Richard Castle - Wild Storm

She tossed him the clothes. Storm ducked into the bathroom, shucked off his black clothes, and donned the Karlsson colors. His new outfit fairly swam on him. Especially the pants. He cinched the belt to keep them from slipping off his hips, then he bent over to roll up the hem.

“I could always use another friend, you know,” she said from the other room. “Especially one who dances and kisses well.”

“Have you ever been to Seychelles?” Storm asked.

“No.”

“We’ll have to fix that,” Storm said.

He emerged back into the bedroom to see Tilda gripping his Sig Sauer by the muzzle, having retrieved it from the dry bag. She had retreated to the far side of the stateroom, by the door.

“What’s this?” she said, with measured disrespect. She was holding it like it was the most offensive refuse imaginable.

“Well, it’s a gun, darling,” Storm said.

“I can see that. Do you really need it?”

“Unless I can surprise everyone else on this boat while they’re in the shower? Yes.”

She was shaking her head. “You’re with me now. You’re not shooting up everyone on board this boat. They’re good people. I’ll tell them you’re on the side of the angels. They’ll listen to me, especially if they see you’re not armed. No one needs to get hurt.”

Storm paused, thought about his alternatives. He had assumed he would need to take the boat by coercion, that Tilda could be converted but that the rest of Ingrid’s employees would be loyal to their boss. He felt naked without a gun. But Tilda had a point. Winning the people’s hearts and minds might be easier than shooting them. It was certainly more humane.

“The man who owns those pants is named Laird Nelsson. He’s the chief of security. He’ll do what I tell him,” Tilda continued. “The people on board this boat are my friends. I can’t put them in danger. If you want my help, no gun.”

“Well, it’s hard not to like a guy named Laird,” Storm said. “But what about Ingrid? I’ve got many admirable qualities. Being bulletproof isn’t one of them. This vest is nice, but if she starts shooting at me, I want to be able to shoot back.”

“She abhors guns. I think if she could reverse one human invention — other than the nation-state — it would be gunpowder. She had to be talked into even letting her security force have them. And even then it took Barbary pirates running amok in the Mediterranean to convince her.”

“I’d still feel more comfortable with a firearm.”

Tilda’s answer was to quickly open the door and fling the gun out, end over end, boomerang style. Except, unlike a boomerang, this weapon wasn’t coming back. Storm watched it arc over the side of the boat.

“And I feel more comfortable without one,” she said.

“I wish you hadn’t done that.”

She crossed the room, raised herself on her tiptoes and planted a hard kiss on his lips. “Well, it’s done now. Come on, let’s go.”

Storm sighed and followed. They went around to the boat’s portside and a covered corridor that had nevertheless become very slick from the torrential wind-driven rain. The footing was treacherous and every once in a while they had to stop and simply hang on as the Warrior Princess crested a particularly large wave.

She reached a door with a small window set into it, opened it, and turned down a narrow staircase that led below deck. At the bottom, she opened another door, which led to a hallway. Storm continued following. Unlike the rest of the ship, with its lavish decorations, this part of the boat was spare. Crew’s quarters, Storm guessed.

Tilda reached one of the doors and tried the handle. It was locked. She knocked, rapping the door several times until it could be heard over the wind. “Laird, it’s me,” she said.

As she waited for a response, she turned toward Storm and asked, “Do you speak Swedish?”

“Enough to order in a restaurant, maybe,” he said. “But not much more than that.”

“Then you better let me do the talking. Laird speaks fine English, but it’ll be faster in Swedish.”

Finally, the door opened. Storm found himself looking at collarbones. Laird Nelsson was an immense man, at least a half a head taller than Storm, with blond hair, blue eyes, and bulk everywhere Storm looked.

Tilda herded Storm into the room and began talking in rapid Swedish, too rapid for Storm to follow — other than the names. He heard “Ingrid,” “Brigitte,” and his own name. Laird was in off-duty clothing and kept nodding as Tilda spoke. Storm felt like it was going well. Every once in a while, Laird’s eyes would shift to Storm, who tried to look friendly.

When Tilda finished, Laird nodded one final time. “One moment please,” he said, in English, as he reached into his nightstand.

He came up with a Beretta, which looked small in his bearlike paws. He pointed the weapon at Storm.

“Hands up,” Laird said. “Come on.”

Storm experienced a sinking feeling in his stomach as he slowly raised his hands.

“Ingrid Karlsson is a visionary in a way a mercenary like you could never understand,” Tilda spat at him. “Don’t you see? Someday, we’ll all be citizens of the world. Ingrid is leading us there.”

“And the people who don’t want to walk her path get sent to their graves, is that it?”

Tilda ignored him and turned to Laird. “He doesn’t have a gun. I saw to that. But he does have a knife. I saw an ankle sheath bulging from his calf.”

“Very well. You will now remove your knife and set it on the bureau there,” Laird ordered. “Do it slowly, please.”

Storm complied. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Tilda smiling savagely.

ABOARD THE WARRIOR PRINCESS

While Derrick Storm didn’t know much Swedish, he did know the word mörda. It’s a verb. Its English translation is “to kill.”

Storm heard mörda at least four times as Tilda and Laird debated what they were going to do with their new captive.

Eventually they decided to wait, for reasons Storm could not quite determine. Perhaps they wanted to let the empress, Ingrid Karlsson, give the ultimate thumbs-up/thumbs-down on his fate. Maybe Storm was to be used as a bargaining chip of some sort. Or maybe they just wanted to wait until the hurricane passed so they could dump his body without worrying about it being blown to land.

Whatever it was, Storm was soon led to the only room aboard the Warrior Princess that was designed to contain prisoners. It was the one just down the hall from Laird and the other guards, the one where Dr. William McRae had been kept for a month now.

Storm walked there with his hands still up and Laird pointing the Beretta at his back. Tilda inserted the key and opened the door.

“Get in there,” Laird said.

Storm did as he was told. The door immediately clicked behind him.

Lying on top of the covers was a man of about seventy. He was trim, with a small amount of gray hair that looked like it was overdue for a buzz cut. He was reading a book by the late, great master of medical thrillers, Michael Palmer.

As Storm let his hands drop to his side, the man asked, “Who are you?”

“Hello, Dr. McRae. My name is Derrick Storm. I’m here to rescue you.”

“You’re the man Alida mentioned,” he said, brightly. Then he considered Storm for another second. “Although, to be honest, she made it seem like you would be a little better at this whole rescue thing.”

“I admit, this is not among my finest efforts so far. But this is just a temporary setback. We’ll get you out of here somehow.”

“Mr. Storm, I don’t want to discourage you, but I’m not sure it’s possible.”