Richard Castle - Wild Storm

Storm paused. “Actually, I probably will. I’ve got an old buddy in Tangier I’ve been wanting to see. We promised each other we’d have a good two- or three-day drunk a while back. This feels like the perfect time to celebrate the end of a successful mission. You have a problem with that?”

“No, I suppose not,” Jones said. “Enjoy yourself.”

“Thanks,” Storm said. “We’ll be sure to hoist one in your honor.”

STORM ENDED THE CALL and was about to get going again when he saw a new e-mail had arrived on his iPad. It was encrypted and asked for a password.

Storm just stared at it dumbly. Maybe whoever sent it to him had confidence he would be able to guess the password. But there was still a world of possibilities. He was about to start with some of the more obvious ones.

Then another e-mail arrived. It was from, of all people, cstrike@cia.gov.

I was just thinking about the game we played in Luxor, Clara wrote. That was a lot of fun. I hope we can play again sometime. I like the way it ended.

Storm stared at it for a second, then returned to the encrypted e-mail. It was from Strike, obviously. And she was trying to give him a clue about the password.

The game we played in Luxor . He typed in chess and hit ENTER. He got nothing. He entered the name of every chess piece on the board, from king down to pawn. Still nothing.

He looked back at Strike’s e-mail. I hope we can play again sometime. I like the way it ended.

He grinned. He got it now. He typed in checkmate. The message opened:

You were right about Jones. He’s made some kind of deal with Ingrid Karlsson where she gets to go free in exchange for the promethium. He’s assembling a team to send to the Warrior Princess as I type this. As far as I can see, the only way to stop this is if you get there first. Good luck.

Love,

Me

TANGIER, Morocco

The announcement went out over the loudspeaker not twenty minutes after Storm’s plane had landed: as was forecast, the tropical cyclone had taken a left turn away from the French Riviera and was now barreling down on the Strait of Gibraltar. The eye was expected to pass very near Tangier. Ibn Battouta Airport, which had just opened up again, would officially be closing down. All flights in and out would be canceled until further notice.

As a smattering of departing passengers groaned, Storm actually pumped his fist in celebration. Whatever team Jones was arranging to take the Warrior Princess , their operation would be delayed until after the storm passed. There would have been no reason for them to take the unnecessary risk of carrying out the mission in the middle of a hurricane. They believed Ingrid Karlsson and the Warrior Princess would still be there when the weather calmed.

It gave Storm the narrow window of time he needed.

Get there, evade the Warrior Princess ’s sophisticated sea/air defenses, defeat its well-trained security personnel, destroy the promethium, get Dr. McRae out safely, and arrest Ingrid Karlsson so that she could stand trial for her crimes.

All in the midst of a hurricane.

Storm was sure he had accomplished more impossible tasks. Just none that came to mind at this particular moment.

He walked quickly through the baggage area, still in disbelief he was back in Tangier. Long a haven for spies, writers, and other disreputable types, it had been under Moroccan control for more than fifty years. Yet it retained a distinctly international flavor from having been batted about between rulers for several thousand years. It had started out as a Phoenician trading post, then became a Carthaginian settlement. Then the Romans took over, setting the stage for it to be conquered and reconquered over the centuries: the Vandals, the Byzantines, the Arabs, the Portuguese, the Spanish, the British, and the French had all left their mark on the city and its history.

Then there was Storm’s own history here. But that was something he was trying to forget.

He walked outside the airport into the passenger-pickup area. It was covered, but the steady rain that was falling was being blown under the roof by the wind. The first tentacles of the storm were already lashing the area. Storm looked at the sky and saw nothing but gray. He shoved his hands in his pockets. He was still wearing the black T-shirt and pants he had bought in Asyūt, which didn’t provide much protection from the wet gusts.

Still, the moisture felt good. Refreshing even. He had grabbed a nap during his flight — and didn’t mind nature’s shower reviving him further.

As he scanned the cars waiting under the protected area, a camouflage-painted Hummer emerged from a nearby entrance ramp and made a line toward Storm. It slowed as it approached. The passenger-side window was rolling down.

Inside, Storm could already see the driver. Thami Harif — “Tommy,” to all his American pals — had a bushy head of silver hair, olive skin, and a scar that stretched across his left cheek, a memento from a knife fight. Ethnically, his father was of some undetermined mix of North African, Spanish, French, Portuguese, and perhaps other unknown strains, much like Tangier itself. His mother was a librarian from Bettendorf, Iowa, which meant Tommy had a full command of American English and all its idioms.

Storm knew Tommy would be driving with his left leg, if only because the right leg wasn’t an option. He had lost it to an explosion long ago. He had a rotating selection of prosthetics that he changed to suit his mood and he nearly always wore shorts, so the world could enjoy them, too. Storm’s favorite was a crude wooden stump made to look like a pirate’s peg leg. Just because Tommy Harif made his living as a shady international arms dealer didn’t mean he lacked a sense of humor.

Storm grinned and stuck out his thumb. Tommy’s booming voice was already emerging from the window.

“I received a notification this morning that a hundred thousand Euro had been deposited in one of my accounts,” he said. “I made some inquiries and learned it came from a man named Derrick Storm. ‘Derrick Storm?’ I said. ‘That’s impossible. He’s dead.’”

Storm’s smile went wider as the Hummer came to a stop. “Those reports have been greatly exaggerated.”

“He might as well be dead. I already spent half of his hundred grand on hookers and booze. The other half, I wasted.”

“It’s good to see you, Tommy.” Storm stuck his hand through the window and exchanged a vigorous shake with the man who had, quite literally, nursed him back from death’s door.

“Get in,” Tommy said. “Haven’t you heard there’s a hurricane coming? I hear it’s going to be a real wild storm.”

Storm opened the passenger door and climbed in. “Some people like a wild storm,” he said.

“Count me among them,” Tommy said.

“I missed you, Tommy,” Storm said, clapping the man on the shoulder.

“You look a lot healthier than the last time I saw you. Fewer bullet holes.”

“Well, we can’t all be supermodels like you, but I try,” Storm said. His gaze shifted down to Tommy’s right leg, which was a utilitarian titanium model. Tommy was all business on this day. “No pirate leg today?”

“I know how much you like it, but I get lousy traction with that one,” he said glumly. “It’s no good in the rain. Plus, it gets stuck in the mud.”

They took a moment of silence over this predicament. Then Tommy said, “So what brings you to my little city by the strait? A dangerous mission you can only tell me about if you kill me first, or however that little chestnut goes?”