thing to do."
I was about to point out the logical flaws in that argument when she kissed me, and suddenly logic seemed vastly overrated.
—
By the time we actually made it to the shower—a journey that had involved several detours and at least one instance of Elizabeth demonstrating why kitchen counters were exactly the right height—we were cutting it dangerously close to my deadline.
Elizabeth's shower was one of those luxury installations that had cost more than my first car: multiple shower heads, perfect water pressure, enough space for two people to move comfortably. Or, in our case, *very* comfortably.
"You know," she said, pressing me against the tile wall as hot water cascaded over both of us, "this is a terrible way to actually get clean."
"I'm not hearing complaints."
"That's because I'm thoroughly distracted." Her hands mapped the contours of my chest, my shoulders, my arms—the same assessment she'd done last night, checking for injuries, except now it was pure appreciation. "God, Frank. What you did yesterday—"
"Elizabeth—"
"Let me finish." She looked up at me, water streaming down her face, her green eyes intense. "What you did yesterday terrified me. But it also reminded me why I—" She stopped herself, and I watched her recalibrate, retreat to safer ground. "Why our arrangement works. You're not just competent. You're exceptional. And that's incredibly attractive."
"Just attractive?"
"Don't fish for compliments. Your ego doesn't need the help." But she pulled me down into a kiss that said everything she wasn't ready to put into words.
By the time we emerged—actually clean this time, though it had taken longer than strictly necessary—I had exactly forty-five minutes to get to Castle's loft, collect him, and make it to FBI headquarters.
I dressed quickly: dark jeans, a charcoal henley, the leather jacket. Elizabeth watched from her doorway, wearing nothing but a towel and an expression that suggested she was reconsidering letting me leave.
"You're trouble," I said, kissing her forehead as I headed for the door.
"You like trouble."
"Debatable."
"Liar." She caught my arm, turning me back to face her. "Frank. Whatever happens today—"
"I'll be careful."
"I was going to say 'call me.'" Her expression was serious now. "I mean it. If things go sideways again, if Burke's prisoner says something that puts you in danger, I want to know immediately."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And tonight—" She paused, and something vulnerable flickered across her face. "Tonight we should talk. Actually talk. About us, about what we're doing, about—"
"About whether 'arrangement' is still the right word?" I finished gently.
She nodded. "Among other things."
I kissed her properly this time, taking my time despite the clock ticking down. "Tonight. I promise. We'll order pizza, open that expensive whiskey you've been saving, and have an actual conversation about feelings and other terrifying topics."
"I hate feelings."
"I know. But you're good at them anyway." I headed for the door again, then paused. "Elizabeth?"
"Yes?"
"For what it's worth? Whatever this is, I'm not scared of it."
She smiled—a real smile, not her corporate armor. "Liar. But a sweet one."
I left before she could pull me back into the apartment.
—
The drive to Castle's loft took twenty minutes in light morning traffic, the Mustang purring through the streets while I mentally prepared for whatever Burke had learned from Markov. A Russian enforcer willing to talk usually meant one of two things: either he was more scared of his bosses than the FBI, or he'd been offered a deal too good to refuse.
Either way, it meant complications.
I pulled up to Castle's building at 8:15, giving us forty-five minutes to make it to FBI headquarters in Lower Manhattan. Plenty of time.
The doorman—Gary from yesterday—nodded as I entered. "Mr. Bennett. Mr. Castle said to send you right up. He's expecting you."
"Thanks."
The elevator ride gave me time to check my phone. Three texts from Neal:
*Heard Burke called you in. Try not to shoot anyone today.*
*Seriously though, Peter's worried about what Markov might say. This case is bigger than we thought.*
*Lunch Thursday still on? I have some things I need to tell you.*
I typed back: *No shooting before 9 AM. It's a personal rule. And yes, Thursday. Thai place in Tribeca.*
His response was immediate: *You're hilarious. Be safe, little brother.*
*I'm twelve minutes younger. That doesn't make me little.*
*Still counts.*
I was smiling when the elevator doors opened directly into Castle's loft.
The space looked different in morning light—less chaotic, more lived-in. Sunlight streamed through the massive windows, illuminating the organized chaos of Castle's life: books everywhere, the poker table from last night's game still set up, coffee mugs on various surfaces suggesting multiple people's morning routines.
But it wasn't Castle who greeted me.
Sloane Sterling stood in the kitchen area, wearing dark jeans and an oversized cardigan over a vintage Fleetwood Mac t-shirt, her strawberry blonde hair pulled back in a messy bun. She was making coffee with the kind of focused attention that suggested she took the process seriously, and she looked up when I entered with a smile that was both welcoming and assessing.
"Frank. Good morning." She gestured to the coffee maker. "Rick's running late—shocking, I know. He's currently having an existential crisis about what shirt says 'I'm taking FBI interrogations seriously but I'm still fun.' Can I get you some coffee while you wait?"
"Please. Black."
"A man of simple tastes." She poured two mugs—one black for me, one with cream and sugar for herself—and leaned against the counter. "Rick told me about yesterday. The storage facility, the shooting. He said you were..." She paused, searching for words. "His exact phrase was 'like watching John Wick if John Wick also had tactical training and better one-liners.'"
"Castle exaggerates."
"Does he?" Sloane studied me over the rim of her mug, her expression thoughtful. "Because the news is reporting that three armed men tried to kill a group of police officers and federal agents, and a private security consultant took down two of them using improvised weapons and hand-to-hand combat. That doesn't sound like exaggeration."
"It sounds like good reporting mixed with Castle's narrative embellishment."
She laughed—that same genuine laugh from yesterday. "You're modest. That's refreshing. Most of the people in Rick's orbit are—" She made a vague gesture. "—a lot. Actors, writers, people who make everything about them. You're not like that."
"I'm just doing my job."
"See? Modest." She set down her mug and walked over to the breakfast bar, gesturing for me to join her. "So, Frank Bennett. Security consultant, former military, apparently competent enough to keep my idiot brother alive. What's your story?"
"That's classified."
"The military parts or the interesting parts?"
"Both."
"Now I'm definitely curious." Sloane settled onto a bar stool, studying me with the kind of open interest that would've made most people uncomfortable. But there was nothing predatory about it—just genuine curiosity, the kind artists had when they wanted to understand their subject. "Okay, non-classified questions: How long have you been doing security consulting?"
"About three years. Before that, Army. Before that—" I shrugged. "I was figuring out who I wanted to be."
"And who did you decide to be?"
"Someone useful."
She tilted her head, considering that. "Useful. Not 'someone good' or 'someone successful.' Useful. That's interesting."
"Is this an interview?"
"Maybe." Her smile was disarming. "I'm a musician. I spend a lot of time reading people—understanding what drives them, what makes them tick. It helps with writing songs, performing. You're—" She paused again, and I could see her trying to find the right words. "—you're different from the people Rick usually surrounds himself with. More grounded. Less performative."
"Castle performs?"
"Rick *exists* performatively. Everything's a story, a joke, a chance to be clever." There was fondness in her voice despite the criticism. "Don't get me wrong—I love my brother. But sometimes I wonder if he even knows who he is when he's not entertaining someone."
I thought about Castle—about the enthusiasm, the constant quips, the way he turned everything into narrative. "He knows. He just likes the performance better than the reality."
"That's surprisingly insightful for someone who's known him for less than twenty-four hours."
"I'm observant. Comes with the job."
"That, and you've probably met a lot of people who hide behind personas." Sloane leaned forward slightly, her expression thoughtful. "Military teaches you that, right? How to read people, figure out what they're really thinking versus what they're showing you."
"Among other things."
"See, now I really want to know what those other things are." She was smiling again, and there was something magnetic about Sloane Sterling—not in the obvious way Elizabeth commanded attention, but in a subtler, more inviting manner. She made you want to share things, open up, be honest. "But I'm guessing you're not going to tell me."
"Not on the first coffee."
"Does that mean there might be a second coffee?"
I met her eyes—hazel, I noticed, not quite green, not quite brown, with flecks of gold that caught the morning light. "Are you flirting with me?"
"I'm talking to you. If that reads as flirting, that says more about you than me." But her smile widened. "Though I wouldn't be opposed to flirting. You're attractive, interesting, and you apparently throw hand trucks at bad guys. That's a compelling resume."
"I'm also involved with someone."
"Elizabeth, your business partner. Rick mentioned her." Sloane didn't look particularly deterred. "Are you married?"
"No."
"Engaged?"
"No."
"Exclusive?"
I thought about last night, about Elizabeth's vulnerability, about the conversation we'd promised to have tonight. "It's complicated."
"Complicated is not exclusive." Sloane pulled out her phone. "Look, I'm not trying to cause problems. But I like you—you're smart, competent, and you don't seem to take my brother's chaos personally. So how about this: I'll give you my number. If you ever want to grab coffee as friends, or talk about something other than murder investigations, or just need a break from Rick's exhausting energy—" She typed something on her phone, then showed me the screen. "—you can text me. No pressure, no expectations. Just an offer."
I pulled out my own phone and added her contact information. "Coffee as friends."
"Coffee as friends," she confirmed. "Though if 'complicated' becomes 'uncomplicated,' feel free to let me know."
"You're very direct."
"Life's too short to be subtle." She stood, collecting our empty mugs. "Plus, I've watched Rick dance around feelings with Kate Beckett since they started working together. I refuse to be that person—if I'm interested in someone, I say so. Worst case, they say no and we move on."
"And best case?"
"Best case, they say yes and we get to see where it goes." She loaded the mugs into the dishwasher with easy efficiency. "But like I said—no pressure. I'm perfectly happy being the cool sister who makes excellent coffee and gives unsolicited life advice."
Before I could respond, Castle emerged from the hallway wearing dark jeans, a purple button-up that somehow worked on him, and an expression of mild panic.
"Frank! Sorry, I know we're cutting it close. I couldn't decide—" He stopped, looking between Sloane and me. "Am I interrupting something?"
"Just coffee and conversation," Sloane said smoothly. "Frank's been very professional and appropriate. You should take lessons."
"I'm *always* appropriate."
"You're *occasionally* appropriate," she corrected. "There's a difference." She walked over and kissed Castle's cheek. "Try not to get shot today. Mom and Alexis are already worried enough."
"Where are they, anyway?"
"Mom's at a theater thing, Alexis is at school. It's just us delinquents home this morning." Sloane headed for her apartment—4B, she'd mentioned yesterday—but paused at the door. "Frank, remember what I said. Coffee whenever you want. And Rick? Try to let the professionals handle the investigating. You're an observer, not a participant."
"You sound like Kate."
"Kate sounds smart."
Castle watched her disappear into her apartment, then turned to me with a knowing grin. "My sister was flirting with you."
"She was being friendly."
"Frank, I write romance novels. I know flirting when I see it." He grabbed his jacket—expensive leather, Italian by the look of it. "And before you give me the 'I'm involved with Elizabeth' speech, I already know. Sloane knows too. She doesn't care."
"That's—"
"Completely in character for her? Yes." Castle headed for the elevator. "Sloane's philosophy is that life's too short to not pursue what you want. She's very..." He searched for words. "...aggressively authentic. If she likes you, she tells you. If she doesn't, she also tells you. There's no middle ground."
"That must make relationships interesting."
"You have no idea. Her dating history is a series of intense connections that either become lifelong friendships or spectacular disasters." The elevator arrived, and we stepped in. "But she's loyal, brilliant, and genuinely kind. If she's offering friendship—or whatever else she was offering—she means it."
We descended in silence for a moment, then Castle added casually, "You know, if you and Elizabeth aren't exclusive..."
"Castle."
"I'm just saying, Sloane's a catch. Talented musician, emotionally available, makes excellent coffee. You could do worse."
"I'm not shopping around."
"But you're not *not* shopping around either." He grinned at my expression. "Look, I'm not judging. Whatever you and Elizabeth have going on is your business. I'm just pointing out that my sister is clearly interested, and you're clearly not opposed to the idea, and life is complicated enough without pretending we're all monogamous robots."
The elevator doors opened into the lobby, saving me from having to respond.
Because here's the thing: Castle wasn't wrong. Napoleon Solo's charm wasn't something I could just turn off—it was part of who I was now, woven into my personality as thoroughly as Sherlock's deductive reasoning or Frank Martin's tactical thinking. And while I cared about Elizabeth, while we were building something real and complicated and terrifying, the idea of monogamy had always felt... constraining.
In my first life, I'd never even kissed anyone. In this life, I had options. Opportunities. A body that worked and charm that made people lean in closer.
Elizabeth and I had never discussed exclusivity. We'd fallen into our arrangement naturally, two people who understood each other and enjoyed each other's company. But we'd never defined it, never put boundaries around it.
Maybe we needed to.
Or maybe that conversation tonight was going to be even more complicated than I'd anticipated.
"Frank?" Castle was watching me with that writer's perception. "You okay?"
"Fine. Just thinking."
"About my sister?"
"About the case," I lied. "And about whatever Markov told Burke that has him calling us in this early."
Castle accepted the deflection, probably because he was just as curious about the FBI interrogation. "Right. The Russian enforcer. Think he'll actually give us useful information?"
"He's talking, which means either he's scared or he's been offered immunity. Either way—" I unlocked the Mustang with a chirp. "—someone's about to have a very bad day."
"As long as that someone isn't us, I'm okay with it."
We climbed into the Mustang, and I started the engine. That familiar rumble seemed especially satisfying this morning—proof that I was alive, functional, moving forward.
As we pulled into traffic, my phone buzzed with a text from Elizabeth: *Good luck at the FBI. Try not to shoot anyone in federal custody. And Frank? Tonight. We talk. No avoiding it.*
I showed the text to Castle, who read it and whistled. "Sounds serious."
"It is."
"Good luck with that conversation. Based on what you've told me about Elizabeth, she doesn't do serious lightly."
"No. She doesn't."
We drove in comfortable silence for a few blocks, Manhattan waking up around us—coffee shops opening, people heading to work, the organized chaos of the city starting its day.
"Can I ask you something?" Castle said eventually.
"Depends on the question."
"Yesterday, in that parking lot. When you decided to engage those shooters instead of staying in cover with me—" He paused, choosing his words carefully. "—what went through your mind?"
I thought about that moment, about the calculations and decisions made in fractions of seconds. "They were aiming at the people near the storage unit. At Beckett, at Neal, at the CSU techs. If I stayed in cover, people died. If I engaged, I had a chance to change that outcome."
"So you risked your life for strangers."
"I risked my life for people who deserved better than being shot by Russian enforcers in a parking lot." I glanced at him. "That's the job, Castle. Not just protecting you—protecting anyone who needs it when I have the ability to help."
"That's—" He stopped himself. "—that's exactly the kind of thing a hero says."
"I'm not a hero. I'm a security consultant with military training and decent reflexes."
"You're both." Castle's expression was thoughtful. "And I think that's what makes you different from the people I usually meet. You don't see yourself as special, even when you do extraordinary things. You just see it as the job."
"Because it *is* the job."
"Maybe. Or maybe you're exactly the kind of person who makes the world better just by being in it." He smiled before I could argue. "But don't worry—I won't tell anyone you're secretly heroic. It'll ruin your mysterious consultant image."
"Appreciated."
We pulled up to the FBI building—one of those imposing federal structures that screamed "authority" with every line of its architecture. Security was tight, guards at every entrance, cameras on every corner.
Burke was waiting in the lobby, coffee in hand and an expression that suggested he hadn't slept much. Neal stood beside him, wearing another expensive suit and looking annoyingly well-rested despite presumably being kept in the loop about Markov's interrogation.
"Bennett. Castle." Burke handed us visitor badges. "Markov started talking around four this morning. What he's saying changes everything."
"How bad?" I asked.
Burke's expression was grim. "The art theft ring? It's a front. The real operation is money laundering for an international criminal organization with ties to arms dealing, human trafficking, and at least three murders in the past six months."
Castle's eyes went wide. "Holy shit."
"Yeah." Burke started walking toward the elevators, and we followed. "And Marcus Sheldon wasn't just logistics. He was a witness who got cold feet. Someone ordered the hit before he could turn evidence."
"Which means everyone else involved is in danger," I said.
"Everyone involved, everyone investigating, and—" Burke looked directly at me, "—anyone who shot their enforcers and sent one to federal custody."
Neal's expression was carefully neutral, but I saw the concern in his eyes. "They'll come after Frank."
"They'll try," Burke corrected. "Which is why I've requested protective detail for both Castle and Bennett until we can shut this operation down."
"Protective detail," I repeated. "You mean federal protection."
"I mean keeping you alive." Burke's tone left no room for argument. "These people are sophisticated, well-funded, and extremely motivated. What happened yesterday was just their opening move."
The elevator doors opened, and we stepped inside. Burke hit the button for the sixth floor—the White Collar Crime division's offices.
As we ascended, Castle leaned close and whispered, "This is the best/worst thing that's ever happened to me."
"How is this the best?"
"It's incredibly exciting from a narrative perspective."
"And the worst?"
"People are actually trying to kill us."
"Welcome to my world," Neal muttered.
The elevator doors opened onto a floor of organized chaos—agents at desks, phones ringing, the controlled energy of people working a major case. Burke led us through to a conference room where Beckett was already waiting, along with Ryan and Esposito.
"About time," Beckett said, but there was no heat in it. She looked as tired as Burke—probably had been here since Markov started talking. "We've been piecing together what he told us with what we found in the storage unit. It's worse than we thought."
"Burke gave us the overview," I said, taking a seat. "International criminal organization, money laundering through art theft."
"That's just the surface." Beckett pulled up a presentation on the conference room screen—photographs, documents, flow charts. "Markov identified twelve separate individuals involved in the operation, including two gallery owners in Manhattan, a shipping company in New Jersey, and—" She clicked to the next slide, "—a federal prosecutor."
The room went silent.
"A federal prosecutor," Castle said slowly. "As in someone who works here. In this building."
"Not anymore," Burke said grimly. "Assistant U.S. Attorney Rebecca Walsh. She resigned six months ago, supposedly to go into private practice. But according to Markov, she's been using her knowledge of federal investigations to help the organization stay ahead of law enforcement."
"That's—" Esposito shook his head. "—that's bad. That's really, really bad."
"It gets worse," Beckett continued. "Walsh has access to sealed files, witness protection information, and details about ongoing investigations. Which means—"
"She knows about Markov," I finished. "She knows he's talking. And she knows who's investigating."
"Exactly." Burke pulled up another slide—a floor plan of the storage facility. "Yesterday's attack wasn't random. They knew we'd be there because Walsh has been monitoring our case files. The only reason we survived is because Bennett engaged before they could set up properly."
All eyes turned to me.
"The hand truck throw," Ryan said. "You didn't just react—you disrupted their formation before they could execute."
"Seemed like the right move at the time."
"It was the *perfect* move," Beckett said, and there was something like respect in her voice. "Burke's tactical team analyzed the scene. If those shooters had gotten into position, we'd be looking at multiple casualties. You saved lives."
"Frank does that," Neal said quietly. "Whether he admits it or not."
An uncomfortable silence fell. I wasn't used to being the center of attention, wasn't comfortable with praise. Doing the job was enough—the recognition felt excessive.
Castle, bless him, broke the tension. "So what's the plan? How do we catch these people without a corrupt federal prosecutor warning them?"
"Carefully," Burke said. "We've isolated the investigation—only people in this room have full access to case files. We're running the art theft angle publicly while secretly building the larger case. And we're using Markov's information to identify targets for surveillance."
"Meanwhile," Beckett added, "Castle and Bennett get federal protection whether they like it or not."
"I don't need protection," I said automatically.
"Yesterday you took down three armed assailants," Burke countered. "Today they know your face, your name, and that you're a threat to their operation. You need protection."
"I am the protection. That's literally my job."
"And you can't do your job if you're dead."
We stared at each other across the table—Burke with federal authority, me with stubborn military pride. Neither of us willing to blink first.
Neal sighed. "This is why I never introduce Frank to my coworkers. He's allergic to common sense."
"I'm not allergic to common sense. I'm allergic to unnecessary protective details that waste resources and make me less effective at my actual job."
"Your actual job is keeping Castle alive," Beckett pointed out. "Kind of hard to do that if you're the target."
She had a point. I hated that she had a point.
"Fine," I said finally. "But the protective detail stays out of my way. I'm not changing how I operate just because some suit wants to shadow me."
"The suit will stay out of your way," Burke promised. "But Frank? Take this seriously. These people have resources, connections, and a demonstrated willingness to kill law enforcement. You're not invincible."
"I know."
"Do you?" Neal's voice was sharp now, concerned older brother overriding charming consultant. "Because from where I'm sitting, you're acting like yesterday was Tuesday and not a near-death experience."
"Yesterday was Tuesday for me," I said quietly. "In the Army, in Special Investigations—that was the job. The only difference now is the uniform and the paycheck."
"The difference," Neal said, "is that you have people who care whether you come home. Elizabeth. Me. Apparently these good people—" he gestured around the table, "—who've known you less than forty-eight hours and are already invested in keeping you breathing."
I looked around the conference room. Castle, watching me with that writer's intensity. Beckett, her expression carefully neutral but her eyes sharp. Ryan and Esposito, who'd apparently decided I was part of their team after one firefight. Burke, a federal agent who'd made it his mission to keep me alive despite barely knowing me.
And Neal. My brother. My twin who looked nothing like me but knew me better than almost anyone.
"Okay," I said. "Point taken. I'll be careful."
"You'll accept the protective detail," Burke corrected.
"I'll accept the protective detail," I agreed, even though it grated against every instinct I had.
"Good." Burke pulled up another slide—surveillance photos of Rebecca Walsh. "Now let's talk about how we're going to take down a corrupt federal prosecutor and dismantle an international criminal organization."
Castle leaned back in his chair, grinning. "This is the best day ever."
"You have a very strange definition of 'best,'" Esposito muttered.
But as the briefing continued, as Burke and Beckett outlined the case and the plan, I felt that familiar sensation from yesterday—the sense of purpose, of being exactly where I was supposed to be, doing exactly what I was meant to do.
ROB had given me a second chance.
I was determined not to waste it.
Even if it meant accepting help, acknowledging vulnerability, and having complicated conversations about feelings with Elizabeth tonight.
One crisis at a time.
For now, we had a criminal organization to dismantle.
Everything else could wait.
—
I sat in the Mustang outside FBI headquarters, engine idling, while Castle had gone inside to use the restroom. The protective detail—two agents named Morrison and Chen—were parked three cars back in an unmarked sedan, trying to be subtle and failing spectacularly.
I pulled out my phone and stared at the contact labeled "Neagley."
Frances Neagley. Sergeant Major, retired. One of the most competent, terrifying, and loyal people I'd ever had the privilege of serving with. If anyone could help me navigate this mess, it was her.
And if she could track down Reacher? Even better.
I hit dial.
She picked up on the second ring. "Bennett. This better be good. I'm in the middle of closing a contract."
"I need the cavalry."
Silence. Then: "How bad?"
"International criminal organization, corrupt federal prosecutor, Russian enforcers who've already tried to kill me once. The FBI wants to put me under protective detail, which means I can't effectively do my job protecting my client."
"So you're calling me because...?"
"Because I need people I trust watching my back. People who know how to operate without red tape and bureaucratic bullshit." I paused. "Can you find Reacher?"
Another silence, longer this time. Neagley didn't commit to anything lightly. "Maybe. He's somewhere in the Midwest, last I heard. Might take a few days to track him down—you know how he is about phones."
"I know. What about the others?"
"O'Donnell's in Chicago, consulting work. Swan's in Boston, private security. Dixon—" She stopped, and I heard the smirk in her voice. "Dixon's actually in New York. Manhattan. She's been doing some freelance investigation work for a law firm."
My stomach did something complicated at the mention of Karla Dixon.
"You still there?" Neagley asked.
"Yeah. I'm here."
"You want me to call her or are you going to handle that yourself?"
Karla Dixon. Former MP, the best investigator in the 110th after me and Reacher, and the woman I'd spent three months sleeping with during our deployment in Germany before we'd mutually agreed it was complicating the mission and called it off.
We'd stayed friends—good friends, the kind who trusted each other with their lives even after the sex stopped. But we hadn't seen each other in person since my discharge three years ago. Occasional texts, a phone call on her birthday, nothing more.
"I'll call her," I said finally.
"Thought you might." Neagley's tone shifted, became more serious. "Frank, if you're bringing the unit back together, this has to be serious. You sure you need this?"
"I'm sure. These people killed a witness, tried to kill cops and federal agents in broad daylight, and they have inside information on law enforcement operations. My client—a civilian—is in the line of fire. I can't protect him effectively with FBI agents tripping over themselves to protect me."
"Understood. I'll make calls. O'Donnell and Swan can probably be there in forty-eight hours. Dixon's local, so she can be there tonight if she's available. Reacher..." She trailed off. "I'll find him. But Frank?"
"Yeah?"
"This is going to cost you. The unit doesn't come cheap, even for you."
"I know. Send me the numbers. I've got enough saved to cover it."
"It's not about the money." Neagley's voice softened fractionally—which for her was like a normal person breaking into tears. "It's about making sure you come home alive. All of us. We're not twenty-five anymore, running missions for Major Reacher. This is real-world consequences without the Army backing us up."
"I know that too." I watched Morrison and Chen in the rearview mirror, both of them trying to look casual while clearly watching me. "But I'd rather have the 110th at my back than anyone else."
"Even Dixon?"
"Especially Dixon."
Because despite the history, despite the complicated feelings that came with sleeping with someone you respected professionally, Karla Dixon was one of the best investigators I'd ever worked with. She saw patterns others missed, connected dots that seemed unconnectable, and had instincts that bordered on supernatural.
Plus, she could shoot better than anyone in the unit except Reacher himself.
"Alright," Neagley said. "I'll coordinate. Expect calls from O'Donnell and Swan by tonight. Dixon..." She paused. "You're sure you want to make that call yourself?"
"I'm sure."
"Liar. But okay. Frank? Watch your six until we get there."
"Always do."
She hung up without saying goodbye—standard Neagley.
I sat there for a moment, staring at my phone, before scrolling to another contact. One I hadn't called in three years but had never deleted.
**Karla Dixon - 110th MP.**
My thumb hovered over the call button.
This was complicated. Not just because of the sex—though that had been intense, athletic, and mutually enthusiastic—but because Karla and I had worked together seamlessly. We'd closed cases that should have been impossible, backed each other up in situations that should have gotten us killed, and developed the kind of professional shorthand that made other investigators jealous.
And then there was Elizabeth. Who I'd promised to have a serious conversation with tonight about what we were to each other.
And Sloane, who'd made her interest clear this morning over coffee.
My life was getting absurdly complicated.
But Karla Dixon was the best investigator I knew outside of Reacher himself. If there was anyone who could help me unravel this criminal organization while keeping Castle alive, it was her.
I hit call.
She answered on the third ring, her voice exactly as I remembered—low, controlled, with that hint of Texas drawl she'd never quite lost despite years away from home. "Frank Bennett. This is either a very good surprise or a very bad one."
"Can't it be both?"
"With you? Usually is." I heard movement on her end, like she was stepping away from wherever she'd been. "What do you need?"
Straight to business. That was Karla—no wasted words, no unnecessary pleasantries. It was one of the things I'd always liked about her.
"I'm in trouble. The kind that requires someone with 110th investigative skills and a willingness to operate in legal gray areas."
"How gray are we talking?"
"Federal case, corrupt prosecutor, international criminal organization. I'm working private security for a client who's in the crosshairs, and the FBI wants to protect me, which means I can't protect him."
"So you need someone to watch your back while you watch his."
"Among other things. Neagley's coordinating—trying to get Reacher, bringing in O'Donnell and Swan. But you're local. Manhattan, she said?"
"Upper East Side. Corporate investigation for a white-shoe law firm—embezzlement case, boring as hell but pays well." She paused. "How soon do you need me?"
"Tonight if possible. Tomorrow morning at the latest."
Another pause, longer this time. "Frank, we haven't seen each other in three years."
"I know."
"And the last time we did, we agreed that mixing personal and professional was a bad idea."
"I know that too."
"So why are you calling me instead of any other investigator in New York?"
Because you're the best. Because I trust you with my life. Because despite the complicated history, I know you'll have my back without hesitation.
"Because I need someone I can trust completely," I said. "And that list is very short."
Karla was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Send me the details. Address, situation brief, what you need from me. I'll clear my schedule and be there by eight tonight."
"Karla—"
"Frank, shut up. You called because you need help. I'm giving it to you. We'll deal with everything else later." Her voice softened slightly. "Besides, I've missed working with you. Corporate embezzlement is mind-numbing compared to the cases we used to close."
"This one's complicated."
"They always are with you." I could hear the smile in her voice. "Send me the details. And Frank? Try not to get shot before I get there. I'd hate to miss the reunion."
She hung up.
I sat there, phone in hand, processing what I'd just done.
I'd called in the 110th Special Investigators—or what was left of them. The best team I'd ever worked with, people who'd saved my life more times than I could count.
And I'd specifically called Karla Dixon, knowing full well that seeing her again was going to complicate an already complicated situation.
Castle emerged from the building, spotted me through the windshield, and climbed into the passenger seat. "You okay? You look like you're processing something heavy."
"Just called in reinforcements."
His eyes lit up. "Reinforcements? Like your old Army unit?"
"Something like that."
"This is amazing. How many?"
"Four, maybe five if Neagley can track down our old CO." I started the engine, pulling out into traffic with Morrison and Chen following at a discrete distance. "They'll be here over the next few days."
"And these are people you trust?"
"With my life." I glanced at him. "Which means I'm trusting them with yours too. That okay with you?"
Castle grinned. "Are you kidding? Former military investigators coming out of retirement to help solve a case? This is like *Ocean's Eleven* meets *The A-Team.* I'm absolutely okay with this."
I couldn't help but smile.
Even if bringing Karla Dixon back into my life meant facing three years of unresolved tension and a complicated history I'd never quite processed.
One crisis at a time.
First, keep Castle alive.
Everything else could wait.
---
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