Richard Castle - Storm Front

After they had spent approximately forty minutes in this condition, the event Storm had predicted took place. A black SUV with tinted windows emerged from around the back of the building and exited through one of the missing fence sections. The darkness and the distance from which they observed the vehicle made it impossible to tell how many occupants it had. It was large enough to seat eight, but Storm doubted he was going to get that lucky.

Storm looked at his watch. They were fifteen minutes from the designated rendezvous time. Newark Airport was perhaps ten minutes away. This lent credence to Storm’s suspicion: Volkov’s men planned to swoop in, collect Cracker, and return to their Bayonne base.

There wasn’t much time to wait. He nodded at Strike. She pulled a small detonator out of her pocket and held down two buttons.

Becky played her part beautifully, creating not one but two percussive explosions in rapid succession. The first was when the C-4 went off. The second was when the gas tank caught and added to the fireworks.

There was yelling from inside the building — loud, sharp voices barking orders in Russian. Storm couldn’t quite make out the full sentences, but he did note, with satisfaction, that the words seemed to express a general sense of confusion.

He held up three fingers, then two, then one. When he dropped the final finger, he and Strike burst from their hiding place, sprinting toward the building. There were no shouts of alarm, no gunshots to greet their approach. All the attention from the Russians was focused on Becky and her death throes.

Strike disappeared through the south entrance. Storm ran along the back of the building toward the north entrance, staying close enough to the brick wall that no one on the fourth floor would be able to see him without sticking his head out of the window.

He paused when he reached the northwest corner of the building, taking a cautious glance around the edge. It was clear. He whirled around the corner, then flattened himself against the brick, stealing toward the entrance with the silenced Glock in his right hand. He didn’t know if the Russians would send a man to give the exploded car a closer look, but he didn’t intend to be caught unawares.

He was halfway to the door when a man with buzz-cut brown hair appeared and began walking down the short set of brick steps that led from the building to the parking lot. His head was turned away from Storm, toward the burning car.

It was the last thing he ever saw. When the man hit the bottom step — ensuring Storm’s satisfaction that there was only one man coming to inspect the car — Storm pulled the trigger twice. The Glock emitted a soft thwump thwump . The only other sound was that of the man’s body dropping just to the right of the stairs.

Storm scampered quickly to the body, dragging it against the stairs so it would be at least somewhat out of sight. He did not look at the man’s face. This was a kind of coping mechanism he had developed years ago. While killing was occasionally a necessary by-product of Storm’s work, it was not something he relished. He learned that if he looked at a dead man’s face, it stayed with him forever. If he didn’t look, there was at least a chance he wouldn’t be seeing this Russian in his dreams for the rest of his life.

With the body at least somewhat out of the way, Storm climbed the front stairs and entered the building. It was even darker inside than it had been outside, but Storm could make out the opening to the stairwell on his left. Storm once read that World War II bomber pilots who flew night missions munched carrots to sharpen their night vision. He often did the same, and was now glad for it. It gave him an edge in this murky world.

The shouting voices from the fourth floor had stilled themselves. The only sound was now the distant crackling of a Ford Fiesta burning itself out.

Storm made the left turn and passed through the door frame — if there ever had been a door, it had been busted off its hinges and discarded. He entered the stairwell. It was windowless and made of concrete, which to Storm meant one important thing: It would be like an echo chamber. He holstered the Glock. Even silenced, it would be too loud. He could not risk drawing notice of his arrival. It could spell death for Melissa Cracker or one of her children.

To one side of the stairwell landing, in the corner, Storm could make out the dim outline of a pile of trash, probably left there by a vagrant who had once made that spot home. Storm walked over to it, feeling — and, worse, hearing — the grit of broken glass under his shoes. He crouched and groped gently around until he touched cloth. It was an old T-shirt. Perfect.

He pulled out his KA-BAR and sliced the shirt up the middle. He tied one half around his right foot, one around his left. With the cloth softening his footfalls, he started creeping up the stairs. He counted the treads as he went. It was twelve steps up to a turn in the staircase, then twelve more steps up to the landing for the second floor.

He had just passed that landing and was climbing toward the third floor when his ears told him another Russian was approaching him from above. The man was descending quickly, perhaps going to check on the car, perhaps going somewhere else on patrol. It didn’t particularly matter. Point was, he was coming. And fast.

Storm retreated back to the landing. There was a door to the second floor, still on its hinges. Storm couldn’t open it without making too much noise. Likewise, he couldn’t make it all the way down to the first floor in time. The Russian would overtake him before he got there. Staying mouse quiet was just too slow.

Storm looked around the landing as best he could in the limited light. There was no place to hide. The only concealment he had was the darkness. Storm wedged himself in the corner nearer to the third floor, pressing his back against the wall, trying to make himself part of it. It was not a perfect arrangement by any means. It was merely the best he could do. His hope was that the man would be feeling his way down the stairs in the darkness and looking down at his feet, not at the wall; and that he could jump the man from behind and clamp one hand on his mouth to muffle any screams, while he used his other hand to slit the man’s throat with the KA-BAR.

Those hopes were dashed when Storm saw that the man was being preceded by a thin shaft of light that was growing brighter as he approached. He was carrying a flashlight. It was only a matter of seconds until it illuminated Storm. What happened in the seconds that followed would determine the fates of countless people.

Storm stayed still, the KA-BAR firm in his right hand. It was possible the man might not see Storm until he was close enough to attack. That was now the best scenario.

But no. When the man rounded the bend in the stairs between the second and third floors, the flashlight was pointed down at the stair treads, but some of it spilled onto Storm. First the beam struck Storm’s feet. Then it climbed up to his shins and knees. When it reached Storm’s waist, it stopped, as did the man on the stairs. He was halfway down, a full six stair treads away from Storm.

Storm didn’t wait for what came next. He threw the KABAR, aiming it just to the left of the flashlight. His thinking was that the Russian likely had the device extended in his right hand, and therefore the middle of the man’s chest would be slightly to the left.

It proved to be good thinking. The KA-BAR buried itself, blade first, between the man’s ribs, piercing his heart. The small moan that followed was quickly drowned out by the sound of his body tumbling down the stairs. He landed at Storm’s feet.

“Corporal, are you okay?” a man said in Russian from somewhere up above. Storm had spent enough time in Russia to recognize the origins of the accent. The man was from Moscow.