Chapter Seven

Jordan Shaw glanced up at her matrix board, set smack in the middle of the 12th precinct squad room. Looking stunned at what was there for all to read, she jumped up, knocking her coffee cup to the floor, which drew everyone's attention, and stepped quickly to the board to close the file. She looked around the room to see if anyone had noticed. Someone had.

At her desk, she mopped up the coffee and then opened the same file on her personal computer. It was a picture, taken with a long telephoto lens, of a very alive Kate Beckett, sitting on the patio of Castle's Hampton home. She was clearly reading a newspaper featuring the distinctive photo of yesterday's front page human-interest story about hot air balloons. Shaw looked at the image, smiled grimly, and closed the file again.

A few minutes later, several miles away, the watcher, Hal Lockwood, put down his phone. "Fuck!" he cursed, furiously. He thought for a minute, then called his employer.

"They fooled us. Beckett's alive and staying at Castle's place in the Hamptons."

"Get up there," said the voice on the phone. "Get up there now, and take her out. Take them all out. Then catch a plane to Europe and don't come back for a year. I'll send the money to your usual account. We can figure that out later, but go. Now!"

"Right," said Lockwood.

"And take care of yourself. I don't want the material in your lock box to appear on tomorrow's front page just because you got yourself killed speeding on the LIE."

Lockwood smiled. Always nice to have insurance against lethal employers.

Lockwood crossed the Williamsburg Bridge, heading for the Long Island Expressway. He was so intent on his driving that he didn't notice passing an NYPD patrol car. He certainly missed the officer picking up his phone and calling ahead to his counterparts on Long Island.

Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he drove, Lockwood was thinking at light speed about his diminishing options. With these final two murders, the heat would be on everywhere. Catching a plane to Europe might be chancy. They could be watching the airports. Maybe better to head to Albany and have it out with the boss man? Or what about Canada? It wasn't that far. Or he could charter a plane to some place without extradition. With his guns as emotional collateral, he was sure he could "convince" someone to fly him there.

The two and a half hour drive sped by. Lockwood stopped several blocks from Castle's Hampton home in a quiet cul de sac. His sniper rifle was broken down into three parts that he slipped into the specially made pockets of his raincoat. He got out, locked the car, and strolled up to the nearest home.

Quickly subduing the maid who answered the door, he slipped out the back and across a utility access strip to a point with a clear view of Castle's patio. He reassembled his rifle and found a convenient tree to use as a stand. Yes, there she was. The bitch. Time to die.

So focused was he on Beckett that he never heard Esposito and Ryan slip up behind him.

"Gig's up, dirtbag," said Ryan. Lockwood spun around, trying to get the rifle turned fast enough for a shot. Esposito was faster, clipping him twice in the right leg before he had a chance to fire.

"Gotcha!" said Ryan, as he cuffed the killer.