Look, I'm not going to sugarcoat this: dying sucks.
Especially when you're twenty-three years old, you've never kissed a girl, never thrown a punch, never even run a full block without your lungs staging a hostile takeover of your chest cavity. My name was Michael Chen, and my body had been trying to kill me since the day I was born.
The hospital room smelled like antiseptic and broken dreams. On my nightstand sat the only photo I cared about—Dad in his NYPD dress blues, grinning like he'd just solved the world's problems. He'd died stopping a convenience store robbery when I was five. Hero cop. The kind of man who ran *toward* danger.
Me? I couldn't even walk to the bathroom without assistance.
"I'm sorry, Dad," I wheezed, each word costing me. The heart monitor was doing its best impression of a dying metronome. "I wanted... to be like you. To matter."
The beeping slowed.
My vision went dark.
And then—
—
I was standing.
Not sitting. Not lying down gasping for air. *Standing*.
The space around me looked like someone had taken the concept of "nothing" and given it mood lighting. And then I heard the voice—smooth, authoritative, the kind of voice that could narrate the phone book and make it sound profound.
"Michael Chen."
I spun around. A figure materialized in front of me, and if you're imagining Morgan Freeman in a really good suit, you're not far off. Except this guy had an aura that made you want to simultaneously confess your sins and ask for his autograph.
"Okay," I said, proud that my voice wasn't shaking. "Either I'm dead and this is the weirdest afterlife orientation ever, or I finally snapped and this is a morphine dream."
The figure smiled. "The former, I'm afraid. Though I appreciate your instinct to consider all possibilities. Shows good critical thinking." He gestured, and suddenly we were sitting in comfortable chairs that definitely hadn't been there a second ago. "You can call me ROB. Short for Random Omnipotent Being. I know, I know—pretentious. But 'God' was taken, and 'Cosmic Entity' sounds like a comic book villain."
"Right. Sure. Why not." I was dead. Apparently conversing with a divine being. My brain had officially left the station. "So what happens now? Judgment? Reincarnation? Eternal buffet?"
"Option C, actually. But with a twist." ROB leaned forward, his eyes twinkling. "Michael, your soul has impressed me. Twenty-three years in a body that was actively betraying you, and you never gave up wanting to make a difference. To be a hero like your father. That kind of determination deserves recognition."
"Thanks, but I'm pretty sure the award for 'Most Persistent Failure' isn't much consolation when you're dead."
"Which is why I'm offering you a mulligan." He snapped his fingers, and suddenly we were surrounded by floating screens showing TV shows I recognized—*White Collar*, *Castle*, *Sherlock*, *Reacher*. "A different world. One where fictional characters are real, living, breathing people. And you, my determined young friend, get to choose three characters. Their abilities, skills, physical attributes—all yours."
My brain stuttered. "You're serious."
"Completely. Though I should mention there are rules. Nothing omnipotent—no Superman or Dr. Manhattan. We're talking peak human abilities, exceptional skills, that sort of thing. And choose wisely. You get three, and only three."
I didn't even have to think about it.
"Napoleon Solo from *The Man from U.N.C.L.E.*," I said immediately. "The Henry Cavill version. His looks, his charm, his smoothness."
ROB nodded approvingly. "Excellent choice. Handsome and sophisticated. Next?"
"Sherlock Holmes. BBC version. Benedict Cumberbatch's Sherlock, specifically. The intelligence, the deductive reasoning, the ability to read people like books."
"Smart and observant. I like where this is going."
"And Frank Martin. Jason Statham's Transporter. The fighting skills, the driving abilities, the tactical thinking."
ROB sat back, looking genuinely pleased. "Brains, charm, and the ability to kick ass. You've essentially created the perfect secret agent slash detective slash action hero combo. I approve." He stood, and suddenly the space around us shifted. "One more thing—in this world, you'll be the twin brother of Neal Caffrey. Born as Frank Bennett, son of James Bennett. Raised in WitSec. Your brother will choose crime. What will you choose?"
"Whatever lets me actually be the hero I always wanted to be."
"Perfect answer." ROB extended his hand. "Welcome to your second life, Frank Bennett. Try not to waste it."
I shook his hand, and the world went white.
—
I woke up to the very pleasant sensation of my business partner's bedroom.
Let me back up.
My name is Frank Bennett, I'm thirty-two years old, and I was currently in the bed of Elizabeth Halloway—five feet eight inches of redheaded corporate genius who could dismantle a Fortune 500 company's reputation before lunch and had a personality that could cut glass. We'd been friends with benefits for about a year now, ever since we'd partnered up in the security consulting business.
She was also my next-door neighbor, which made our arrangement *very* convenient.
"Good morning, Superman," Elizabeth purred from her position at the desk, already dressed in a power suit that probably cost more than my first car. Her green eyes sparkled with mischief as she sipped her coffee. "Sleep well?"
I stretched, enjoying the feel of a body that actually *worked*. Even after ten years, I still hadn't gotten used to waking up without pain. "Like the dead. What time is it?"
"Eight-thirty. Your Castle meeting is at ten." She set down her cup and walked over, all business now despite the fact that I was still tangled in her expensive sheets. "I've sent the contract revisions to his lawyer. Background check came back clean—well, as clean as a mystery writer who's killed hundreds of people on paper can be. Detective Beckett's file on you apparently impressed her enough that she's fine with you shadowing them both."
"She read my file?" I sat up, Sherlock's mind already picking apart what that meant. "The Special Investigators work was classified."
"The public parts were enough. Distinguished service, honorable discharge, exemplary record. Plus, you know, you look like you could bench-press a small car." Elizabeth's smile turned predatory. "Which Detective Beckett probably appreciates, given that she's going to have Castle underfoot."
"You're enjoying this too much."
"I'm enjoying the retainer Castle's paying us. You're the one who gets to babysit a murder mystery enthusiast with Peter Pan syndrome." She perched on the edge of the bed, and suddenly the air between us changed. "Though I have to say, watching you be all protective and heroic is going to be *very* entertaining."
I caught her hand, Napoleon Solo's natural charm kicking in. "Jealous, Liz?"
"Please. I know exactly where you'll be every night." She leaned in, her perfume—something expensive and dangerous—filling my senses. "Right back here, telling me all about your day while I remind you why our arrangement is mutually beneficial."
"You make it sound so romantic."
"Romance is for people who don't know what they want." Her lips were inches from mine. "We're far too smart for that."
The kiss was inevitable. Elizabeth kissed like she negotiated—with complete confidence and a clear understanding of exactly what she wanted. When we finally broke apart, she was smiling.
"Now get dressed, soldier. You have a writer to meet."
I groaned. "You know I hate it when you call me that."
"Which is exactly why I do it." She stood, smoothing her skirt. "Also, your brother called. Neal wants to have lunch sometime this week."
That got my attention. "Neal called you directly?"
"He's worried about you. Something about you taking a job that puts you in close proximity to an NYPD detective." Elizabeth's expression turned serious. "He thinks you're going to end up in trouble."
"Neal's the reformed con artist working for the FBI. I'm the legitimate security consultant. Who's really in more danger here?"
"That's what I told him. He said, and I quote, 'My brother has a hero complex the size of Manhattan. At least I'm honest about my questionable life choices.'"
I couldn't help but laugh. That sounded exactly like Neal. My twin brother and I had taken very different paths after WitSec—he'd chosen art forgery and charm-based crime, while I'd gone straight into the Army. But we were still brothers. Still looked out for each other, even when we disagreed on literally everything.
"Tell him Thursday. That Thai place in Tribeca he likes."
"Already done." Elizabeth headed for her door, pausing to look back. "And Frank? Try not to get shot today. You're very useful to me alive."
"Your sentimentality is overwhelming."
"I know. It's my best quality."
—
My apartment was next door to Elizabeth's—smaller, more spartan, with the kind of functional minimalism that Frank Martin would approve of. I showered, shaved, and stood in front of my closet trying to decide what "professional security consultant meeting famous writer" looked like.
I settled on dark jeans, a fitted navy henley that Elizabeth always said made my eyes look good, and a leather jacket. The outfit said "I can protect you" without screaming "I used to break enemy combatants for Major Reacher."
My phone buzzed. A text from Castle himself:
*Looking forward to meeting you, Mr. Bennett. Detective Beckett speaks highly of your military record. Fair warning: I'm very charming and will probably try to use you as a character in my next book.*
I grinned and typed back:
*Fair warning: I charge royalties.*
His response was immediate:
*I like you already.*
This was either going to be the easiest job ever, or the most complicated.
Knowing my luck—and ROB's sense of humor—I was betting on complicated.
---
I slid into the driver's seat of my baby—a 1969 Mustang Boss 429, all black with enough modifications under the hood to make Frank Martin weep with joy. The exterior looked classic, museum-worthy even, but beneath that vintage shell was a completely modern engine, reinforced chassis, bulletproof glass, and a suspension system that could handle Manhattan traffic or a high-speed chase with equal grace.
The engine rumbled to life with a purr that made me smile every single time. This car was my one indulgence, the thing I'd spent a stupid amount of money on because some part of me—the Frank Martin part—*needed* it. Elizabeth called it my mid-life crisis on wheels. I called it perfection.
I pulled out of the underground garage, the morning sun glinting off the hood as I merged into Manhattan traffic. My hands moved automatically, shifting gears with the kind of muscle memory that came from countless hours of practice. Frank Martin's skills weren't just about fighting—they were about *control*. Control of the vehicle, control of the situation, control of yourself.
And right now, as I navigated toward the Upper West Side where Castle's loft was located, I was using that control to keep my mind from spiraling into what I knew was coming.
Because here's the thing about being reincarnated into a world where TV shows are real: you know things. You know plots. You know character arcs. You know who's going to get hurt, who's going to fall in love, who's going to end up in handcuffs.
And right now, I knew I was driving straight into the beginning of *Castle* Season 1, while simultaneously existing in a world where my twin brother Neal was probably in the early stages of *White Collar* Season 1.
Which meant Kate Beckett was still hunting her mother's killer. Which meant Neal was probably already searching for Kate Moreau. Which meant I was walking into a story where I knew the endings but had no idea how my presence would change them.
*Try not to waste it,* ROB had said.
Yeah. No pressure.
I took the turn onto Castle's street with the kind of smooth precision that made driving feel like meditation. The Mustang handled like a dream, responding to every touch like we were extensions of each other. Another modification—custom steering, racing-grade responsiveness. I'd never actually *needed* to outrun anyone in this car, but Frank Martin's paranoia insisted on being prepared.
Castle's building came into view—one of those historic Upper West Side brownstones that screamed "successful author with too much money." I found parking half a block away, which in Manhattan was basically a miracle.
As I killed the engine and sat for a moment in the sudden quiet, Sherlock's mind was already running scenarios. Castle would be charming, enthusiastic, probably over-caffeinated. He'd want to talk about cases, about detective work, about all the "cool" things he imagined I'd done in Special Investigations. He'd be brilliant and annoying in equal measure.
And then there was his daughter Alexis—fifteen, brilliant, the anchor that kept Castle grounded. His mother Martha, theatrical and warm. And now, apparently, a twenty-eight-year-old half-sister I hadn't known about. Because of course ROB had thrown in a curveball. The omnipotent bastard probably thought he was hilarious.
A musician half-sister who looked like Deborah Ann Woll. That was... actually interesting. Martha Rodgers sleeping with her costars tracked—the woman had lived a full life before settling into proud grandmother mode. But a whole other kid? That changed family dynamics. That changed *Castle's* dynamics.
*Stop overthinking,* I told myself. *You're here to do a job. Protect Castle while he plays detective. Keep him from getting shot. Collect the very generous retainer. Simple.*
Except nothing in my life had ever been simple.
I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror. Napoleon Solo's face looked back—sharp jawline, blue eyes, the kind of symmetrical features that made people do double-takes. The henley and leather jacket combination worked. I looked competent, dangerous in a controlled way, but not so intimidating that Castle would be afraid to crack jokes.
My phone buzzed again. Elizabeth.
*Remember: you're there to observe and protect. Not to solve all their murders for them. Let the detective detect.*
*Yes, mom.*
*I'm serious, Frank. Your hero complex and Sherlock's brain are a dangerous combination. Try not to show off.*
*Where's the fun in that?*
*The fun is in the obscene amount of money Castle is paying us. Don't screw this up by making Detective Beckett feel inadequate.*
She had a point. Kate Beckett was brilliant, driven, and according to the file Elizabeth had compiled, had a closure rate that put most of the NYPD to shame. The last thing I needed was to make her feel like I was stepping on her toes.
I climbed out of the Mustang, locked it with a chirp that echoed down the street, and headed toward Castle's building. The doorman—a middle-aged guy with the kind of face that said he'd seen everything Manhattan had to offer—nodded at me.
"Mr. Bennett?"
"That's me."
"Mr. Castle is expecting you. Penthouse." He gestured toward the elevator with the weary professionalism of someone who'd been dealing with Castle's shenanigans for years.
I stepped into the elevator, hit the button for the top floor, and took a deep breath.
Time to meet Richard Castle. Time to start this job. Time to see just how much my presence was going to butterfly-effect the hell out of this universe.
The elevator doors opened directly into the loft, and I was immediately hit with the organized chaos that was Castle's home. Books everywhere—shelves, stacks on tables, probably hidden in closets. Art on the walls. A poker table that had definitely seen use. And standing in the middle of it all, wearing jeans and a button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, was Richard Castle himself.
He was exactly like I remembered from the show—boyish enthusiasm barely contained in a grown man's body, bright eyes that missed nothing even when he was pretending to be casual, and a smile that said he was already having more fun than should be legally allowed before noon.
"Frank Bennett!" He strode forward, hand extended. "The mysterious security consultant who's going to make sure I don't get shot while playing detective. I have to say, Elizabeth's description didn't do you justice. You look like you could be in movies."
I shook his hand—firm grip, confident. "Mr. Castle. Thanks for agreeing to let me shadow you."
"Please, it's Rick. And I should be thanking *you*. Kate was... skeptical about me riding along with her. Having someone with actual combat experience there might make her feel better about the whole arrangement." His grin turned conspiratorial. "Also, between you and me, I'm hoping some of your cool will rub off on me. I have a reputation for being the fun parent, but 'guy who hangs out with badass security consultant'? That's a whole new level."
Behind him, a woman's voice called out, "Richard, are you making our guest uncomfortable already?"
I turned, and there she was—the curveball. Twenty-eight years old, strawberry blonde hair falling past her shoulders, pale skin that suggested she didn't see the sun much, and striking features that were somehow both delicate and intense. She wore dark jeans and an oversized cardigan over a vintage band t-shirt, and carried herself with the kind of casual confidence that came from years of performing.
Castle's half-sister, apparently. The musician Martha Rodgers had produced with one of her co-stars.
She walked over, offering a smile that was warmer than I expected. "Hi. I'm sorry about my brother—he gets excited about new people, especially when they have interesting jobs. I'm Sloane Sterling."
*Sloane.* Of course. A name that sounded like it belonged in a jazz club at three in the morning.
I shook her hand. "Frank Bennett. And he's fine—I've dealt with worse than enthusiasm."
"Oh, I like him already," Sloane said to Castle. "He's polite *and* he has a sense of humor. Are you sure you didn't hire an actor, Rick?"
"I'm right here," I pointed out, amused despite myself.
"We know," Castle said cheerfully. "But Sloane's right—you're suspiciously well-adjusted for someone who's supposedly spent time in military intelligence. Where's the brooding? The thousand-yard stare? The cryptic references to things you can't talk about?"
"I save those for the second meeting. First impressions are all about charm."
Sloane laughed—a real laugh, not the polite kind. "Okay, you can stay."
This was already off-script. In the show, Castle's family was him, Martha, and Alexis. Adding Sloane changed the dynamic entirely. She was closer to Castle's age, which meant she could call him on his bullshit in a way Alexis couldn't. And she was a musician, which suggested a creative mind that wouldn't be content to just sit on the sidelines.
ROB, you magnificent bastard, I thought. You just made this job way more interesting.
—
Before I could respond, a teenager appeared from what I assumed was her bedroom—fifteen years old, auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing jeans and a Columbia University sweatshirt that was probably aspirational. Alexis Castle had her father's eyes and a seriousness that suggested she was the only adult in this family.
"Dad, you promised you wouldn't embarrass—" She stopped when she saw me, and I watched her do a quick assessment that would've made Sherlock proud. Security consultant. Military background. Here to keep her father safe. Decision made in about three seconds. "Hi. You must be Mr. Bennett."
"Frank, please. And you must be Alexis." I kept my tone friendly but respectful—she was clearly the kind of kid who hated being talked down to. "Your father mentioned you're interested in Stanford?"
Her face lit up. "You know about Stanford?"
"I know they have one of the best programs in the country. And that their acceptance rate is brutal." I smiled. "But something tells me you're not worried about that."
"I *like* him," a new voice declared from the stairs, and I turned to see Martha Rodgers making her entrance. Because with Martha, it was always an entrance. She descended the stairs like she was walking onto a stage, red hair perfectly styled, wearing flowing layers that somehow managed to look both theatrical and elegant. "Richard, darling, you didn't tell me our security consultant was so *handsome*."
"Mother, please don't flirt with the man I hired to keep me alive," Castle said, but he was grinning.
"I'm not flirting, I'm *observing*." Martha reached the bottom of the stairs and offered me her hand—not to shake, but to hold, like we were in a Victorian novel. "Martha Rodgers. Welcome to our circus, Mr. Bennett."
I took her hand with Napoleon Solo's natural grace, giving a slight bow that made her eyes sparkle. "An honor, Ms. Rodgers. I grew up watching your work."
"Liar. But a charming one." She patted my cheek. "You'll do nicely. Try to keep my son from doing anything too stupid, would you?"
"That's a tall order," Sloane murmured, earning a glare from Castle.
"I'm standing right here. I can hear all of you."
"We know, Dad," Alexis said, her tone fond. She turned to me, suddenly serious. "Mr. Bennett—Frank—you really will keep him safe, right? I know he thinks this is all fun and games, but..."
The worry in her voice was real. This was a kid who'd spent her whole life being the responsible one, watching her father chase adventures while she held down the fort. And now he was about to start chasing actual murderers.
I met her eyes directly. "I promise you, Alexis. Nothing happens to him while I'm around."
Something in my tone—maybe Frank Martin's absolute certainty, maybe just the truth of it—made her relax. "Okay. Thank you."
"Now that we've established that Frank is both competent and easy on the eyes," Castle said, clapping his hands together, "we should probably head to the precinct. Kate wanted us there by ten-thirty, and you know how she gets about punctuality."
"She gets *professional*," I said. "Which is probably a foreign concept for you."
Sloane snorted. "Oh, I *really* like him."
"Traitor," Castle muttered, but he was smiling. He grabbed a jacket—expensive leather, probably Italian—and his keys. "Shall we?"
"We're taking my car," I said firmly.
"But I have a perfectly good—"
"We're taking my car," I repeated, using the tone that had made privates snap to attention. "Non-negotiable."
Castle blinked. "Okay then. Your car it is."
As we headed for the door, Martha called out, "Richard, darling, try not to get arrested on your first day!"
"No promises!" he shouted back.
Sloane appeared beside me as we waited for the elevator. "Fair warning about my brother—he's brilliant, but he has the self-preservation instincts of a golden retriever. If he does something stupid, you have my permission to sit on him."
"Noted."
"Also," she lowered her voice, "if you ever want to grab coffee and talk about literally anything other than murder mysteries, I'm in apartment 4B. I promise I'm the sane one in this family."
The elevator arrived before I could respond, which was probably for the best. Because Sloane Sterling was *not* supposed to be in this story, and I was already trying to figure out what her presence meant for the carefully plotted narrative I thought I knew.
---
Castle's reaction to the Mustang was everything I expected.
"Holy shit," he breathed, walking around it like it was a religious artifact. "Is this a Boss 429?"
"Yes."
"Original?"
"Externally. Internally, it's all modern." I unlocked it, and the doors opened with a satisfying *chunk*. "Custom engine, reinforced frame, bulletproof glass."
Castle's eyes went wide. "*Bulletproof?*"
"I take security seriously."
"You're my new best friend. I'm declaring it right now." He slid into the passenger seat with reverence, running his hand over the dashboard. "This is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
"Elizabeth says the same thing." I started the engine, and that gorgeous rumble filled the street.
"Your business partner, right?" Castle buckled in, still looking around the interior like a kid in a candy store. "She sounds terrifying."
"She is. But she's also the smartest person I know." I pulled out into traffic, the Mustang responding like a dream. "Which is why when she says you're worth the retainer, I believe her."
"I'm flattered and slightly concerned that I needed to be vouched for." Castle settled back, watching me navigate Manhattan traffic with the ease of someone who'd done it a thousand times. "So, Frank Bennett. Military intelligence, Special Investigations, honorable discharge. Now private security. What's the story there?"
Here's where it got tricky. Because Frank Martin would give minimal information. Sherlock would deflect with questions. But Napoleon Solo would charm his way through with just enough truth to be disarming.
"I joined the Army at eighteen," I said, keeping my eyes on the road. "Did my time, got good at it, got recruited for specialized work. But after a while, I realized I was better at preventing problems than cleaning them up after the fact." I glanced at him. "Security consulting lets me do that. Help people before they need help."
"Noble." Castle studied me. "But that's the sanitized version, isn't it? Elizabeth sent me your file—the parts that aren't classified, anyway. You've seen combat. Done things most people can't imagine."
"And now I make sure writers don't get shot while playing detective. Life's funny that way."
"Deflection through humor. I use that one too." He grinned. "We're going to get along great."
The precinct came into view—the 12th, all utilitarian brick and the kind of architectural charm that screamed "municipal budget." I found parking—another Manhattan miracle—and killed the engine.
"Okay," I said, turning to face Castle directly. "Ground rules. When we're at crime scenes or the precinct, Detective Beckett is in charge. Not me, not you. Her. If she tells you to stay back, you stay back. If she tells you to shut up, you shut up. Understood?"
"You sound like her already."
"I'm serious, Castle. I'm here to keep you safe, but I can't do that if you're running off trying to be clever." I held his gaze. "Your daughter asked me to bring you home in one piece. I intend to keep that promise."
Something shifted in Castle's expression—the playfulness dimming just enough to show the father underneath. "Understood. I'll behave."
"Liar."
"Okay, I'll *try* to behave."
"Better." I climbed out of the car, and Castle followed.
The precinct was exactly like I remembered from the show—busy, loud, that particular smell of coffee and stress that every police station seemed to have. Cops at desks, phones ringing, the organized chaos of people trying to keep a city from eating itself.
And standing by the front desk, talking to the desk sergeant, was Kate Beckett.
She turned when we walked in, and I had to give ROB credit—he hadn't exaggerated. Kate Beckett was striking in person, all dark hair and sharp cheekbones and eyes that missed nothing. She wore dark jeans, a blazer, and a look of professional skepticism that suggested she was already regretting letting Castle anywhere near her precinct.
"Castle," she said, her tone carefully neutral. Then her eyes shifted to me, and I watched her do exactly what Alexis had done—quick assessment, cataloging threats and capabilities. "Mr. Bennett."
"Detective Beckett." I offered my hand, and she shook it—firm grip, no nonsense. "Thanks for agreeing to this arrangement."
"Captain Montgomery was persuasive." Her tone suggested Montgomery had been *very* persuasive. "Though I have to say, when he said Castle was bringing a security consultant, I expected someone more..."
"More what?" Castle asked.
"More bodyguard, less..." she gestured at me, clearly searching for words.
"Less attractive?" Castle supplied helpfully.
"I was going to say 'less likely to be mistaken for talent,' but sure, let's go with your version." Beckett's expression didn't change, but I caught the hint of amusement in her eyes. She turned back to me. "Captain Montgomery wants to see both of you before we start. Waivers to sign, protocols to review."
"And weapons to declare," I added.
Her eyebrows rose. "You're armed?"
"I'm a security consultant in Manhattan. Yes, I'm armed." I kept my tone professional. "Glock 19, ankle holster. New York concealed carry permit, all documentation current. I can check it if that makes you more comfortable."
"That won't be necessary. As long as it stays holstered unless there's an actual threat."
"Agreed."
Castle looked between us. "Is it weird that this whole exchange was kind of hot?"
"Yes," Beckett and I said simultaneously.
"Worth it," Castle muttered.
Beckett led us through the precinct, weaving between desks with the ease of someone who knew every inch of the space. Cops nodded at her, some called out greetings. She had respect here—earned it, clearly.
Captain Roy Montgomery's office was at the back of the precinct, all glass walls and the kind of organized paperwork that suggested a man who'd managed chaos through sheer force of will. Montgomery himself was behind his desk—Black, fifties, with the bearing of someone who'd worked his way up through every rank and refused to forget where he came from.
He stood when we entered, and I recognized the look in his eyes. Former military, probably. He knew what to look for.
"Mr. Castle. Mr. Bennett." He shook both our hands. "Have a seat."
We sat. Montgomery settled back behind his desk, pulling out two folders.
"Alright, let's get the bureaucracy out of the way first." He slid papers across the desk. "Castle, this is your waiver. Basically says that if you get shot, stabbed, blown up, or otherwise injured while playing detective, the NYPD is not liable. You're here as a civilian consultant, shadowing Detective Beckett at your own risk."
Castle signed with a flourish. "Done."
"Mr. Bennett." Montgomery's attention shifted to me, and his gaze sharpened. "Your paperwork is more complicated. You're here as private security for Mr. Castle, which means you're neither NYPD nor officially part of any investigation. You have no arrest authority, no investigative authority, and if you discharge your weapon, you'll be subject to the same review as any civilian."
"Understood, sir."
"That said..." Montgomery leaned forward. "I read your file. What wasn't classified, anyway. Had an interesting time tracking down references—your old CO Major Reacher apparently lives off the grid these days. No phone, no address, just a bank account for his pension."
I kept my expression neutral. That sounded exactly like Reacher. "The Major prefers to travel light, sir."
"So I gathered. Ended up speaking with Frances Neagley instead." Montgomery watched my reaction. "She vouched for you without hesitation. Said you were one of the best investigators in the 110th, that you had instincts that couldn't be taught and discipline that kept you from being a cowboy. Also said, and I quote, 'Frank Bennett doesn't break rules without good reason, and when he does, you want him on your side.'"
I smiled despite myself. That sounded exactly like Neagley—blunt, honest, and loyal to the bone. "Sergeant Neagley is generous with her praise."
"She also mentioned I could reach out to David O'Donnell or Tony Swan for additional references, but that they'd tell me the same thing." Montgomery's expression was unreadable. "The 110th Special Investigators seems to have been a tight unit."
"The best I ever worked with, sir."
"High praise." Montgomery slid a form across the desk. "This is your weapon declaration. Glock 19, concealed carry, ankle holster. Correct?"
"Yes, sir."
"Any other weapons?"
"Tactical knife, also ankle sheath. And training that technically qualifies as a weapon under New York state law."
Montgomery's lips twitched. "I'll note 'extensive hand-to-hand training' in the file. Sign here."
I signed. Montgomery collected the papers, filed them with the efficiency of someone who'd done this a thousand times, then leaned back and studied both of us.
"Gentlemen, let me be clear about something. Detective Beckett is one of the best detectives I have. She closes cases other people can't crack, she follows the evidence, and she doesn't let anything—including her personal crusade—interfere with the job." His gaze fixed on Castle. "Mr. Castle, you're here because the Mayor thinks it's good PR and because your money talks. But in my precinct, Beckett's word is law. If she tells you to back off, you back off. Clear?"
"Crystal," Castle said.
"Mr. Bennett." Montgomery's attention shifted to me. "You're here to keep Castle safe. I respect that. And based on what Neagley told me, I trust you know how to handle yourself. But if I find out you're interfering with investigations, playing cowboy, or making my detectives' jobs harder, you're out. I don't care what your file says or who vouches for you. Understood?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good." Montgomery stood, and we followed suit. "Beckett's working a new case as of this morning. Body found in an apartment in Hell's Kitchen. You'll be accompanying her and Detectives Ryan and Esposito to the scene." He looked at Castle. "Try not to contaminate evidence or throw up on anything important."
"I'll do my best," Castle said with mock solemnity.
Montgomery's expression suggested he had deep doubts about that. "God help us all." He opened his office door. "Beckett! Your writer and his babysitter are cleared. Try not to lose them."
Beckett appeared in the doorway, looking resigned. "Come on, Castle. And Mr. Bennett—"
"Frank, please."
"Frank." She gave me a look that suggested she was still deciding whether I was going to be helpful or a pain in her ass. "Welcome to Homicide."
As we followed her back through the precinct, Castle leaned close. "She likes you. I can tell."
"She tolerates me. There's a difference."
"For now. But give it time." He grinned. "Everyone likes me eventually."
Somehow, I didn't doubt it.
Ryan and Esposito were waiting by Beckett's desk, both of them watching our approach with unconcealed curiosity.
"Guys," Beckett said, "this is Richard Castle, mystery writer and apparently our new permanent observer. And Frank Bennett, Castle's security consultant."
"Bodyguard," Esposito said, looking me over. "Military?"
"Army. Special Investigations."
"110th?" Ryan asked, surprising me.
I raised an eyebrow. "You know the unit?"
"My cousin served with them. MP unit, investigative division. Said they handled the cases nobody else wanted to touch." Ryan studied me with new interest. "He mentioned they had a reputation for closing impossible cases."
"We did alright."
"Man," Esposito said to Castle, "you really sprang for the premium package, huh?"
"Only the best," Castle said cheerfully. "Plus, have you seen him? He makes me look good by association."
"Keep telling yourself that," Beckett muttered. She grabbed her jacket. "Alright, we've got a DB in Hell's Kitchen. Single GSW to the chest, called in by a neighbor two hours ago. CSU is already on scene."
"Any ID on the victim?" I asked, then caught myself. *Let the detective detect,* Elizabeth had said.
But Beckett didn't seem annoyed. "Not yet. That's what we're going to find out." She looked at Castle and me. "Ground rules: you stay behind the tape, you don't touch anything, and you definitely don't contaminate my crime scene. Questions?"
"None," I said.
"What if I have a really brilliant theory?" Castle asked.
"Save it until we're not standing over a dead body." Beckett headed for the elevator. "Let's move."
As we followed her, Ryan fell into step beside me. "So, Special Investigations. You ever work homicides?"
"A few."
"Close any?"
"All of them."
Ryan whistled low. "Yeah, my cousin said the 110th didn't do half-measures. You still in touch with the unit?"
"Some of them. Major Reacher's gone nomad—lives out of a duffel bag, moves around the country. But I talk to Neagley fairly regularly."
"Frances Neagley?" Ryan's eyes widened. "My cousin mentioned her. Said she was scarier than half the suspects they brought in."
"She has that effect on people."
Esposito appeared on my other side. "You play poker, Bennett?"
"Occasionally."
"You're going to fit in just fine."
Castle was walking with Beckett, already chatting about something that was making her roll her eyes. Ryan and Esposito were doing the partner telepathy thing, silently communicating about whether I was going to be a problem or an asset.
And me? I was walking into my first murder case in this new life, surrounded by characters I'd watched on TV in my previous one, trying not to think about how surreal this all was.
*Try not to waste it,* ROB had said.
Yeah. I was definitely going to try.
But something told me this was going to get complicated fast.
---
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