A Bloody Storm: A Derrick Storm Short (11 page)

Showers spun around in the front passenger seat, so that her back was now pressed against the dash, and lifted her left hand so she could fire through the busted rear window. She emptied the rest of the magazine, causing the attacking vehicle to pull back.

“I must’ve hit one of them,” she declared. “Give me a new clip.”

“I don’t have any. They took them? Remember? Getting frisked?”

“Time to get creative,” she said, climbing between the bucket seats into the SUV’s rear compartment.

“Anything there?” Storm asked as she rummaged through the back. “An AK-47, rocket launcher, cannon, bombs? Peanut butter sandwich?”

“Actually, there’s only this,” she said. She lifted a bag of crème cookies.

Storm glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Showers throwing them one at a time with her left hand at the approaching SUV. Several exploded onto the windshield.

“You’ve got to drive faster,” Showers yelled.

“I hate backseat drivers,” he replied.

She slipped into the front passenger’s seat and said, “Drive faster.”

“Look at this road,” he complained.

They were racing down a one-lane gravel path that had steep drop-offs on its one side. One wrong turn and they would plunge off a cliff.

“Well, he’s going faster,” she said.

“I’m still in front, aren’t I?” Storm said, checking his mirror.

“At least he’s not shooting now,” she said. “I must have wounded him.”

“With a cookie?”

“No, the Glock.”

“Maybe they’re out of bullets.”

Just then the Russian fired another round at them.

“Obviously, they brought along extra ammo,” she said.

Storm swerved, and the wheels of the SUV sent gravel flying from the roadway’s edge. Showers pressed her left hand against the Range Rover’s ceiling to brace herself as he turned quickly around another curve.

Despite Storm’s driving, the vehicle behind them was gaining ground. Within a few seconds, they were so close that Showers could see the Russian’s eyes as he aimed his machine gun at them. At this distance, he wouldn’t miss.

“This is not how I planned to die,” Showers said.

“A white picket fence,” Storm said, swerving, “a rocking chair, grandkids running around while you sipped lemonade. Was that your plan?”

“No, but it certainly wasn’t dying on a Uzbekistan mountain next to someone whose real name I don’t even know.”

“Planning your own death is overrated,” Storm said. “Trust me. I’ve done it.”

Showers braced herself for what she thought would be her last breath as Storm swerved again and waited for the inevitable.

Just as the Russian was about to fire, the SUV that he was riding in turned into a giant fireball. The explosion lifted the vehicle from the roadway and completely engulfed it in flames. It crashed down and bounced off the cliff, tumbling down the mountainside in flames.

“What was in those cookies?” Storm asked. He jammed on his brakes, causing the vehicle to spin to a stop.

“What the hell just happened?” Showers asked.

“Quiet!” Storm said. He turned off the engine.

Through the SUV’s shattered windows, they heard a whirling noise hovering above them in the darkness.

“Jedidiah Jones!” Storm said. “He sent a predator.” He glanced at Showers and started to explain, “You know, an unmanned radio controlled military drone—”

“I know what a predator is,” she snapped. “What I don’t know is how Jones knew we were being chased down the side of a Uzbekistan mountain by Russians.”

Storm lifted up his wrist so she could see his watch.

“I guess no one in the FBI has one of these,” he said proudly. “It’s a tracking device. When Dilya pulled a gun on me in the cave, I turned it on and it sent Langley a signal telling Jones that we were in trouble. This watch tells Jones exactly where I am at any time and in any place in the world.”

“Glad someone is keeping track of you,” she replied.

By the time they reached the bottom of the mountain, the morning sun was rising, and on the horizon they saw a Bell 206 helicopter flying low across the plains toward them. Storm turned off the road as the four-seat chopper landed. Within minutes, they were flying toward Kazakhstan, leaving the bullet-ridden SUV and the bodies of Casper, Oscar, Dilya, the Viper, his men, and six dead Russians behind them.

As they rode in silence in the chopper, Showers suddenly reached over with her left hand.

“Here. A present.”

Storm looked at her opened palm.

It was one of the cookies from the SUV. It had fallen into her sling when she was heaving the others through the window.

They separated as soon as the CIA-contracted charter flight delivered them to the U.S. garrison in Wiesbaden, Germany. Showers was admitted to the hospital so doctors could repair her damaged collarbone, while Storm was given time to bathe and eat, but then was put on a flight back to Andrews Air Force Base. A car was waiting to take him to Langley.

Jones was leaning back in his squeaky desk chair when Storm entered his office and sat in the all-too-familiar chair across from the CIA spymaster.

“We didn’t find any gold,” Storm said. “No sixty billion in kilobars owned by the Communist Party. Petrov must have given Lebedev the wrong coordinates.”

Jones leaned forward and said, “Is that what you think?”

Storm paused and then said, “You intentionally entered the wrong coordinates into our GPS in Uzbekistan. You sent us on a wild goose chase.”

“For more than twenty years, that gold has been hidden in the Molguzar Mountains and no one has been able to find it,” said Jones. “Why disturb it now? Especially since I know where it is and we can keep an eye on it with one of our birds.”

Removing sixty billion in gold from a Uzbekistan cave would be a major operation that would not go unnoticed. There would be angry denouncements from Russia and Uzbekistan. The White House would have a major political problem on its hands—especially since Russian president Barkovsky remained in power.

“If you didn’t expect us to find the gold,” Storm said. “Why did you send us to Uzbekistan?”

“I thought you would have figured that out by now,” Jones said.

Storm had, but for once he wanted to hear it from Jones. This time, he was the one playing dumb in their cat-and-mouse game.

“Tangiers,” said Jones. “After it, I knew we had a leak. There were only four possibilities. Oscar, Casper, Dilya, and—you.”

“You suspected me?”

“It’s my job to suspect everyone. What did we really know about you as a person? Clara Strike recruited you because you were a skilled private eye. After Tangiers, I thought maybe the other side had gotten to you, corrupted you. You decided you wanted out. I was suspicious, but your death also gave me an idea. I decided to retire Oscar, Dilya, and Casper, too.”

“Tangiers,” Storm said.

Jones nodded. “When I learned where the gold was hidden, I decided fate had given me an opportunity, a chance to catch a traitor. I knew the mole would contact the Russians. Sixty billion was too big of a prize. And that is exactly what Oscar did.”

“What about Dilya?”

“That’s an irony, isn’t it?” said Jones. “You throw out a net and who knows what you catch? Oscar told the Russians about Tangiers. Dilya tipped off the Viper.”

“Twice betrayed,” said Storm. “What kind of spying operation are you running when two of your recruits are secretly working for the other side?”

Jones shrugged. “Good traitors are hard to find.”

“Why did you suspect Casper?” Storm asked.

“Casper had a habit of getting drunk and bragging. I thought maybe he had inadvertently talked to the wrong people.”

“Casper got killed and we nearly did.”

“But you didn’t, did you?” Jones said. “Before you begin feeling sorry for yourself, remember you came back to work for me because you knew someone had betrayed you in Tangiers. You wanted revenge. And I couldn’t afford another Tangiers. It was a price I was willing to pay.”

“Casper might feel otherwise.”

“In a strange way,” Jones said, “fate brought us full circle from Tangiers. We learned that Dilya and Oscar were traitors. We missed the Viper in Tangiers, but his body was found dead on the mountain. The Vympel soldiers apparently cut his throat. You and Casper were cleared, and we now know where the Russian gold is hidden. It’s a win-win-win in my book. The only question that remains is this: Are you done? Are you going to disappear back in Wyoming?”

“Montana,” Storm said.

“No matter. Are you going to go back off the grid or are you going to do what you do best?”

Storm rose from his chair. “Right now, I’m going to take some time off.”

“Take as long as you want,” Jones said, opening his desk and removing an envelope. “This will help.” He slid over the package and Storm picked it up, knowing that it contained hundred-dollar bills.

Storm removed the wristwatch that Jones had given him and put it on his desk. “I won’t be needing this.”

Jones said, “I’ll keep it for next time. There’s a rental car parked outside.” He handed Storm a set of keys.

“Is it bugged?” Storm asked.

“You figure it out.” He stood and extended his hand.

As the two men shook, Jones said, “Agent Showers will be flying in tomorrow. I understand she will be placed on a mandatory one-month medical leave of absence. She’ll have time on her hands, just like you.”

Storm found the rental parked outside. Jones had splurged. It was a cherry red Corvette ZR1, a $110,000-plus convertible with a 638 horsepower, supercharged V-8, the fastest production car ever made by General Motors. It was not the type of car that passed unnoticed—the suburban-friendly vehicles that Jones insisted that his operatives drive.

Storm fired up its engine and enjoyed the loud muffler growl as he exited the CIA en route to the George Washington Parkway. His private cell phone rang.

“Hello?”

It was Showers calling from Germany.

“I need a lift from the airport tomorrow?” she asked.

“I’ll check my schedule,” he said.

“I’m expecting more than a ride?”

“Like what?”

“Dinner.”

“No cookies in Germany?”

“Just be on time.” She hung up.

He turned into one of the scenic overlooks on the parkway and look down at the Potomac River. He searched his cell phone until he found what he wanted. When he had been in London in the parking garage, he’d sent Jedidiah Jones the coordinates for the gold. He’d also sent a backup copy to his own private phone.

Jedidiah Jones was not the only one who knew where the sixty billion in bullion was stashed.

His phone rang again.

“Listen,” Showers said in a serious voice, “I really do want you to show up tomorrow at the airport. I’ll pay for dinner if you want. Just don’t go AWOL on me.”

“The last time we met, you stuck me with the bill,” he said.

“Trust me, it will be worth your while. See you tomorrow, and don’t worry, you’re not my boyfriend.”

“And you’re not my girlfriend,” he said. “But I have a question. You got some time off coming, right?”

“They’re forcing me to take a month off.”

“I’m thinking about going on a trip.”

“Where in the world are you going now?”

“Mountain climbing.”

The End

Richard Castle is the author of numerous bestsellers, including
Heat Wave
,
Naked Heat
,
Heat Rises
, and the critically acclaimed Derrick Storm series. Castle currently lives in Manhattan with his daughter and mother, both of whom infuse his life with humor and inspiration.

Heat Wave

Naked Heat

Heat Rises

A Brewing Storm
(eBook)

A Raging Storm
(eBook)

COMING SOON

Frozen Heat