The apartment—mine technically, though Elizabeth and I had long since stopped maintaining the fiction of separate spaces—felt smaller with five people in it.
Jack Reacher stood near the window, all 6'5" and 250 pounds of him, studying the Manhattan skyline with the same analytical intensity he'd applied to crime scenes in a dozen countries. He wore what he always wore: cheap jeans, a plain shirt, no jacket despite the November chill. His hair was military-short, graying at the temples, and his hands—those massive, scarred hands that had broken more bones than I could count—were relaxed at his sides.
He'd arrived at 9:47 PM, thirteen minutes early, because Reacher was never late and usually early. He'd walked into the building, bypassed Morrison and Chen with a nod that suggested he knew exactly who they were and found them adequate but unnecessary, and knocked on my door with the same three sharp raps he'd always used.
"Frank." That was all he'd said. One word, delivered in that rumbling voice that could make suspects confess or privates snap to attention depending on context.
I'd pulled him into the apartment, and we'd done that thing men do when they respect each other but aren't comfortable with overt affection—a brief, hard hug that communicated everything without saying anything.
"Major."
"Don't call me that anymore. I'm retired."
"You'll always be Major to me."
He'd almost smiled. "Yeah. I know."
Now it was 11:53 PM, and we were waiting for Neagley.
Karla sat at the dining table with O'Donnell, both of them reviewing the financial documents Elizabeth had compiled on the Red Hook warehouse. David O'Donnell looked exactly as I remembered—early forties, graying hair, reading glasses perched on his nose, the kind of unassuming appearance that made people underestimate him right up until he eviscerated their finances and proved they'd been embezzling for years.
Swan was still in Red Hook, maintaining surveillance, sending updates every thirty minutes like clockwork.
Elizabeth had made coffee—enough for an army, because she understood that the 110th ran on caffeine and stubbornness in equal measure. She'd also retreated to her own apartment after the introductions, citing the need to give us space to plan. But I knew the real reason: she was watching remotely, monitoring communications, running her own analysis while we did ours.
That was Elizabeth. Always three steps ahead, always prepared, always supporting from exactly the position where she was most effective.
"Three guards," Reacher said, breaking the silence. "Swan counted three on rotation. Professional spacing, weapons visible, radios for communication."
"Sophisticated," O'Donnell added, not looking up from the financial documents. "The shell company that owns the warehouse? It's funded through accounts in the Caymans, routed through Delaware, with ownership buried under six layers of corporate filing. Someone spent serious money hiding the paper trail."
"How serious?" I asked.
"Serious enough that it took me four hours and three different databases to crack it." O'Donnell pulled off his glasses, cleaning them with his shirt—a habit from our deployment days. "The ultimate owner is listed as VKM Holdings, registered in Cyprus. That's a dead end without Cypriot legal cooperation, which could take months."
"So we go in blind," Karla said.
"Not blind. Cautious." Reacher turned from the window, his pale eyes settling on each of us in turn—that look that said he was assessing capabilities, reading body language, determining who was ready and who wasn't. "We observe first. Tomorrow, daylight hours. Swan maintains his position, but we rotate in. Two-person teams, four-hour shifts. We watch the guards, time their rotations, identify vulnerabilities."
"And at night?" I asked.
"At night, we go in. But not tomorrow night. Night after." Reacher moved to the table, and everyone unconsciously leaned in—that old instinct from a thousand briefings. "We need time to prepare. Equipment, entry plans, contingencies. This isn't the Army, Frank. We don't have backup, we don't have official sanction. We fuck this up, people die and nobody comes to help."
"Understood."
"Good." He looked at O'Donnell. "Financial forensics. Can you trace the money faster than Elizabeth?"
"No," O'Donnell admitted. "She's better at the corporate side than I am. But I can trace the art sales—buyer patterns, auction records, provenance documentation. If we can establish a pattern, we can predict where they'll move pieces next."
"Do it." Reacher shifted to Karla. "Dixon. You've been shadowing Castle. Assessment?"
"He's smart, observant, better under pressure than expected." Karla's tone was clinical, professional. "But he's also a civilian. No combat training, no tactical awareness. If we're in a firefight, he'll freeze or do something heroic and stupid. Probably both."
"Frank?"
"She's right. Castle's brave but untrained. He needs protection, not participation."
Reacher nodded slowly. "Then he stays out of Red Hook. The warehouse operation is 110th only." His gaze settled on me, heavy with meaning. "You called us in because the situation was beyond standard security consulting. That means acknowledging this is military-level threat assessment. Castle's your client, but he's also your liability. We keep him safe by keeping him away from the actual danger."
"He's not going to like that."
"He doesn't have to like it. He has to stay alive." Reacher's expression was implacable. "You want to be his bodyguard? Fine. That means making hard choices about acceptable risk. And taking him into a professional security facility at night? That's unacceptable risk."
He was right. I knew he was right. But Castle had been so enthusiastic about being part of the investigation, about observing the 110th in action—
"Frank." Karla's voice was gentle but firm. "The Major's correct. Castle's presence would compromise the operation. We'd be protecting him instead of executing the mission."
"I know."
"Do you?" Reacher leaned forward, his intensity ratcheting up. "Because from where I'm sitting, you're already too attached to this client. You nearly died in that parking lot because you engaged when you should have extracted. That's hero complex, Frank. That's what gets people killed."
"Those shooters were aiming at civilians. At Beckett, at Neal—"
"At people who were armed and trained," Reacher interrupted. "You made a tactical decision to engage. It worked. But it was still the wrong decision."
"How is stopping a massacre the wrong decision?"
"Because your primary objective was protecting Castle, not everyone else." Reacher's voice was hard now, carrying the weight of a thousand tactical debriefings. "You took an unacceptable risk for secondary objectives. If those shooters had been better, you'd be dead and Castle would be unprotected. That's failure, Frank. Successful failure, maybe, but still failure."
The words stung because they were true. I'd prioritized saving everyone over protecting my actual client. It had worked out, but Reacher was right—it could have easily gone the other way.
"Noted," I said quietly.
"Good." Reacher straightened. "Now let's talk about the real problem: Rebecca Walsh."
A knock at the door—three sharp raps, precise timing.
Neagley.
I opened the door, and Frances Neagley stood in the hallway looking exactly as she always had: late forties, steel-gray hair cut efficiently short, dark clothing that concealed a lean, muscular frame built for violence. Her eyes were hard, assessing, missing nothing.
"Bennett." She stepped inside, dropped a duffel bag by the door—weapons and equipment, probably—and surveyed the room. Her gaze lingered on Reacher for a moment, something passing between them that I'd never quite understood. Then she turned to the rest of us. "Team's assembled. Good. We're wasting time with social niceties."
"It's good to see you too, Sergeant Major," O'Donnell said dryly.
"Save the sentimentality for when we're drunk and celebrating not being dead." Neagley moved to the table, studying the documents with the focused intensity that had made her legendary in the 110th. "Rebecca Walsh. Former federal prosecutor. Current threat. What's our play?"
"We need to isolate her," Reacher said. "Right now, she's feeding information to the organization, keeping them ahead of law enforcement. Every warrant, every investigation, every move Burke makes—she knows about it within hours."
"So we cut off her access," Karla said.
"Can't do that officially," I pointed out. "She's not under investigation. Burke suspects her, but suspicion isn't evidence. She has legitimate access to federal databases through her former position and her current legal practice."
"Then we build evidence," Neagley said. "Phone records, financial transactions, meeting patterns. We prove she's dirty, we give Burke enough for a warrant, we remove her from the board."
"That's the long play," Reacher agreed. "But we need a short play too. Something immediate that disrupts her intelligence gathering."
"Misinformation," O'Donnell suggested. "We feed false information through official channels. If Walsh passes it to the organization and we can document that—"
"We prove the connection," Karla finished. "Smart."
"It's also dangerous," I said. "If we tip our hand that we know about Walsh, the organization might cut her loose. We lose our link to their operations."
"Not if we're subtle about it." Reacher was staring at the ceiling, that look he got when he was processing multiple scenarios simultaneously. "We don't feed her obvious false information. We feed her information that's *almost* true. Close enough that she passes it along, but wrong in key details that let us track how it gets used."
"A canary trap," Neagley said. "Different information to different channels. Whatever leaks, we know the source."
"Exactly." Reacher looked at me. "But that means coordinating with Burke. Getting him to play along without telling him the full plan."
"Why not tell him the full plan?"
"Because Burke's FBI. He'll want to do everything by the book, get approval from his superiors, document every decision. That takes time we don't have." Reacher's expression was grim. "We're operating in the gray area between legal and illegal, Frank. The 110th always has. But that means keeping official law enforcement at arm's length until we have results they can use."
"Parallel investigation," I said.
"Parallel investigation," he confirmed. "We run dark, they run official. We share what helps them, we keep what compromises operational security."
"And if they find out we're withholding information?"
"Then we deal with that when it happens." Reacher moved to the window again, staring out at the city. "Frank, you called us in because the situation was beyond normal channels. That means accepting that normal channels won't solve it. The 110th exists to handle cases that can't be handled conventionally. This is one of those cases."
He was right. He was always right about this kind of thing.
"Okay," I said. "We run parallel. But we coordinate where we can. Beckett's smart, professional. She'll work with us if we're honest about capabilities and limitations."
"Then you handle Beckett," Reacher said. "She trusts you. Use that." He turned to the rest of the team. "Swan maintains surveillance on the warehouse. O'Donnell traces financial networks and art sales. Dixon shadows Castle during official investigations. Neagley—" He looked at her. "You're on Walsh. Full surveillance, financial forensics, establish patterns."
"Alone?" Neagley's expression suggested she'd expected that.
"You're the best at it. And you don't need backup for observation work." Reacher's tone left no room for argument. "Frank and I will coordinate with law enforcement, manage the overall operation. We brief twice daily—eight AM and eight PM—share intel, adjust tactics."
"What about Elizabeth?" Karla asked. "She's been providing financial analysis, resources. Where does she fit in the operational structure?"
"She doesn't," Reacher said flatly. "She's a civilian consultant. Excellent at what she does, but she's not 110th. We use her capabilities without putting her in danger."
"She won't like being sidelined."
"She doesn't have to like it. She has to stay alive." Reacher's gaze settled on me. "And you need to make sure your personal relationship doesn't compromise operational security. The 110th shares everything with each other. But civilians—even trusted ones—stay on a need-to-know basis."
I wanted to argue. Elizabeth had been essential to this operation already, providing resources and analysis that we couldn't get elsewhere. But Reacher was right—she wasn't 110th. She wasn't trained for this level of danger.
And keeping her slightly removed meant keeping her safer.
"Understood," I said.
"Good." Reacher checked his watch—a cheap digital thing he'd probably bought at a convenience store. "It's 12:17 AM. We've got six hours until the morning briefing. O'Donnell, I need your financial analysis of the warehouse ownership by then. Neagley, prelim surveillance report on Walsh—where she lives, her patterns, vulnerabilities. Dixon, threat assessment on Castle's precinct environment. Frank—" He looked at me. "You brief Burke. Tell him the 110th's operational, that we're running parallel investigation, that we'll share everything that helps his case."
"And if he objects?"
"He won't. Burke's smart enough to know when to accept help, even if it comes from outside official channels." Reacher moved toward the door, picking up his non-existent luggage because the man literally traveled with nothing. "I'm going to do a perimeter check of this building, assess security, identify potential vulnerabilities."
"At 12:30 in the morning?"
"Best time to see what's real versus what's for show." He paused at the door. "Swan's relief shift is at oh-four-hundred. Who's taking it?"
"I will," I said.
"Negative. You're meeting with Burke at eight, you need sleep." Reacher looked at the team. "Dixon, you're on Swan relief. Oh-four-hundred to oh-eight-hundred. Then you shadow Castle when he arrives at the precinct."
Karla nodded, no argument. That was the thing about Reacher—when he gave orders, you followed them, because he'd already calculated every variable and determined the optimal solution.
"Neagley, you're on me. We're doing the perimeter check together, then we're establishing surveillance on Walsh's residence."
"Now?" Neagley was already grabbing her duffel. "She's asleep."
"So we observe her security, identify patterns for daytime surveillance. By the time she wakes up, we'll know everything we need to know about her routines."
They left without further conversation, moving with the synchronized efficiency that came from years of operating together.
O'Donnell stood, stretching. "I should get back to Elizabeth's office. The financial analysis will take a few hours, and I work better with her databases than trying to improvise here."
"You good getting there?" I asked.
"Frank, I navigated war zones in Afghanistan. I can handle Manhattan at night." But he smiled, taking some of the edge off. "Though I appreciate the concern. You've gotten more protective in civilian life."
"Comes with the job."
"Or comes with having people you care about." O'Donnell grabbed his jacket. "Elizabeth's good for you. Keeps you grounded. Don't fuck it up."
"I'll try."
"Try harder. Women like that don't come along often." He headed for the door, then paused. "And Frank? It's good to be working with you again. Even if Reacher's right about you being monumentally stupid about the whole thing."
"Everyone keeps saying that."
"Because it's true." He left, closing the door quietly behind him.
Which left me and Karla alone in my apartment at 12:30 AM.
She was studying the tactical maps Swan had sent—overhead imagery of the Red Hook warehouse, approach routes, sight lines. Her focus was absolute, professional, the same intensity she'd brought to every investigation in the 110th.
"You should sleep," she said without looking up. "You've got Burke at eight, and Reacher's going to want a full briefing after that."
"I know."
"But you're not going to sleep."
"Probably not."
She finally looked up, her dark eyes meeting mine. "What's bothering you?"
"Reacher said I took an unacceptable risk in the parking lot. That I prioritized secondary objectives over protecting Castle."
"He's right."
"I know he's right. But I can't—" I stopped, trying to articulate what I was feeling. "Karla, I spent three years in Special Investigations learning to protect people. To stop bad things from happening. That's not secondary. That's the whole point."
"The point is completing the mission," she corrected gently. "Frank, I understand the instinct. I have it too. But Reacher taught us to prioritize objectives. Your objective was protecting Castle. Everything else—Beckett, Neal, the CSU techs—that was someone else's responsibility."
"So I should have just extracted? Let people die?"
"You should have assessed whether engaging improved Castle's survival odds. If it didn't—if engaging meant leaving him vulnerable—then yes, you extract." She stood, moving closer. "But Frank, you engaged and it worked. You saved lives. That's not nothing. It's just—"
"Not the mission," I finished.
"Not the primary mission," she clarified. "And the difference matters when you're protecting a civilian in active danger." Her hand came up to rest on my chest, exactly where it always had. "You're brilliant at this work. Tactical, strategic, adaptable. But you have a hero complex the size of Manhattan, and that makes you take risks that might not be justified."
"Neal said the same thing."
"Your brother's smarter than he looks." Her smile was slight. "Frank, we're not criticizing you. We're trying to keep you alive. The 110th works because we watch each other's backs, call out bad decisions before they become fatal mistakes. That's what Reacher was doing tonight."
"I know."
"Do you?" She stepped closer, and I was suddenly very aware that we were alone, that it was past midnight, that the chemistry between us had never really gone away. "Because from where I'm standing, you're processing this like criticism instead of concern."
"It feels like criticism."
"It's love, you idiot." She said it matter-of-factly, like she was commenting on the weather. "The 110th loves you. Reacher loves you—in his emotionally constipated way. I love you. We're hard on you because we care whether you survive."
"Karla—"
"Let me finish." Her other hand came up to frame my face, forcing me to meet her eyes. "Three years ago, we ended things because we were compromising the mission. We were so focused on each other that we weren't focused on the work. And we agreed that was unacceptable."
"I remember."
"But we're not in a war zone anymore, Frank. We're civilians running a private operation. The rules are different." Her thumb traced my jawline. "And Elizabeth gave you permission to explore reconnecting with me. So I'm going to ask you directly: Is that something you want?"
My heart was hammering against my ribs. "Yes."
"Good." She pulled me down into a kiss that was nothing like the chaste cheek-kiss from yesterday. This was Karla Dixon operating without restraint—intense, demanding, claiming me with the same focused determination she brought to investigations.
When we broke apart, both breathing hard, she was smiling.
"But not tonight," she said. "Tonight, you sleep. I need to relieve Swan in three and a half hours, and you need to be sharp for Burke in the morning." She stepped back, deliberately breaking the moment. "We have time, Frank. For the first time since we met, we actually have time. So we're going to do this right."
"Define right."
"Honest communication. Clear boundaries. Making sure Elizabeth knows what's happening and is okay with it." Karla grabbed her jacket from the chair. "I'm going to crash on your couch until oh-three-thirty. You're going to sleep in your bed. And tomorrow, after the briefing, after we've established operational rhythm—" Her smile turned predatory. "Then we revisit the personal side."
"You're very disciplined."
"I learned from the best." She kissed me again, brief but promising. "Now go to bed. That's an order."
"You outrank me now?"
"I always outranked you. You just didn't realize it." She settled onto the couch with practiced ease, somehow making the space look comfortable despite her boots and jacket. "Good night, Frank."
"Good night, Karla."
I went to my bedroom, stripped down to boxers, and climbed into bed that still smelled faintly of Elizabeth's perfume from this morning.
My life had gotten absurdly complicated.
The 110th was operational. Reacher was here, running the show with his usual brilliant ruthlessness. Neagley was somewhere in the city surveilling Walsh. Swan was in Red Hook watching the warehouse. O'Donnell was at Elizabeth's office doing financial forensics.
And Karla was on my couch, sleeping in her clothes with a gun under her jacket, ready to deploy in three hours.
Meanwhile, I had a civilian client who thought this was all an adventure, an FBI agent who needed my cooperation, a corrupt federal prosecutor who wanted me dead, and two women I cared about in completely different ways.
ROB's sense of humor was really something else.
But as I drifted off to sleep, listening to the city sounds and the steady rhythm of Karla's breathing from the other room, I felt something I hadn't felt in years:
Purpose.
The 110th was back together.
And god help anyone who got in our way.
---
Peter Burke's office at the White Collar Crime division was exactly what I expected—functional, organized, with that particular aesthetic that screamed "federal government budget meets actual competence." Files stacked neatly, case boards on the walls, coffee maker in the corner that probably got more use than the water cooler.
Burke sat behind his desk at 8:47 AM, thirteen minutes before our scheduled meeting, because of course he was early. Punctuality seemed to be a universal trait among competent law enforcement.
Neal was already there, perched on the edge of a conference table like he owned the place, wearing another expensive three-piece suit that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent. He looked up when we entered—me, Reacher, and Karla Dixon—and I watched his expression shift through several calculations in rapid succession.
Interest at seeing Karla. Curiosity about Reacher. And that trademark Neal Caffrey charm activating like a reflex.
"Frank," he said, standing with easy grace. "And you must be the famous Major Reacher. Neal Caffrey." He extended his hand.
Reacher took it, his grip measured—not crushing, not weak, just exactly right to convey competence without posturing. "Just Reacher. The Major part's retired."
"And—" Neal's attention shifted to Karla, and I watched him deploy that smile that had probably gotten him out of a dozen arrests. "I don't believe we've met."
"Karla Dixon." She shook his hand with professional efficiency, her expression neutral. "Frank's told me about you. Art forger turned FBI consultant. Interesting career trajectory."
"Reformed art forger," Neal corrected with mock offense. "The 'reformed' part is very important to my current employment status." He held her hand just a beat longer than strictly professional. "And Frank's mentioned you too. Former MP, 110th Special Investigations, expert in financial crimes. That's an impressive resume for someone so—"
"Careful," Karla interrupted smoothly, extracting her hand. "That sentence has about three different ways to end badly."
Neal laughed—genuine, not his usual performance laugh. "Fair point. I was going to say 'accomplished,' but I can see how that might sound condescending."
"It would have." Karla moved past him to take a seat, deliberately choosing the chair furthest from Neal and closest to where I was standing. The message was subtle but clear.
Burke cleared his throat. "Now that introductions are done, can we talk about why the 110th Special Investigators have decided to set up shop in New York?"
"Frank called in reinforcements," Reacher said, taking the seat across from Burke with the kind of relaxed posture that somehow conveyed both alertness and calm. "The situation with Castle escalated beyond standard security consulting. International criminal organization, corrupt federal prosecutor, demonstrated willingness to kill law enforcement. That's military-level threat assessment."
"Which is why we have the FBI," Burke pointed out.
"The FBI has limitations." Reacher's tone wasn't argumentative, just matter-of-fact. "Red tape, official channels, chain of command. You need warrants, approval, documentation. That takes time these criminals are using to stay ahead of you."
"So you're proposing what, exactly? Vigilante investigation?"
"Parallel investigation," I corrected. "The 110th runs dark—surveillance, intelligence gathering, financial forensics. We share what we find with you, you use it to build legitimate cases. Two tracks that complement each other."
Burke leaned back in his chair, studying each of us in turn. "And you want me to just accept that you're running an off-books operation in my jurisdiction?"
"We want you to accept that we're solving your case faster than you can do it officially," Karla said. "Agent Burke, Rebecca Walsh has access to federal databases through her former position. Every move you make, she probably knows about within hours. That makes conventional investigation nearly impossible."
"Unless you have investigators she doesn't know about," Reacher added. "The 110th isn't in any federal database. We're civilians running private security. Walsh won't see us coming."
Neal had been watching this exchange with the focus of someone taking mental notes. "They're right, Peter. Walsh compromised the storage facility operation because she had advance warning through official channels. But a private investigation?" He gestured to the 110th. "That's invisible to her. She can't monitor what she doesn't know exists."
"You're advocating for this?" Burke asked his consultant.
"I'm advocating for catching these people before they kill someone else." Neal's expression was serious now, no charm, no performance. "Marcus Sheldon was murdered because he wanted to cooperate. If we don't move fast, every other potential witness will either run or end up dead. The 110th can move faster than official channels."
Burke was quiet for a long moment, his fingers drumming on the desk. Then he looked at Reacher. "I need assurances. If you're running parallel investigation, I need to know you're not compromising cases I'm trying to build. No illegal searches, no coerced testimony, nothing that'll get evidence thrown out in court."
"We operate in legal gray areas," Reacher said. "But we don't break laws that would compromise prosecution. Private investigators can conduct surveillance without warrants. We can interview witnesses without Miranda warnings. We can trace financial networks through public records and database access that civilians have." He paused. "What we find, you verify through official channels. By the time you get warrants, you already know what you're looking for. It speeds the process without compromising legality."
"And if something goes wrong? If someone gets hurt during your 'parallel investigation'?"
"Then it's on us," I said. "The 110th operates independently. You're not responsible for our actions, you're not supervising our methods. We're private citizens conducting legal investigation on behalf of a client—Richard Castle, who hired us for security consulting."
"That's a very convenient liability shield."
"It's also true," Karla said. "Agent Burke, we're not asking for official sanction. We're asking for coordination. Share information that helps both investigations, maintain operational security where necessary, work toward the same goal through different methods."
Burke turned to Neal. "What do you think?"
Neal glanced at me, then at Karla, then back to Burke. "I think my brother has always been smarter than he looks. And if he's calling in the 110th, that means he genuinely believes this is the best way to protect Castle and dismantle this organization." He paused. "I trust Frank's judgment. Even when it's monumentally stupid, it usually works out."
"That's a ringing endorsement," Burke said dryly.
"It's the best you're going to get from me regarding my brother." Neal's smile returned briefly. "But Peter, seriously—we need every advantage. Walsh is too connected, the organization is too sophisticated. Conventional investigation will take months, maybe years. These people will either scatter or kill everyone who can testify long before we can build a case."
Burke sighed, the sound of a man recognizing he didn't have better options. "Okay. Parallel investigation. But I want regular briefings—twice a day, same as your internal schedule. Eight AM and eight PM, you share everything relevant. And if I say something compromises my case, you back off. Deal?"
"Deal," Reacher said without hesitation.
"And I want to know who's on your team. Full roster, capabilities, where they're positioned."
"Swan's running surveillance on the Red Hook warehouse," I said. "Neagley's surveilling Rebecca Walsh. O'Donnell's doing financial forensics with Elizabeth Halloway. Dixon shadows Castle during official investigations. Reacher and I coordinate overall operations."
"Elizabeth Halloway?" Burke's eyebrows rose. "The corporate investigator? I've heard of her work. She's good."
"She's exceptional," I confirmed. "She's providing financial analysis, resources, operational support. But she's not field operations—strictly logistics and intelligence."
Burke made notes on a legal pad. "Okay. And you're all former military investigators?"
"110th Special Investigations Unit," Reacher said. "MP division, specialized in cases with political implications or high-level corruption. We closed an eighty-seven percent conviction rate over five years of deployment."
"That's impressive."
"That's selective memory," Karla said dryly. "We *solved* ninety-seven percent. We only got convictions on eighty-seven percent because some suspects had political protection or died before trial."
Neal perked up at that. "Wait, your unit had a *higher* solution rate than conviction rate? That's—" He stopped himself. "That's actually terrifying. Most law enforcement works the other way around."
"Most law enforcement isn't the 110th," I said.
Burke was studying Reacher with new intensity. "I've heard stories about the 110th. Cases that should have been impossible getting closed in days. Suspects confessing to crimes they'd sworn they didn't commit. A unit that made the Army's most corrupt officers nervous." He paused. "You were the commanding officer?"
"I was the Major," Reacher confirmed. "These were my investigators. Best I ever worked with."
Something shifted in Burke's expression—respect, maybe, or just recognition of serious competence. "Alright. You run parallel investigation, we coordinate intelligence. But—" He fixed Reacher with a hard stare. "If anyone on your team crosses the line, if evidence gets compromised, if someone gets killed because you moved too fast—that's on you. I'm not covering for vigilantes."
"Understood."
Neal chose that moment to stand, moving toward where Karla sat with the kind of casual elegance that made even walking look choreographed. "So, Ms. Dixon. Since we're going to be working adjacent to each other, maybe we should grab coffee sometime? Compare notes on dealing with the Bennett brothers?"
Karla looked up at him with an expression of polite interest that I recognized from interrogations—the look she gave suspects right before she eviscerated their alibis. "That's a kind offer, Mr. Caffrey. But I prefer the bigger Bennett twin."
The silence that followed was absolutely beautiful.
Neal blinked. Once. Then smiled—genuine amusement mixed with something that might have been respect. "Fair enough. Can't say I didn't try."
"You tried," Karla agreed. "But Frank's six-one, two-twenty, and actually age-appropriate. You're charming, but I'm not interested in pretty boys who think their smile opens every door."
"Ouch," Neal said, but he was laughing now. "Okay, I deserved that. Though technically, Frank and I are twins. Same age, different days."
"Fraternal twins," I corrected. "Born twelve minutes apart."
"Which makes you the younger brother," Neal pointed out.
"Which makes you the one who just got shut down," Karla said sweetly. "Now, if we're done with the testosterone display, Agent Burke, when do you need our first briefing?"
Burke was trying very hard not to smile. "Tonight. Eight PM. Bring whatever intelligence you've gathered on the warehouse and Walsh." He looked at Reacher. "And Major? Try to keep your team from causing an international incident."
"No promises," Reacher said. "But we'll do our best."
We stood to leave, and as we headed for the door, I heard Neal mutter to Burke, "I really tried with her. Did you see that? I deployed my best material."
"Maybe that's the problem," Burke said dryly. "Some women prefer substance over style."
"That's hurtful, Peter. Deeply hurtful."
In the hallway, Karla walked between me and Reacher, her expression neutral except for the slight curve of her lips.
"That was mean," I said.
"That was honest," she corrected. "Your brother's attractive and charming. He's also not my type. I prefer men who don't treat flirting like a professional sport."
"Frank's version of flirting is throwing hand trucks at bad guys," Reacher observed.
"Exactly," Karla said. "Much more my style."
We emerged into the FBI building lobby, and Reacher's phone buzzed. He checked it, his expression hardening. "Swan. Movement at the warehouse. Three vehicles arrived in the last hour, heavy cargo transport."
"They're moving assets," I said.
"Or bringing in something new." Reacher was already heading for the exit. "We need eyes on this now. Dixon, you're with Frank on Castle detail. I'm heading to Red Hook with Swan."
"Alone?" Karla's tone suggested that wasn't a question.
"Swan's there. That's not alone." Reacher pushed through the doors into morning sunlight. "Frank, brief Castle on security protocols. Make sure he understands he's not coming to the warehouse operation when it happens. Dixon, establish observation patterns at the precinct. I want to know everyone who has visual access to Castle during investigations."
"On it," Karla confirmed.
Reacher headed for the street, already on his phone coordinating with Swan. Which left Karla and me standing on the FBI building steps at 9:23 AM.
"Your brother's persistent," she said.
"That's a Bennett family trait."
"But you're better at knowing when to back off." She studied me for a moment. "The bigger Bennett twin. That was laying it on a bit thick."
"Was it true?"
"Completely." Her smile turned more private. "Now let's go protect your civilian client. The personal conversation can wait until after we've made sure nobody dies today."
"Practical."
"I learned from the best," she said, echoing her words from last night.
We headed for where I'd parked the Mustang, and I couldn't help thinking that having the 110th operational made everything feel more manageable. More possible.
Even if Neal was never going to let me forget that Karla had publicly declared a preference for me over him.
Small victories.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!