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But I don’t.
I meet his eyes, keeping my expression imposing and stony. Let him see that he can’t lure me into a pissing contest. An expensive suit and a Rolex aren’t enough to make me feel intimidated. Anything he bought with his Daddy’s credit card doesn’t prove shit to me.
Show me your scars, little man, then we’ll talk.
Castle stands, ending the meeting. He’s apparently oblivious to the staring contest between me and his shithead son. “I’ll show you to the library, if you’d like some time to discuss your approach. Any supplies you need, my staff will be happy to provide them.”
“Don’t worry about supplies,” the Survivor says cheerfully. “If these guys are as picky about their gear as I am, I assume we already have everything we need.”
He’s right. I packed my backpack the minute I saw the specs of the assignment. I’ve personally picked every item I’m carrying. When you’re trekking over mountains for miles a day, you don’t waste space on anything you haven’t personally justified to yourself.
The Survivor and the Tracker leave the office, but Castle stops me with a hand on my arm.
“A moment, Briggs,” he says.
We pause until the rest of Castle’s staff file out of the room. The son stops at the door, staring back at us. It’s clear he doesn’t want to miss our conversation. But with a nod from his father, he leaves, too.
When we’re alone, Castle lets out a breath, like he’s finally relaxed around me.
Except my instincts tell me that he’s still wearing a mask. He’s still trying to sell me some image of himself. I just can’t figure out what it is yet.
“I was relieved you took the assignment,” Castle says. “With your experience, I’m confident that you can find my Brooklyn and bring her back safe and sound.”
“I was happy to take the job,” I tell him.
The truth is, I was fucking desperate for an assignment. A hired gun with my skills will always be in high demand. Problem is, I’ve always been picky about my assignments. I don’t work with the same client more than once. It breeds familiarity, and familiarity clouds your judgment. Keeps you from noticing the details.
Other jobs I won’t take because, frankly, unlike what Grayson implied, I’m not a fucking piece of trash… It’s not like I’m some angel, performing good deeds, saving the helpless or some bullshit. But a man’s got to have a code. I’ve seen enough innocent people killed in my lifetime, and I have more blood on my hands than I should. Now, I don’t take jobs that would see me gunning down civilians or playing executioner.
Frankly, it’s been a while since a job came up that I’d ever accept. Bringing a missing girl home fit the bill. Either I save her, or I bring her family some peace. Give them a body to bury. A gravestone to lay flowers on.
And the money didn’t suck, either.
“Good, good,” Castle says. “You’re military, so I know you’ve got the discipline to do what needs to be done. I trust that if the other two can’t control themselves around my daughter, you’ll handle it?”
“Should I be worried about them?” I ask, raising a brow. The Tracker and the Survivor seem like good guys, but I just met them. Maybe there’s something I missed.
“I hope not,” Castle says. “But you understand, I’m sending three Alphas after her. After a young Omega. If there were Betas with the same level of experience we need to find her, I would’ve hired them. But I wanted the best. I believe that’s you.”
My instincts prickle, and I wonder again why Castle chose me. Does he really think I’m the best man to find his daughter? Or does he think my military discipline means he can command me to do whatever he wants?
As we rejoin the others in the hall, I suspect I know the answer. And it’s not one I like.
——
The Library that Castle leaves us in should belong on a college campus, not in a private home. The square footage would be enough to accommodate an Olympic swimming pool and the ceilings are at least 16 feet high. The shelves are crammed with leatherbound volumes; I can’t imagine Castle cracking one open and settling into an armchair to read.
We settle around a table near the empty fireplace. The gray, unwarmed stones add to the general feeling of coldness about the mansion.
“So, uh, what were your names again?” the Survivor asks. “Sorry, I really suck with names.”
“Same,” I agree. “You can call me Denver.”
“Like the city?”
I nod. “On ops, I like my team to use their city names if no one’s averse to it. Easier to remember.”
And easier to keep my team from getting close to me. Camaraderie messes with your judgment. And if I’m tasked with making sure the other Alphas keep their cool around Brooklyn, I’ll need my head clear.
