Richard Castle - Wild Storm

“Really? Why?”

McRae set down the book and sat up. “Because I’ve been in here for a month now and only managed to get out once. And it hasn’t been for lack of effort. The one time I got out was only because a guard slipped up and left the door open. That’s when I called Alida. But the other guards tracked me down pretty quickly. They’ve got cameras everywhere, including in this room. And I don’t know if you noticed, but that door you just came through doesn’t have a handle on the inside. That’s just one of the details that makes the room escape proof. I’ve spent a month trying to figure out something and you’ll notice I’m still here.”

Storm nodded thoughtfully. “Are you familiar with Enrico Fermi, Dr. McRae?”

“Of course I am. What does he matter?”

“Well, he was one of the leading practical physicists of his time, as you know. Good enough that he won the Nobel Prize in 1938. We’re talking about a supersmart guy. And yet when he joined the Manhattan Project, people told him his method of creating an atomic bomb was impossible, because you couldn’t get the neutrons that resulted from the splitting of one atom to then split other atoms. And if you couldn’t do that, there was no way the bomb would work. Fermi kept trying and failing, but with each so-called ‘failure,’ he was really getting closer to the solution. Fast-forward to 1942, and Enrico Fermi was the man who directed the first controlled nuclear chain reaction. How? Because he kept his belief in himself and didn’t let past failure deter him. The point is, if you work hard enough, nothing is impossible.”

“That’s a lovely speech, Mr. Storm, but—”

“Also, I’ve got C-4 strapped to my leg.”

“Oh. Why didn’t you start with that?”

“Because I wanted to give the speech first, so you’d be impressed with my knowledge of physics.”

McRae smiled. “I should have known Alida was right about you. The last time she was wrong about something was 1978, and she swore it wasn’t going to happen again.”

“She’s one of a kind all right,” Storm said. “Now let’s get out of here.”

Storm began surveying the room, assessing it in a clinical manner, going low to high, then high to low. The walls and ceilings were brushed steel, riveted into what were likely girders. He tapped it here and there. It felt thick. Certainly thicker than standard Sheetrock walls.

He pulled up a corner of the carpet to reveal a metallic subfloor. Then he went into the bathroom and gave it the same kind of inspection. The place really was designed to be a cell.

When he returned to the bedroom, he said, “You said there are cameras in here. What about the bathroom?”

“No. None.”

“Excellent. And, tell me, you must have a laboratory or workshop where you’ve been putting the lasers together.”

“Yes.”

“Where is it?”

“Just down the hall and across the way.”

“Are there cameras in there?”

“Not that I’m aware of. They always had a man in there with me, to make sure I wasn’t sabotaging any of the equipment or doing anything else they wouldn’t like.”

“Perfect. In that case, I think you’re getting a little seasick, Dr. McRae.”

“Actually I feel fine.”

“No, trust me, you’re looking quite peaked.”

“My stomach is iron, I never get motion—”

“The guards answer when you press this button, yes?” Storm said, walking over to the intercom.

“Yes, that’s right.”

Storm hit the button, waited. A voice came promptly to the line. “Yes?”

“Dr. McRae is feeling seasick. He says he’s about to lose it. Is there any Dramamine aboard?”

“We’ll be right there,” the voice said.

Storm turned so his back was to the camera he had spied in the near corner. “When they come in, I expect seasickness. I’m talking Academy Award-worthy, you’ve-just-watched-Kevin-Costner-in- Waterworld seasickness. And it had better end with your head in a toilet, making a really nasty retching sound.”

FIVE MINUTES LATER, the door opened. There were two of them: Laird, who had the Beretta drawn, and one of the underlings, the one McRae called Delta.

McRae had closed his eyes and was on the bed, moaning.

“He’s suffering,” said Storm, summoning his inner Clara Barton. “How long until this storm blows through?”

“The worst of it has already passed,” Laird said. “It’s still going to be bad for a few more hours, but the marine forecast says the seas should be down below twenty feet by morning. That won’t budge this boat much.”

“Uhhhhh. I’m not gonna make it,” McRae moaned and launched himself into the bathroom, where he began making heaving noises.

Laird and Delta looked appropriately grossed out. “Just toss the medicine on the bed,” Storm said. “I’ll make sure he’s okay. Sometimes you just need to get it out of your system. Did he have a big dinner?”

“Two helpings,” Laird said. “Spaghetti and meatballs.”

“Eww. That is not going to look good coming back up. All right. This might be a while. I’ll hit the intercom if we need anything.”

McRae chose that moment — a brief lull in conversation — to begin a new fake assault on the toilet. Delta tossed the Dramamine on the bed then joined Laird in full retreat.

Storm went straight for the bathroom, where McRae was already reaching for the toilet handle to flush away the vomit that didn’t exist. Storm waited a moment, then returned to the bedroom to grab the medicine.

By then, the door had closed. Laird and Delta were gone. To anyone watching on the camera — if anyone even was — it would look like Storm had simply forgotten the Dramamine and now, having retrieved it, returned to the bathroom to continue his ministrations.

Instead, he shut the bathroom door, then stood up on the sink and lowered his pants. He un-taped the C-4 and studied it for a moment.

“Have you ever worked with explosives?” he asked McRae, who had stopped with the dramatics and was watching Storm.

“Not really. Why?”

“I’m just wondering how much of this stuff to use. I don’t really know the thickness of this ceiling. I want to make sure I use enough to get through it, but I need to save some for later.”

“I suggest a SWAG.”

“SWAG?”

“Yeah,” McRae said. “It stands for Scientific Wild-Ass Guess.”

Storm shrugged, broke off half his hunk of the C-4. He freed several of the blasting caps from where they were taped on his other leg, and then took hold of the wireless detonator. He molded the plastic explosive halfway between rivet lines, figuring there would be a hollow space behind it.

He fixed the blasting caps into the plastic, then climbed down off the sink. He opened the door to the shower, which was similar to the one in Tilda’s bathroom.

“In you go,” Storm said to McRae. “This is as close as we’re going to get to a bomb shelter.”

“Some blast door,” McRae said, tapping the opaque plastic on his way in. “Is this how Enrico Fermi did it?”

“No. But I’m told Robert Oppenheimer did his best thinking in the shower. So we’re probably on to something.”

Storm closed the door behind McRae. “You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

“Wait, don’t forget your high-tech ear protection,” Storm said, sticking his fingers in his ear canals. McRae followed suit.

Storm set the wireless detonator on a built-in ledge that was supposed to serve as a soap dish.

“Three, two, one,” Storm mouthed, then hit the two buttons he needed to depress on the detonator with his pinkies.

There was a whump , followed by the sound of pieces of metal crashing against other pieces of metal. It was loud, but nothing compared to the eighty-plus-mile-per-hour winds still raging outside.