Richard Castle: A Bloody Storm

Or so they both thought.

Showers was not going to London. The Bureau had instructed Cumerford to drive her to the Royal Air Force base in Lakenheath, where the U.S.’s Forty-eighth Medical Squadron was based. It had flights with medical personnel on board in case she suffered a relapse. The base was seventy miles north of London, which was another plus. By the time reporters realized that they’d been fooled and started the drive to Lakenheath, Showers would be gone.

The bullet had broken Showers’s right collarbone. But it had been shock that had almost done her in. Had she not gotten to the hospital in what doctors called “the golden hour,” she would have died. Her right arm was now in a sling and she was taking pain pills, but she had not suffered any permanent damage, although there would be a nasty scar to remind her of how close she’d come to death.

“I don’t need to fly back on a medical transport,” she complained.

“Washington insisted,” Cumerford said. “You don’t have a choice.”

“Just like I didn’t have a choice about my statement,” she replied.

“Did you know the Good Samaritan called the hospital to check on you?” Cumerford asked.

“What?”

“Steve Mason, or whatever the hell his real name is. He’d been specifically ordered not to risk calling. But apparently he’s not someone who colors inside the lines.”

“No, he doesn’t think much of rules,” she said. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“You were sleeping. Apparently, when they didn’t put his call through to you, he said a few things to the hospital staff that upset their English sensibilities.”

Showers fought the urge to smile.

As they neared the intersection of the A14 and M11 roadways, Cumerford noticed a road sign that had two yellow, bending palm trees emblazoned on it, with a bright red background.

“There’s what the Brits call an extra service area ahead,” he explained. “We can pull in there and get something. Most of these service areas have a food court. That would be a smarter place for us to stop than getting off the main motorway and going into a pub, where you might be recognized.”

“I come to England and end up eating at McDonald’s.”

“The BBC has been showing photos of you almost every hour for the past two days,” he said. “They’re calling it the Oxford Massacre. The Brits aren’t used to gunfights, especially at peaceful college demonstrations.”

To Showers, Cumerford seemed like an okay guy. He’d been a special agent about five years longer than she had and had done a stint in Washington, D.C., before being sent to London. It was a cushy assignment reserved for FBI agents who were rising stars.

“I’d kill for a good cup of coffee” he said. “The Brits may know how to make tea, but they’re lousy at brewing a simple cup of coffee. It’s one thing I miss.”

“My stomach is a bit upset. I’ll just use the bathroom.”

They pulled off the A14, and Cumerford parked near the front of the main service building. It was a modern, one-floor structure with large glass windows. Inside were five fast-food eateries, including a McDonald’s and a Kentucky Fried Chicken, located in a half-circle food court mobbed with customers.

“I’m going to use the head, too, before I get my coffee,” Cumerford said. “I’ll meet you in the food court when you are done. Don’t make me come looking for you.”

He shot her a smile.

The restrooms were to the immediate left of the entrance, about twenty feet from the food court. When Showers walked into the women’s side, there were two girls washing their hands at a row of sinks. She slipped by them into an empty stall and struggled to unbutton her pants with her left hand. She struggled with the button and zipper and silently chuckled. She’d had an easier time fatally shooting a man with her left hand than she had dropping her jeans. As she sat down, she heard the girls at the sink depart. In the quiet, she let out a loud sigh. She was exhausted, but mostly frustrated, because she knew her shoulder injury was going to take her out of the action. She’d accomplished what she’d been sent to England for. She’d solved the double murders in Washington, D.C., that she’d been sent to England to investigate. She would explain to her superiors that Lebedev and Nad had orchestrated the kidnapping of Matthew Dull and the assassination of his stepfather, Senator Thurston Windslow. She didn’t know why Storm and the CIA hadn’t told her about the gold. She wasn’t supposed to know about it. But she’d been drawn into that aspect of the case when Lebedev started torturing Petrov in the back of the Mercedes. She suspected that “Steve Mason” already was scheming with Jedidiah Jones about ways to recover the gold. But she wouldn’t be part of that now. She’d be stuck at a desk tending her wound. She wondered if she would ever see Steve Mason again or if he would simply disappear just as suddenly as he had appeared in her life. Regardless, she was determined to investigate him as soon as she got back in Washington. If his father was a retired FBI agent, there had to be some thread she could follow.

Buttoning her pants proved as difficult left-handed as loosening them. When she finally managed to complete the task, she opened the stall door, pulling it toward her.

From nowhere, a huge figure appeared in front of her. Showers stepped back and reached for her right hip with her left hand. It was where she normally kept her Glock holstered. When her fingers felt nothing but fabric, she realized that Cumerford had not returned her Glock when she was discharged that morning. She had only one useful arm and no weapons.

For a large man, he moved quickly. Showers saw the flash of his hand, felt a jab into her neck, and then a strange warmth just before she passed out. He caught her limp body as she started to collapse.

“You got her?” a nervous woman watching from the doorway to the women’s room asked. She was dressed as a nurse, with a stethoscope dangling from her neck. She had been stopping women from entering the restroom, explaining that a medical emergency was being addressed inside.

“Yes,” the hulking figure replied.

Speaking into a tiny microphone tucked under the sleeve of her blouse, the nurse said, “We’re ready here. Where’s the other American?”

“He just walked out of the men’s room and now is standing in line at McDonald’s,” a male voice replied in her tiny earpiece. “He’s got two customers ahead of him.”

From the interior of the food court, it was impossible for Agent Cumerford to see the entrance to the women’s restroom or a side exit near it that opened into the parking lot.

But Cumerford was not alarmed. Women generally took longer in restrooms than men.

“Let’s go now!” the woman ordered.

The man she’d been speaking to immediately left his post in the food court and walked briskly toward her.

“Medical emergency,” the nurse said, taking the lead. “Stand aside please.”

The gaggle of women patiently waiting at the restroom doorway cleared an opening for the foursome. Within seconds, Showers had been hustled outside and tucked into the rear seat of a sedan with tinted windows.

By the time Cumerford paid for his coffee and collected his change, he was beginning to become suspicious. He scanned the food court, but there was no sight of Showers. He hurried over to the women’s restroom but didn’t want to yell inside for Showers, and he couldn’t walk inside without creating a scene. Cumerford noticed a rest area security guard coming through the front entrance, reporting to work, so he hurried up to him.

“I’m traveling with a female friend who was discharged this morning from a hospital,” he said. “She’s been in the women’s restroom for a long time and I’m worried she might have fainted or is having trouble.”