Page 8 of Until the End

“Possible eyes on Illuminati411,” Alistair said over comms. “A middle-aged, balding male is passing the reflecting pool, headed your way. The Truth Is Out There sweatshirt and flip-flops. I think we have a winner.”

“Copy.”

A sharp whistle brought Achilles running back to sit at Castle’s feet. Adjusting his sunglasses on the bridge of his nose, he knelt facing north for a clear visual of the steps Illuminati411 would need to take to get to this section of the quiet park. He scratched the dog’s head and fed him beefy bite-sized treats from his pocket.

“Let the others know we have possible action at our location,” Castle said low with a smile, as if speaking to Achilles. “Prepare to reposition.”

Alistair would check in with the operatives spread across the five other parks and relocate to a discreet position where he’d use the miniature parabolic microphone to overhear the conversation without being seen. They’d bag the primary target and find out how the person knew about Z-1984.

A stout, mustached guy wearing sweats emerged from the staircase. The sound of rubber slapping the pavement rose above the bubbling gurgle of the large fountain.

The man turned, surveying the park left and right, shuffling his way down the path. One lone tourist snapped pictures of the Capitol and fountain, then meandered down the opposite set of stairs.

Stopping beside a trash can, the mustached man looked around, winded, as if he’d been rushing. He pulled out a smartphone from the pocket of his sweatpants, checked something on the screen, and plopped down on a concrete bench.

Every passing second wound Castle tighter, heightening his awareness. Those seconds bled into minutes, torqueing him to coiled readiness. Adrenaline fired hot in his veins and he ached for action like a junkie in need of a fix. Still kneeling, he extended his hand and Achilles put his paw on his palm. He pretended to inspect the dog’s mitt, but all the while, his senses were keyed in on the surrounding environment, down to the slightest shift in the wind.

On the edge of the grassy area to the east shrouded by trees, the homeless girl scrambled to her feet. She lowered her head, clutching the blanket around herself, and stepped out of the gloomy patch of shade. Something bulky flapped beneath the fleece material as she strode between the trees toward the walkway dotted with benches. Her head swiveled, nervous eyes scoping out the grounds. Her gaze glided over Castle without a second of hesitation.

Bringing Achilles was turning out to be such a clever idea, he might have to invest in a canine of his own. He petted the dog’s head and fed him an extra treat.

Heavy bells a hundred yards from his position rang in a rich ding-dong for fifteen seconds, marking the third quarter of the hour. 8:45.

The girl crept up to the trash can beside the bench the mustached man sat on. She removed the blanket in a graceful one-handed move Castle had only seen executed flawlessly in movies and stuffed it into the trash. A large satchel hung across her lean body. Beneath the hoodie and a black jacket, the scraggy young woman wore a blue dress with a hemline falling higher than midthigh, showing off the longest, tautest legs—albeit on the too-thin side. She wore ankle boots in navy velvet that shimmered in the sunlight, embroidered with colorful flowers.

He couldn’t tell the difference between a Jimmy Choo and a Miu Miu but had a sister and had been around enough ladies with stylish taste to spot shoes that cost a pretty penny.

Those boots were high-end, far from the typical footwear of a vagrant.

The mustached guy hopped to his feet. She beckoned him to sit with a frantic wave of her hand. Drifting down beside him with slow caution, she stuffed her exposed goldish-brown hair inside her hood, gaze darting about as if expecting someone to jump out from behind a tree any second.

Pink cheeks, a rosy nose and lips from the chilly nip in the air accentuated her milk-white face and pixie-like features. There was something majestic about her—an elegant, regal bearing.

She spoke to him in a hurried, panicked manner. The man’s face hardened. He thrust a finger toward her and spittle flew from his mouth as he spoke.

“We have confirmation,” Alistair said. “She called him Gary, which he didn’t appreciate. He insisted she stick to Illuminati411 out in the open.”

“Notify the others we’re golden,” Castle said, low.

“Roger.”

Illuminati—or rather Gary—lifted his phone, but she swatted it away, raising a stubborn chin.

Watching the two of them without being able to hear their conversation, Castle recalled the last IRC exchange between Kit01Y0L0 and Illuminati411 that was burned into his mind verbatim.

K: Hope u found something. We’ve been owned, hardware to blood.

I: What are you wrapped up in? Got the 411 you requested on Z-1984. Need a meet.

K: Too dangerous. DEFCON 5. A meet could mean a bullet in my head.

I: Have questions for my blog. Need a meet. You name it.

K: Fine. The park near Mass Ave. Two hours. Come alone.

When Gary held the phone back out to the woman, the speaker icon on the screen was brightly lit. The blogger wanted to record their conversation.

Kit01Y0L0 shifted away from him, her features pinched. She tipped her head to the sky, bottom lip quivering, hands clenched.