The morning came with Elizabeth's alarm at 6:30 AM—an aggressive buzzing that suggested she'd programmed it specifically to be annoying enough that even a former soldier couldn't sleep through it.
I reached over to silence it, only to find her already awake, propped on one elbow, watching me with those sharp green eyes that missed nothing.
"You were thinking about the case," she said. Not a question.
"How can you tell?"
"Because you do this thing when you're problem-solving in your sleep—your eyes move faster, your breathing changes rhythm. I've been watching you do it for the past hour." She traced a finger along my jaw. "What's the play today?"
I ran through Sherlock's mental checklist, organizing the pieces. "Karla shadows Castle and me at the precinct. O'Donnell arrives from Chicago this afternoon—I'll have him start tracing the money laundering networks through the art sales. Burke and Beckett are coordinating the official investigation, which means we need to stay just parallel enough to share intel without compromising operational security."
"And Walsh? The corrupt prosecutor?"
"That's the wildcard. She has access to federal databases, sealed files, ongoing investigations. Every move Burke makes officially, she probably knows about within hours." I sat up, Sherlock's mind already running scenarios. "Which means we need to find her blind spots. Places she can't see, people she doesn't know about."
"Like the 110th."
"Exactly like the 110th." I kissed her forehead. "You're brilliant, you know that?"
"I do. But it's nice to hear." She climbed out of bed with the kind of grace that came from years of yoga and Pilates, completely unselfconscious about her nudity. "Shower. Coffee. Then you need to brief Castle before Karla arrives."
"Yes, ma'am."
"I love it when you're obedient. It's so rare."
---
By 8:45 AM, I was parked outside Castle's building in the Mustang, watching morning foot traffic and mentally cataloging potential threats. Morrison and Chen were in their sedan three cars back, trying to be inconspicuous and failing. A homeless man on the corner who'd been there too long with too much attention to passing vehicles. A delivery truck that had made three passes in the last twenty minutes.
I texted Karla: *Two potential watchers. Homeless guy NE corner, delivery truck circling block.*
Her response was immediate: *Confirmed. Homeless is ours—Swan arrived early, established surveillance. Delivery truck is genuine—driver's lost, checked his manifest.*
I smiled despite myself. Swan was nothing if not thorough. If he'd beaten his ETA by twelve hours just to set up advance surveillance, that meant he was taking this as seriously as I was.
*Swan's early. Good.*
*He was worried about you. Wouldn't admit it, but he was.*
The 110th had always been like that—fiercely loyal, protective of our own even when we pretended otherwise. It was one of the things I'd missed most after discharge.
Castle emerged from his building at 8:50, wearing jeans and a burgundy henley that probably cost more than my entire outfit, carrying a leather messenger bag that definitely contained his laptop and about forty notebooks full of story ideas.
He spotted the Mustang, waved enthusiastically, then climbed in with the energy of someone who'd had too much coffee already.
"Morning! I had an epiphany about the case at three AM and couldn't get back to sleep, so I've been researching international art theft rings and—" He stopped, finally looking at me. "You look different."
"Different how?"
"More... alert. Focused. Like you're already three steps ahead of everyone else." He buckled in. "It's slightly terrifying but also very reassuring."
"The 110th's operational," I said, pulling into traffic with Morrison and Chen following at their standard discrete distance. "Dixon's meeting us at the precinct. Swan's already establishing surveillance—he's the homeless guy on the corner you didn't notice."
Castle whipped around to look back at the corner, but we were already half a block away. "That was one of your team? How did I miss that?"
"Because Tony Swan is exceptionally good at being invisible when he wants to be." I navigated through morning traffic, the Mustang responding with smooth precision. "He's former Army, specialized in reconnaissance and surveillance. If Swan's watching, nobody knows they're being watched."
"This is so cool," Castle said, pulling out his phone to take notes. "How many people are on your team?"
"Three confirmed: Dixon, Swan, O'Donnell who arrives this afternoon. Maybe five if Neagley can track down Reacher, but the Major's not easy to find when he doesn't want to be found."
"And these are all former military investigators? Like you?"
"The best military investigators I ever worked with." I merged onto the avenue that would take us to the 12th Precinct. "We closed cases that should have been impossible. Investigated crimes that nobody else could crack. Reacher taught us to see patterns others missed, to question everything, to never accept the obvious answer."
"So basically you're assembling a team of genius detectives to protect me." Castle grinned. "This is absolutely going in my next novel. With names changed, obviously. And probably more explosions."
"There better not be explosions."
"You say that now. But statistically speaking, given the arc of this case, explosions are highly probable."
I couldn't argue with that logic.
We pulled up to the precinct at 9:05, finding parking in that same miracle spot from yesterday. As we climbed out, I spotted Karla leaning against the building across the street, wearing dark jeans, boots, and a leather jacket that concealed her shoulder holster. Her hair was pulled back in a practical ponytail, and she wore sunglasses despite the overcast morning.
She looked like every other attractive woman in Manhattan heading to work.
Except I knew she was cataloging every person who passed, every vehicle, every potential threat.
She crossed the street with easy confidence, pulling off the sunglasses as she approached. "Bennett. Castle." Her eyes met mine with a flash of warmth before shifting to professional assessment. "We're clean. Swan's established a perimeter, no hostile surveillance detected."
"You're sure?" I asked.
"I'm always sure." She turned to Castle, extending her hand. "Karla Dixon. I'll be shadowing your security detail today."
Castle shook her hand, and I watched him do what every heterosexual man did when meeting Karla—a momentary double-take followed by forced composure. "Richard Castle. Frank mentioned you were joining the team. Former 110th Special Investigations?"
"Guilty." Karla's smile was professional but friendly. "I've heard a lot about you, Mr. Castle. Frank says you have good instincts for this work."
"He said that?" Castle looked at me. "You said that?"
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late. My head is expanding as we speak." Castle turned back to Karla. "So you're going to be my additional bodyguard? That seems like overkill."
"Overkill would be bringing in the whole unit plus air support," Karla said. "This is just being appropriately cautious." She gestured toward the precinct. "Shall we? I'd like to assess Detective Beckett's security protocols before we get into active investigation mode."
We headed inside, and I noticed how Karla moved—not like a bodyguard trying to be obvious, but like someone who just happened to be walking in the same direction. Casual, relaxed, completely alert.
The precinct was already busy—phones ringing, cops at desks, the organized chaos of morning briefings and shift changes. Beckett was at her desk with Ryan and Esposito, all three of them reviewing files.
She looked up when we approached, her eyes immediately tracking to Karla. "Castle. Bennett. And you are?"
"Karla Dixon." Karla pulled out a credentials case—private investigator license, concealed carry permit, references from three law firms. "Frank brought me in as additional security consulting. Former Army MP, investigative background."
Beckett studied the credentials, then Karla, then me. "You hired more security?"
"The situation escalated," I said. "Given that we were shot at two days ago and the suspects have connections to organized crime, additional protection seemed prudent."
"And you didn't clear this with Captain Montgomery?"
"I'm clearing it now." I kept my tone respectful but firm. "Ms. Dixon is here to shadow the existing detail, not interfere with your investigation. She has her own carry permit, her own insurance, and extensive experience in personal protection."
Beckett was quiet for a moment, assessing. Then she turned to Karla. "You ever work with NYPD before?"
"Consulted on three cases in the past year," Karla said smoothly. "Two corporate investigations, one witness protection detail. References available upon request."
"You any good at staying out of the way?"
"The best." Karla's smile was slight. "Detective, I'm not here to step on toes or complicate your case. I'm here because Frank called in a favor, and I owe him my life about six times over. Whatever you need from me to make this work, you have it."
Something in Karla's tone—the sincerity, maybe, or the acknowledgment of professional courtesy—made Beckett's expression soften fractionally. "Fine. But same rules as Bennett: no interference with active investigations, no contaminating crime scenes, and if I tell you to back off, you back off."
"Understood."
"Good." Beckett stood, grabbing her jacket. "We're heading to interview one of the art dealers Markov identified. Gallery in SoHo, owner named Marcus Vance. He's been cooperative so far, but that might change when he realizes how deep this investigation goes."
"We'll follow in our vehicle," I said, before she could suggest we ride with them.
Beckett nodded, already expecting that. "Ryan, Esposito—let's move. Castle, try not to antagonize the suspect."
"I never antagonize suspects," Castle protested. "I engage them in meaningful dialogue that happens to make them uncomfortable."
"That's literally the definition of antagonizing."
---
The drive to SoHo took twenty minutes, giving me time to brief Karla more thoroughly on the case while Castle worked on his laptop in the backseat—he'd insisted on coming in the Mustang, claiming he needed to "observe the team dynamic."
"Vance owns a gallery called Metropolitan Arts," I said, navigating through increasingly dense traffic. "According to Markov, he's been helping authenticate and sell the stolen pieces through legitimate channels. Takes a twenty percent commission, asks no questions."
"So he's knowledgeable but not essential," Karla said, scanning the street ahead of us. "Which makes him vulnerable to pressure. Burke could flip him."
"That's the play. Offer immunity in exchange for testimony about Walsh and the organization's leadership."
"And if he doesn't flip?"
"Then we run his finances, find the paper trail, build the case the hard way." I glanced at her. "O'Donnell's good at that. Give him forty-eight hours and a database, he can trace money through shell companies, offshore accounts, and cryptocurrency."
"I remember." Karla's smile was fond. "David once spent three weeks tracking a single million-dollar transaction through seventeen different banks across nine countries. When he finally traced it back to the source, the suspect confessed just to avoid the embarrassment of how thoroughly O'Donnell had dissected his finances."
"He's gotten better since then."
"Terrifying thought."
We pulled up near the gallery—a sleek, modern space with large windows displaying abstract art that probably cost more than most people made in a year. Beckett's Crown Vic was already there, along with Morrison and Chen's sedan. The federal detail had apparently decided to be more visible today.
"Castle," I said, "ground rules. Karla and I are watching the perimeter while you're inside with Beckett. You see anything unusual—"
"Call you immediately. I know the drill." Castle climbed out, messenger bag in hand. "Though I have to say, having two former military investigators watching my back makes the whole 'civilian consultant on police investigations' thing feel much safer."
"That's the idea," Karla said. "Now go be brilliant and charming while we do the boring security work."
Castle headed inside with Beckett, Ryan, and Esposito, while Morrison and Chen positioned themselves near the entrance—visible deterrent, probably Burke's idea.
Karla and I split up, establishing a perimeter that covered both exits and sight lines into the gallery. I took the street side, she took the alley. My phone buzzed with a text from her: *Three cameras on this building, one on the neighboring structure. Someone's watching.*
*Gallery security or hostile surveillance?*
*Don't know yet. Checking.*
I watched the street, cataloging faces and patterns. Morning traffic, people heading to coffee shops, tourists with cameras. All normal. All potentially dangerous.
My phone rang—Burke.
"Bennett. Where are you?"
"Outside the gallery where Beckett's interviewing Marcus Vance."
"You need to get inside. Now." Burke's voice was tight with urgency. "We just got word that Vance received a phone call fifteen minutes ago. Burner number, brief message. We couldn't trace it, but the timing's suspicious."
"Suspicious how?"
"Suspicious like 'we think he's been warned' suspicious. If he destroys evidence or runs—"
I was already moving, texting Karla as I went: *Possible runner. Cover the alley exit.*
I pushed through the gallery door with enough force to make Morrison and Chen jump. Inside, the space was exactly what I'd expected—white walls, expensive art, that particular silence that came from places where everything cost too much to touch.
Beckett was in the back office with Vance—middle-aged, well-dressed, the kind of carefully maintained appearance that came from money and anxiety in equal measure. Castle stood near the door, notebook out, watching the interview with that writer's focus.
Vance was saying something about authentication procedures when I entered. He stopped mid-sentence, seeing me, and something flickered across his face.
Recognition? Fear?
"Frank?" Beckett's tone was carefully controlled. "What—"
"Burke called. Vance received a warning." I kept my eyes on the gallery owner, watching his micro-expressions. "Burner phone, fifteen minutes ago."
Vance's face went pale. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You received a phone call," I said, using the tone Reacher had taught me—calm, certain, leaving no room for denial. "Someone warned you that law enforcement was coming. Someone who has access to federal investigative information."
"I didn't—I don't—" Vance was sweating now, his careful composure cracking. "I want my lawyer."
"You can have your lawyer," Beckett said, standing. "But first, we're securing this office. Ryan, Esposito—bag everything. Computer, phones, files. All of it."
"You can't do that without a warrant!"
"We have a warrant." Beckett pulled out paperwork, slapping it on the desk. "Signed by Judge Markham two hours ago. This gallery, this office, and all associated records are now evidence in a federal investigation."
Vance slumped in his chair, the fight going out of him. "I want immunity."
"You want immunity?" Beckett leaned forward. "Then you start talking. Right now. Who called you?"
"I don't know! I don't know names!" Vance was almost hyperventilating. "They use handlers, intermediaries. I get instructions through encrypted messages. The call fifteen minutes ago—it was automated, voice disguised. Just said 'NYPD incoming, secure assets.'"
"What assets?" I asked.
Vance looked at me, then at Beckett, clearly calculating his options. "There's a safe. Behind that painting." He pointed to a landscape on the wall. "Code is 47-23-89. Everything's in there—records of sales, authentication documents, names of buyers."
Esposito was already moving, pulling the painting aside to reveal a wall safe. "Calling CSU for documentation."
"And the phone you received the warning on?" Beckett asked.
"Destroyed it. Flushed it down the toilet two minutes before you arrived." Vance looked genuinely miserable. "Standard protocol. Use once, destroy."
"So you have no evidence of who warned you."
"No. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He put his head in his hands. "I didn't know it was this bad. I thought it was just tax evasion, some wealthy collectors avoiding customs. I didn't know about the murders."
Beckett exchanged a glance with me—the kind of look that said *this just got more complicated.*
My phone buzzed. Karla: *Movement in the alley. Black sedan, two occupants, watching the back entrance. Plates registered to a shell company.*
I showed the text to Beckett. She swore quietly. "They're monitoring him. They knew we'd come here."
"Which means Walsh has access to warrant applications," I said. "She saw the paperwork, warned Vance, and sent a team to observe the fallout."
"Can we grab them?" Castle asked from his position by the door.
"Not without probable cause," Beckett said. "They're just watching. That's not illegal."
"But we can watch them watching us," I said. "Karla, get photos of the sedan and occupants. Swan, you reading this?"
My phone buzzed immediately—Swan's number: *Affirmative. I'm positioned across the street. Already photographing the sedan. Want me to follow when they leave?*
*Yes. But stay dark. If they spot you—*
*They won't. I'm a ghost, remember?*
I smiled despite the situation. Swan had always been the best at surveillance—patient, invisible, relentless.
"We're compromised," Beckett said, pulling out her phone to call Burke. "Every move we make, they know about it within minutes."
"Not every move," I corrected. "They know about official investigations. Warrants, witness interviews, anything that goes through federal channels. But they don't know about the 110th."
Beckett lowered her phone, studying me. "You're proposing parallel investigation."
"I'm proposing we use what they don't know. Walsh has access to federal databases and warrant applications. She doesn't have access to private investigators working independently." I gestured to where Karla was positioned in the alley, invisible from inside but monitoring everything. "The 110th can move without warrants, without official documentation. We share intel with you, you use it to build legitimate cases."
"That's—" Beckett stopped herself, clearly recognizing the legal gray area. "That's technically legal but ethically questionable."
"It's also effective," Castle pointed out. "If Walsh is monitoring federal investigations, she's watching for official law enforcement action. Private investigators doing background research? That wouldn't even register."
"Until we find something and can't use it in court because chain of custody is compromised," Beckett countered.
"Then we find it twice," I said. "The 110th identifies targets, traces connections, establishes patterns. You follow up with legitimate warrants based on our preliminary research. Two parallel tracks—one dark, one official. They converge when we have enough for prosecution."
Beckett was quiet, processing. Then she nodded slowly. "I'm not officially authorizing this."
"Understood."
"But if information happens to come my way through legitimate channels—"
"It will," I promised. "We're good at making information look legitimate."
"I don't want to know the details."
"You won't need to."
She turned back to Vance, who'd been watching this exchange with growing horror. "Mr. Vance, you're going to tell us everything you know. Every sale, every buyer, every communication you've had with this organization. And in exchange, we'll do our best to keep you alive."
"They'll kill me," he whispered. "If they find out I talked—"
"Then we make sure they don't find out," Beckett said. "You're going into protective custody as of right now. Federal safe house, new identity if necessary. But you cooperate completely or the deal's off."
Vance nodded miserably. "Okay. Okay. Where do you want me to start?"
---
Three hours later, we were back at the precinct with Vance in an interrogation room and the contents of his safe spread across three desks in the conference room. Burke had arrived, bringing two agents from his white collar crime division. Neal was there too, studying the authentication documents with the kind of focus that came from years of forging similar paperwork.
"These are good," he said, holding up a certificate of authenticity. "Really good. The paper stock is correct, the stamps are period-appropriate, even the handwriting matches the authenticators' known signatures." He looked at Burke. "Whoever's producing these knows what they're doing."
"Could you spot them as fakes?" Beckett asked.
"Now? Yes. But only because I know what to look for." Neal set down the document carefully. "In a gallery, presented as legitimate provenance? Most buyers wouldn't question it. Even most experts wouldn't spot the tells without laboratory analysis."
"So we're looking for a professional forger," Burke said.
"A professional forger with access to historical documents, period materials, and knowledge of authentication procedures." Neal's expression was thoughtful. "That's a specialized skill set. There aren't many people who can do this level of work."
"Can you make a list?" Burke asked. "People with the capability?"
"I can make a short list." Neal pulled out his phone. "But Peter, if they're this good, they're probably not in any database. The best forgers don't get caught."
"You got caught," Castle pointed out.
"I got caught because I was in love with an FBI agent and made stupid choices," Neal corrected. "Different situation entirely."
I was standing near the window with Karla, both of us staying out of the official discussion while monitoring the room. O'Donnell would arrive in three hours, and Swan was still trailing the black sedan that had been watching Vance's gallery.
"This is bigger than we thought," Karla said quietly. "Professional forgers, international buyers, a network sophisticated enough to stay hidden for years. We're not just looking at an art theft ring."
"No," I agreed. "We're looking at an infrastructure. Money laundering, yes. But also—"
"Also a way to move currency across borders without detection," she finished. "Art sales are perfect for that. High-value transactions that seem legitimate, especially with good provenance. No currency reporting requirements, no suspicious activity reports."
"And Walsh provides the legal framework to keep it running." I watched Burke and Beckett coordinate, both of them trying to build a case within legal constraints. "The question is who's at the top. Who's running this operation."
"Someone with serious resources," Karla said. "Someone who can afford to hire Russian enforcers, corrupt federal prosecutors, and professional forgers. Someone who—" She stopped, her attention shifting to her phone. "Swan just texted. The sedan went to a warehouse in Red Hook. Industrial area, limited surveillance."
"He's observing?"
"From a distance. Says the building has security—cameras, guards, probably motion sensors. Professional setup."
I pulled out my own phone, texting Swan: *Do not engage. Just observe and document. We'll coordinate entry after dark.*
His response: *Roger that. I'm a ghost.*
"Tonight?" Karla asked.
"Tonight," I confirmed. "Once O'Donnell's here, once we have a full team. We go in dark, get eyes on whatever they're storing in that warehouse."
"Without a warrant."
"Without official sanction," I corrected. "But we're not law enforcement. We're private investigators conducting surveillance on behalf of a client. Technically legal."
"Technically suicidal if they catch us."
"That's why we don't get caught."
Karla's smile was sharp, predatory. "I've missed this. Working with you, running operations that matter. Civilian work is fine, but it doesn't have the same—"
"Edge?" I suggested.
"Purpose," she corrected. "Civilian cases are about money, corporate politics, divorce settlements. This? This is about stopping people who kill witnesses and corrupt prosecutors. This matters."
She was right. It did matter. More than the security consulting, more than the corporate cases Elizabeth and I usually worked. This was why I'd joined the Army, why I'd volunteered for Special Investigations, why I'd spent years learning from Major Reacher.
To stop bad people from hurting innocent ones.
My phone buzzed—Elizabeth: *O'Donnell just landed. I'm sending a car to pick him up. He'll be at the office by 5 PM. Also, I pulled financial records on that warehouse in Red Hook. It's owned by a shell company registered in Delaware, funded through accounts in the Caymans. Want me to dig deeper?*
*Yes. Full corporate structure, ownership chain, any connections to Walsh or known associates.*
*On it. And Frank? Be careful tonight. I'm not ready to interview replacement business partners.*
I smiled, texting back: *I'm always careful.*
*Liar. But a necessary one. Come home safe.*
Karla was watching me with amusement. "Elizabeth checking in?"
"Providing support. She's tracing the financial networks while we handle physical surveillance."
"She's good at that?"
"She's exceptional at that. Give Elizabeth a corporate filing and forty-eight hours, she can tell you who really owns it, how they're moving money, and what they had for breakfast last Tuesday."
"You chose well." Karla's expression was thoughtful. "She complements your skills. You handle the tactical, she handles the strategic. It's—"
"Like a partnership?"
"Like a marriage. But without the legal entanglements." She studied me for a moment. "You ever think about making it official? With her, I mean."
I thought about Elizabeth—about our arrangement, our honest conversation, our acknowledgment that we weren't traditional people in traditional structures. "No. We're better like this. Honest, flexible, committed without being constrained."
"And she's okay with you being here? With me?"
"She trusts me to be honest about what I want and what I'm doing." I met Karla's eyes. "Which includes being honest about the fact that I'm glad you're here. That I've missed working with you. That I'd like to explore reconnecting beyond just professional capacity."
"Very direct."
"Elizabeth values direct."
"I'm starting to really like her." Karla's smile turned more private. "And for the record? I've missed working with you too. And I'd also like to explore reconnecting. But—" Her expression shifted back to professional. "—mission first. We keep Castle alive, we dismantle this organization, we do the job. Everything else waits until the operation's complete."
"Agreed."
"Good." She pushed off from the wall. "Now let's go brief Burke on the warehouse. He'll want to coordinate with NYPD tactical before we go in."
"We're not bringing them in."
Karla stopped, turning back to me. "Frank, a professional security setup in Red Hook? That's not a two-person job."
"It's a four-person job. Swan's already positioned. O'Donnell arrives in three hours—he can run communications and surveillance tech. You and I go in, get eyes on what they're storing, document everything, get out clean."
"What about Neagley? And Reacher?"
"Neagley's still tracking Reacher. If she finds him in time, they join us. If not—" I shrugged. "We've run operations with worse odds."
"That's true. But Frank?" Karla moved closer, her voice dropping. "If this goes wrong, if we get made and they respond with force—"
"Then we use the skills Reacher taught us and we make sure they regret it."
She studied my face, looking for doubt, finding only determination. Then she nodded once, sharp and decisive. "Okay. But we do this smart. Full surveillance, entry and exit plans, contingencies for every scenario. I'm not losing you on day two of the reunion."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
We turned back to the conference room, where Burke was still coordinating with Beckett and Neal was photographing authentication documents. Castle had his laptop out, typing rapidly—probably turning this entire investigation into a novel.
Tonight, the 110th went operational.
Not officially. Not with badges and authority.
But with the skills we'd honed in war zones and military investigations, with the loyalty that made us dangerous together, with the determination to stop bad people from getting away with murder.
ROB had given me a second chance.
The 110th was my way of making sure I didn't waste it.
---
My phone rang at 4:47 PM—Neagley's number, right on schedule.
"Tell me you found him," I said by way of greeting.
"I found him." Her voice carried that edge of satisfaction that came from accomplishing the impossible. "He was in Iowa. Small town called Riverside, working construction under a fake name. Took me six calls and three favors to track him down."
"And?"
"And he's on a plane. Lands at JFK at nine-thirty tonight." She paused. "He wasn't happy about being found, Frank. You know how he is about phones and technology."
"But he's coming."
"He's coming. I told him you were in trouble, that the 110th was reuniting, that people were trying to kill you. He was packed and at the airport before I finished the sentence."
Something warm settled in my chest—gratitude, maybe, or just the relief that came from knowing Jack Reacher had my back. The Major had taught me everything that mattered about investigation, about reading people, about surviving situations that should have killed me.
"What did you tell him about the case?"
"The basics. International criminal organization, corrupt federal prosecutor, your civilian client in the crosshairs. He asked if you were being stupid." Neagley's tone suggested she'd agreed with Reacher's assessment. "I told him you were being appropriately cautious."
"Liar."
"Professional courtesy." I heard background noise on her end—airport sounds, announcements. "I'm at O'Hare now. My flight leaves in forty minutes. I'll be there by midnight."
"You're coming too?"
"Frank, when the 110th reunites, I don't miss it. Besides—" Her voice softened fractionally, which for Neagley was like anyone else breaking into tears. "You called. That means it's serious. That means you need us. So we come."
"Neagley—"
"Don't get sentimental on me, Bennett. Save it for when we're all together and properly drunk." She paused. "How's the team looking?"
"Dixon's here, been shadowing Castle all day. Swan's running surveillance on a warehouse in Red Hook—possible storage facility for the organization. O'Donnell landed an hour ago, he's at Elizabeth's office setting up our command center."
"And the client? Castle?"
"Holding up surprisingly well. For a civilian mystery writer, he's got good instincts and decent nerves." I watched said writer through the conference room window, gesticulating enthusiastically while explaining something to Beckett. "He also thinks this entire situation is the best thing that's ever happened to him."
"Writers are insane."
"You're not wrong."
"Okay, I need to board. Tell Reacher I'll meet him at your apartment at midnight. We'll do a full briefing then, plan the warehouse operation for tomorrow night instead of tonight."
"Neagley, we can't wait—"
"Frank." Her tone went hard, commanding. "The Major's going to want to assess the situation before we go in. You know that. And rushing into a professional security setup without him? That's how people die. We wait twelve hours, we do it right."
She was correct, of course. Reacher would want to observe, plan, identify all variables before committing to action. It was one of his core principles—haste was the enemy of success.
"Fine. Tomorrow night. But that gives them twelve more hours to move assets, destroy evidence—"
"Swan's watching. If they move anything, we'll know." Neagley's voice carried absolute confidence. "Trust the team, Frank. We've got this."
"I know."
"Good. See you at midnight. And Frank? It's good to be working with you again. Even if you are being monumentally stupid about the whole thing."
She hung up before I could respond.
I stood there, phone in hand, processing the fact that in less than five hours, Jack Reacher would be in New York. The 110th would be complete.
Whatever happened next, we'd face it together.
Just like old times.
---
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