Richard Castle - A Brewing Storm

Current Day

Silver Creek, Montana

He could feel it coming long before he heard it, descending like a sudden chill that swept through his bones, causing every muscle to tighten. It was a primal response, sharpened by years of experience. This, he thought, must be how dogs feel in those quiet moments before the earthquake hits, when they alone know the devastation of what’s coming. When they alone know that everything is about to change.

For a split second, he considered tactical evasion, but out here among the pines and Rocky Mountain junipers, he knew it was a fool’s errand. How far could he get? Maybe to the shore of the river before they arrived, maybe to the tree line, if he was lucky. And then what? He was easily fifty miles from the nearest town, equipped only with what could fit in his backpack.

But what did it matter? They’d already found him. And if they’d found him, that meant they knew.

He looked over the rolling water of the mountain stream. How long did he have? A minute? Maybe two? Scratching at the worn military cap covering his dark brown hair, his eyes fell on a rainbow trout swimming lazily near the surface, eyeballing the red-and-black fake bug dancing on the stream’s surface. He’d spent the past hour luring the trout from the shadows. Maybe he had time enough for that. After all, if there was anything he hated, it was unfinished business.

“Come on. Come to papa,” the man whispered. The trout, hypnotized by the hand-tied fly, drew closer.

But just as the fish was ready to strike, the water began to churn and rise upward around him, accompanied by a growing apocalyptic roar.

It was too late. They had arrived.

High above him the churning blades of the monstrous machine eclipsed the sun before sweeping over the tree line and coming to an imposing hover just above him. Droplets of water spattered onto the pepper-like stubble on his chin.

The sound of a Bell UH-1Y Venom helicopter is something that no soldier who has heard it ever forgets. It is what a man hears going into battle and what he hears when he is done fighting — if he is still alive.

The pilot landed in a clearing next to the stream and a twenty-something kid wearing an off-the-rack suit jumped from it, the blades of the aircraft still cutting though the clear air.

“Derrick Storm?” he called. “Is that you?”

The fisherman glanced at the kid with disdain.

“Never heard of him,” he growled.

Unsure what to do next, the young courier looked over his shoulder at the helicopter. A side door slid open and an older, pudgy man stepped to the wet ground. He slowly made his way to the creek’s edge, cupped his hands around his lips, and yelled: “Jedidiah sent me.”

“Don’t know him.”

“He said you’d say that.” The speaker hollered, “Jedidiah says he’s calling in Tangiers .”

Tangiers. Tangiers had been bad. Even after all of these years, whenever the fisherman thought of Tangiers, he could still feel the cold linoleum pressed against his cheek, sticky and wet with his own blood. He could still see the mangled bodies and hear the unanswered cries for help. If it weren’t for Jedidiah…

Reeling in his line, the man started toward the creek bank. He did not talk to the two strangers waiting there. He gathered up his gear and boarded the helicopter.

Tangiers. It was a hell of an IOU to call in. Jedidiah knew how difficult it had been for him to disappear. To go off-the-grid. To die, at least to be dead to a world that he had once known. A world that had tried to kill him, not once, but many, many times. Jedidiah understood why it had been important for him to no longer exist. And now Jedidiah was calling him back, dragging him back, to what he had worked so hard to free himself from.

Now inside the chopper, the man looked outside at the creek, the meadow, the blue sky. He was leaving it all.

“Let’s go,” the fisherman told them.

“Then you are Derrick Storm!” the younger man gushed. “You aren’t dead like everyone said.”

The older envoy gave the pilot a thumbs-up and the helicopter lifted from the ground.

“What’s it been, Storm?” the older man asked. “How many years have you been dead?”

It had been nearly four. Four years of solitude. Of peace. Of self-assessment. Of reevaluation and reflection. Jedidiah knew Storm better than any man alive. And he had known that he would come back if the trump card was played. Jedidiah had played it. Tangiers. Derrick Storm always paid his debts.

Even in death.

Ablack stretch limousine was idling near the tarmac at Joint Base Andrews in Maryland when the air force C-21A Learjet carrying Derrick Storm landed. Now clean-shaven, dressed in a tailored Caraceni suit and black Testoni shoes, Storm walked directly from the jet to the car’s rear passenger door. An officer from the Central Intelligence Agency’s internal police force, called the Security Protective Service (SPS), opened the door for him.

Sliding into the back leather seat, Storm found himself sitting across from Jedidiah Jones, the director of the agency’s National Clandestine Service — a fancy name for the CIA division that recruited spies and did the nation’s dirtiest jobs overseas.

Jones inspected Storm over half-glasses perched on a nose that had been broken so many times that it had been impossible for surgeons to fully repair. Although Jones was old enough to be Storm’s father, the NCS director was military-fit, built like a pit bull, with a shaved head and a raspy voice that sounded angry even when he was paying a compliment, which was rare.

“You look a hell of a lot better than the last time I saw you,” Jones said.

“It would be difficult to look worse,” Storm replied, as the limo began making its way into Washington, D.C., along a route that was all too familiar to Storm.

Jones grunted. “Tangiers was a bitch. Didn’t work out the way we planned. Shit happens. Anyway, I’m glad you’re back.”

“I’m not.”

“I don’t believe that, Storm,” Jones said. “A guy like you needs the adrenaline rush. A guy like you thrives on the danger. You weren’t really happy in Montana. Deep down, you know it. And so do I. You knew this day would come.”

“You’re wrong. I was at peace.”

“Bullshit, you’re lying to yourself!”

“Look, I’m here,” Storm said. “But when I’ve done whatever you want this time, I’m going back. I’m done. We’re even.”

Jones took a fat cigar from his coat jacket, nipped off its end, looked at it lovingly, and fired it up.

“What about Clara Strike?” he asked. “You saying she doesn’t matter to you anymore?”

Concealing his emotions had always been something Storm did well. It was a necessity in his line of work. He would not give Jones the satisfaction of a reaction now. Or ever. Still, Jones had struck a blow. Storm and Clara had worked together. They’d been perfect partners on assignment — and in bed. She was part of the reason he’d decided to disappear. She was part of the reason he still wished that he were a ghost.

It was an ironic twist. Clara had been declared dead once, too. There was even a death certificate filed in Richmond that verified she had been killed. He’d believed it when Jones had first told him. He’d been crushed. She’d been ripped from his life, and for one of the first times in his memory, he’d grieved. He’d actually felt tremendous and overwhelming loss because of her death.

Then he’d discovered it was a lie. Jones had engineered it. Her death was for the good of the company. For the good of the country. But it had not been for his good. It had taken him a long time to accept that Clara had not died, that she had been somewhere breathing, eating, possibly making love with someone else, while he was grieving. Yet she had not contacted him. She’d let him believe that she had been killed. Why? Being dead seemed to be an occupational hazard when you worked for Jones. It was a professional requirement; only her death had cut him deep.