Richard Castle - Wild Storm

Eventually, he got close enough. Pumping up his buoyancy regulator until it was acting as a powerful life vest, floating him like a cork, he unzipped his watertight bag and withdrew the first of its treasures: a grappling gun.

Lofting its pronged hook over his head, he fired it at the railing of the lowest deck. He overshot it. But as he retracted the line, the hook ended up grabbing the rail on the way back. Storm tugged a few times. The line was firm.

He hit the retract button and let it slowly draw him toward the boat until he got his boots on the sheer side of the hull. Then he began walking his way up. It was just like climbing in the Alps, only it was a lot wetter, and the mountain was being tossed about by enormous waves.

About halfway up, he lost his footing. He went the rest of the way hand over hand, a process made a lot slower by sixty extra pounds of scuba gear.

When he reached the top, he flung himself over the side and went into a crouch. There was still no one about. Not even the security staff was doing patrols outside, possibly on the theory that no one would be stupid enough to try and board a mega-yacht during a hurricane.

Storm quickly shed the scuba gear and tossed it over the side — more expensive trash. Then he peeled off the dry suit and jettisoned it as well. The only item he retained was the dry bag.

Dressed in the same black-and-black outfit he had worn since Egypt and now with his sea legs underneath him, he made his way toward the main aft deck and one special door, behind which he hoped there would be the assistance he would need to succeed in this mad mission.

It was the door to the stateroom that belonged to Tilda, the redhead who had danced with him, drugged him, and now — he prayed — would aid him.

Storm and Tommy had talked out this particular tactical decision and agreed the job was nearly impossible without inside help. After all, Storm didn’t know where Dr. William McRae was being kept. But Tilda did. Storm didn’t know the layout of Ingrid Karlsson’s quarters. But Tilda did. Tilda would know everything about the ship and its vulnerabilities.

She had said she would help save him sometime. This was her chance to prove it.

It was a gamble, yes. But so was getting up each morning. Storm just had to convince her he was, all kidding with Tommy aside, on the side of righteousness. He sensed goodness in her. He hoped he wasn’t wrong.

The rain, which was falling in sheets, quickly soaked him. He walked normally, trying not to look suspicious. He was assuming there were cameras. He mostly was just gambling no one was watching them carefully in the middle of a hurricane. But if they were, he was trying to look like just another crew member, albeit one out of uniform.

He reached the door to Tilda’s room, then listened for a moment. It was pointless. The wind was roaring at a volume that obscured anything else. There were no windows on this side of the stateroom. He was going in blind.

The door was not locked. He twisted the handle and burst into the room. It was empty. No Tilda.

He stood there for a moment, dripping on the carpet. This was not part of his plan.

Then, from the bathroom, he heard a faint hissing sound. It was a shower running. Showering in the middle of a hurricane: that was luxury.

Storm set the dry bag down on the bed, crept toward the door to the bathroom, and cracked it open. Tilda was warbling the tune to what sounded like a Swedish pop song. Storm wedged the door open a little further, giving himself a glimpse inside, feeling altogether too much like a stalker.

The shower was a stand-up stall, encased by an opaque door with a small gap above it. Steam poured out the gap. He slipped in the bathroom, grabbed a towel off the rack. The singing continued.

In one quick movement, Storm threw opened the shower door, shut off the water, threw the towel roughly around Tilda’s torso then put his hand over her mouth to stifle the scream that was surely no more than half a second away. He took his other arm and grabbed her from behind, by the shoulders.

Tilda was too stunned to struggle. Her hands had automatically gone to keeping up the towel and not to attacking Storm. Modesty was a powerful force.

“Please be very, very quiet,” Storm said. “I really, really don’t want to have to hurt you. But if you make noise, you’ll give me no choice. Do you understand?”

She nodded her head.

“All you have to do for a moment is just listen to me. Can you do that?”

Another nod. His hand was still clamped on her mouth.

“Thank you. Now, you remember on the rooftop of the place in Monaco, we were talking about good and evil and Einstein and all that stuff?”

Nod.

“Well, you’re going to have to take my word for it that it turns out your boss, Ms. Karlsson, is one of the bad guys. You’ve probably noticed something rather large being airlifted out of here several times in the last few weeks.”

A hesitation. Then a nod.

“That was a laser beam, made by a very rare substance called promethium. She kidnapped a scientist and forced him to make it for her, then used it to shoot down those airplanes you’ve probably heard about.”

She spoke into his hand. It was too muffled for Storm to make out. Storm lifted his hand so she could repeat herself. “Say that again?” he said.

“I said, ‘That was Ingrid?’”

“Yes, I’m afraid it was.”

“But that’s not…all she ever talks about is how humankind ought to live peacefully.”

“And she’s willing to use force to make it happen, strange as that sounds. She thinks what she’s doing is right for humanity, whether humanity wants it or not. I have no doubt she feels justified in her actions.”

“But how do you know Ingrid is behind this?”

“Because I found the man who sold her the promethium. And it turned out the person I’m working for knew it all along. Brigitte Bildt was coming to the United States to warn my government about Ingrid. She just never got there. The Karlsson Logistics plane was one of the first ones shot down.”

“She did that to Brigitte on purpose?”

“Yes.”

She hitched the towel up under her arms. He felt her body relaxing in his grip. “I’m sorry, I just…I mean, part of me wants to say that it’s not possible, that Ingrid would never do that — especially not to Brigitte of all people. But…I mean, I’ve heard some things I wasn’t supposed to hear. Just little pieces. I kept telling myself it wasn’t possible, that I must have just misheard or misunderstood.”

“What have you heard?”

“Enough,” is all she said.

“Enough that you know it’s true.”

She nodded. “So what do you want with me?”

He released her. She turned around.

“I need your help,” he said. “I need you to be one of the good guys.”

AS TILDA GOT DRESSED, Storm averted his eyes and explained the rest of what she needed to know. They agreed they would free William McRae first, then confront Ingrid Karlsson.

Eight minutes later, they were heading for the door of her stateroom when she stopped him.

“Wait. Your clothes.”

“What about them?”

“If anyone sees you on camera, they’ll know you don’t belong here. I can improve on them.”

She went quickly to her closet and emerged with white pants and a blue shirt — the preferred regalia of the Warrior Princess . They were clearly not her size. They were made for a man even larger than Storm.

“A little big for you, aren’t they?” Storm asked.

“A, uh, friend of mine left these here.”

Storm eyed them then cracked a smile. “Must be a good friend.”

“More like a convenient friend. It gets lonely in the middle of the ocean.”