Richard Castle - Wild Storm

“Something like that,” Storm said as Tommy got the Hummer under way. “I was actually hoping you could take me to your, ah, little warehouse for a quick shopping trip.”

Tommy said nothing for a moment. But Storm knew he was being studied out of the corner of Tommy’s eye. “Are you asking in the capacity of your work for Jedediah Jones?” Tommy eventually inquired.

“Not exactly. As a matter of fact, as far as Jones is concerned, you haven’t seen me.”

“I understand. So are you asking in the capacity of your work for some other part of the United States government?”

“Can’t say as I am.”

“Then who are you working for?”

“Why, Tommy, for the cause of righteousness, of course.”

Storm delivered the line with the same gee-whiz earnestness that Tommy had once used on him, causing Tommy to erupt in laughter. “I understand, my friend. I guess what I’m asking is, can I count on you for a certain amount of discretion where the United States government is concerned? Uncle Sam…might not approve of some of my possessions.”

“Do you even have to ask?”

“Where Jedediah Jones is potentially involved? Yes.”

“Okay. Well, then I can confirm for you I am totally off the books, operating completely on my own, without the backing or authority of the Central Intelligence Agency or any other portion of my government.”

Satisfied, Tommy continued driving them toward his home, a former Moorish castle set on a cliff just outside the city of Ceuta. It was about twenty miles from Tangier on a straight line, slightly longer on the N16, the highway that traced the shoreline of the Strait of Gibraltar.

As they traveled, Storm filled him in on all that had been happening, and what the true nature of his visit was. He did this, in part, to gain the man’s trust. But he also was eventually going to want Tommy’s input. Tommy was not without expertise when it came to the use of force, brute or otherwise.

By the time they arrived, it was midafternoon and the sky was a bruised purple. The rain and wind had slowly ratcheted up in intensity during the course of the half-hour drive. Storm could see the huge ocean swells rolling in the strait below.

Storm felt a familiar pang as the Hummer climbed the stone-lined driveway toward Tommy’s residence. The main keep had been well maintained. Some of the parapets and balustrades had crumbled a bit since he last saw them, during the days of his convalescence. And while it was not a time in his life he particularly cared to revisit, he still felt nostalgia’s grip.

Waiting for them on arrival was the meal Tommy had his chef prepare: couscous topped with lamb and vegetables. Storm demurred, saying he didn’t have time; but Tommy insisted, pointing out that he had to wait until darkness to approach the ship anyway. Storm capitulated easily enough. It didn’t help his resolve that he had eaten nothing more than airline food and that his mouth had started watering as soon as he walked in the door.

They continued talking throughout the meal, and as it reached its conclusion, Tommy summed up the obstacles facing Storm: “So, if I have this all straight, there is no way to approach this ship by air or sea, because anything much larger than a dolphin will be automatically spotted by the ship’s detection systems. Even if you could get close, getting on board would be nearly impossible, because the boat will be thrashing around in heavy seas. And yet you can’t wait for things to calm down because then Jones’s goons will beat you to the punch.”

“Right,” Storm said.

“And then, even if you can somehow get on board, there are an undetermined number of highly motivated security professionals patrolling the decks. You have no idea where on the ship the captive is being kept, nor any idea where the promethium is being kept, nor any reconnaissance on Ms. Karlsson’s personal quarters, including what special security measures might be installed there. Finally, even if you manage to defeat security, subdue Ms. Karlsson, destroy the promethium, and find the captive, you have to get them all off the boat in one piece?”

“That’s about the size of it yeah. Any ideas?”

“Well, I do have one.”

“Please share.”

“Don’t go,” Tommy said. “Stay here with me. This is madness, even for a man of your abilities. Let’s ride out the storm drinking fine wine and then hit Tangier in a day or two and spend some of your new fortune in style. You came inches away from death the last time you came to this country. Are you really that eager to make that last step into the grave this time? Forget everything you’ll face once you get on board that boat; it’s suicide even to head out in this.”

“No, it’s perfect. They’ll never see me coming.”

“That’s not the point. Look, just let Jones win this one. Yeah, so the U.S. military gets a scary new toy and Ingrid Karlsson gets away. So what? What does it really matter to you? And don’t give me this ‘cause of righteousness’ crap. That’s my line, not yours. Why can’t you just let this go?”

Storm shifted a well-gnawed bone around on his plate. “Because the Pennsylvania Three were actually supposed to be the Pennsylvania Four. I was on that fourth plane, sitting in seat 2B. I saw all the people on my flight, people she was going to let die without a second thought. They weren’t anyone’s enemy, Tommy. They didn’t care about the width of the Panama Canal or the excise tax on auto parts heading into Germany. Their only sin was wanting to get back to their families to live a peaceful, happy life. I’m sure the people on the other planes were the same, and yet today their loved ones are burying whatever little broken pieces of them the authorities can recover from a catastrophic crash. The woman who caused all that pain has to face justice. She can’t be allowed to escape punishment simply because she has something that the Joint Chiefs really want.”

Tommy sighed. “Well, I tried. So what is it I can do for you, my friend, other than start planning your funeral?”

“Well, I need a gun. Some explosives. A knife.”

“The basics. What else?”

“Well, let’s make a visit to that warehouse of yours and find out. I assume a hundred thousand euro will buy me quite a shopping spree?”

“That it will,” Tommy said. “That it will.”

THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA, SOUTH OF GIBRALTAR

The twin 220-horsepower engines underneath Thami Harif’s thirty-five-foot cabin cruiser — named the One-Legged Bandit , in ode to his anatomical deficit — churned with only limited effectiveness in a sea that kept slipping out from under them with the passing of each wave.

From afar, Storm had thought the swells were thirty feet. Now that he was out in it, they were more like forty. From the bottom of one wave, the peak of the next wave felt like a small mountain about to crash on their heads. They’d climb until the height was vertiginous. And then they’d begin their drop back to the trough, which made Storm sure they were going to keep plummeting until they reached the bottom of the ocean.

Tommy had buttoned up every part of the boat that could be buttoned and jettisoned as much equipment as he could, both because he didn’t want it to get swept away by the furious sea and because they needed every bit of buoyancy they could muster. About every twenty waves or so, a particularly large swell would come along and turn the boat into a submarine for a moment or two. The cabin was watertight, so Storm and Tommy would be treated to the surreal sight of watching the water close around them, then overtop of them.

Each time, a tiny, worried voice in Storm would swear this was the wave that was going to overwhelm them; or knock out the engines, rendering them powerless against drifting to wherever the hurricane wanted to blow them; or tear off some important piece of the boat and sink them without mercy.