Richard Castle - Wild Storm

Second, the bullet fired by Nelsson struck Storm. Nelsson had been aiming for center mass and his targeting was true. The bullet hit Storm’s vest just below the sternum, knocking the wind out of him and throwing him on his backside.

But, in some ways, it was the best thing that could have happened. Because it meant Nelsson’s three succeeding bullets missed high.

Storm could hear Nelsson bellowing over the clamor from the hurricane. He had brought his hand to his eyes and was furiously swiping at his face, like he could somehow clear away the effects from the laser.

When he finally figured out he couldn’t, he brought the gun back up and began firing it wildly down the deck, in the general area of where Storm had once been.

Storm had let go of the laser, ripped off the glasses and hunkered down as flat as he could against the floor. His chest felt like it had a fire spreading in it and breath was still not coming easily to him. As he began crawling forward — so he was no longer in the last spot where Nelsson had seen him — he was struggling to grab gulps of air.

Nelsson was coming down the deck toward him, in part because that was the direction the wind was taking him. Storm could tell from the way he was walking there that the man was sightless. But he was still dangerous. He was swinging the gun around and firing it sporadically.

Then suddenly he wasn’t firing. He was reaching into his pants, as if going for another clip. That’s when Storm sprung up and bull-rushed him. Storm was not eager to physically confront a man who outweighed him by at least eighty pounds. But it was either that or take his chances with fifteen more eight-gram bullets, which were capable of far greater damage.

Storm charged ahead, his speed slowed by the force of the wind. At the last moment, Nelsson seemed to become aware he was about to get tackled. He brought his hands up to defend himself, but Storm barreled into his midsection, driving Nelsson onto his back. The Beretta went flying from his hands.

Whatever thought Storm had about getting up and chasing after the gun didn’t last long. Nelsson had grabbed him and wasn’t letting go. Ingrid Karlsson’s chief of security had already figured out the essence of this confrontation: a blind man is at a significant disadvantage in hand-to-hand fighting once he’s no longer touching his opponent. But as long as he keeps contact, it’s a fairly even fight. There’s a reason blind high school wrestlers have won state titles.

Nelsson reached for Storm’s face, or where he thought Storm’s face would be. His fingers were trying to claw and gouge anything they could touch. Storm landed a punch, but it was one without much force behind it. They were too close. And yet there was no escaping. There were not many men large enough or strong enough to keep hold of Derrick Storm. But this was one of them.

Storm tried pulling away again. It was like trying to break free from an enraged octopus. He kept having to defend his face from Nelsson’s savage attacks, while trying to mount his own meager offense. He got in a few more punches, none of them very convincing.

He was so distracted by his inability to hurt Nelsson that he hadn’t fully braced himself for what came next. In one deft move, Nelsson flipped Storm over and got his hands on Storm’s throat. The enormous Swede wrapped his fingers around Storm’s neck and was squeezing, his forearms bulging.

They were now turned sideways on the narrow deck. Storm reached toward Nelsson’s sightless eyes and scratched at them. But Nelsson didn’t seem to care. He had already lost that sense.

Suddenly, Storm was losing his. Nelsson was bringing his immense weight to bear on Storm’s neck and it was staunching the blood flow to his brain. Blackness was closing in around the edges of his vision. His brain was starving for oxygen.

With every joule of energy he had left, Storm gathered his legs against Nelsson’s chest and then straightened them. It was a classic weight lifting move; for as strong as his opponent was, Storm’s squat thrust was far more powerful than Nelsson’s grip.

The huge man was propelled upward, toward the railing, which was marginally shorter than Storm’s fully extended legs. Nelsson blindly grasped for something, anything to keep him from going over — Storm’s feet, the railing, whatever. But without his eyes to guide his hands, he only succeeded in flailing at the air.

He caught briefly on the side, but his momentum kept carrying him over. Storm hopped up, raced over to the railing, and peered over. The last thing he saw of the erstwhile Alpha, Laird Nelsson, was a patch of blond hair going under a huge wave far below.

AFTER A BRIEF SWEEP OF THE DECK, Storm located the gun the chief of security had dropped.

Storm ejected the clip and gave it a hopeful inspection. It was, alas, empty.

The only thing Storm had to his advantage was that he was the only one who knew it. He stashed the gun in his waistband and continued on toward Ingrid’s quarters.

Storm took his final turn, then went inside, grateful to get out of the elements. His chest was aching and his larynx felt like someone had put it in a vise and turned the screws.

He paused to gather himself for a moment in the sitting room, the one that had Prince George of Denmark — and his bouffant of Jersey-girl hair — keeping silent guard. He thought of Brigitte and her fondness for the painting.

“Not so easy to be married to the queen after all, is it big guy?” Storm asked.

George offered no opinion on the subject, which is what had made him a good husband in the first place.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Storm said, then went for the double doors that led to Ingrid’s inner sanctum. They opened easily.

There was no one there, at least no one Storm could see. He recognized the room. It was Ingrid’s office, the one he and millions of others had first seen on a YouTube video, with its antique rug, its mahogany desk, and all the other near-priceless baubles arranged around it.

Through another set of double doors, from the next room, Ingrid spoke a sentence or two of testy Swedish. She started with the name Laird. Then Storm heard his own name and the word mörda again.

He could guess at the translation: Laird, are you back so soon? Have you killed Derrick Storm already?

“I’m sorry, Laird isn’t here right now,” Storm said. “He decided to take a swim. But, actually, it looked like he doesn’t do that very well. So I guess I should say Laird decided to take a sink.”

There was no reply. Storm crept cautiously farther into the room. He drew the Beretta, even though it was little more than a stage prop.

Tilda had said that Ingrid abhorred guns, but Tilda had proven to be a less-than-reliable narrator. Storm fully expected that Ingrid had a cannon waiting for him in the next room.

Or maybe she didn’t. But, in this case, Storm decided there was little danger to being wrong about assuming Ingrid was armed. At most, it would just slow him down a little. The alternative — assuming she was unarmed and being wrong — was far worse.

He reached the double doors and listened for movement. There was none. He allowed himself a quick glimpse around the edge, then withdrew. It was definitely Ingrid Karlsson’s bedroom. The dominant feature was a large canopy bed. There were also antique bureaus and wardrobes, ornate mirrors, marble statuary, and a thousand other details that Storm hadn’t been able to register in that one brief glance.

The only thing missing was Ingrid. She was obviously hiding, planning to ambush him somewhere — from a closet, from the bathroom, from behind any one of those pieces of furniture.

Storm could afford to be patient, but only to a point. He knew Jones’s teams. Middle-of-the-night and predawn raids were their specialty. Two o’clock in the morning. Three o’clock. Those were their preferred hours of operation.