Heat Storm (Castle)

Had Callan gone rogue or . . .

  Or was he never working for the Shanghai Seven in the first place? Heat flashed back to the look on Callan’s face moments earlier, when she had said something about his long-standing employment with the Shanghai Seven. It had seemed to be genuine confusion, like she had reached a conclusion that was not only unfounded, it was so out of the realm of possibility he had never even considered it until that moment.

  Heat had done enough interrogations in her life to know Callan had been off-balance for that split second, almost like if she had asked a perp who thought he was about to be collared for a murder if he had committed a rape.

  Then he’d recovered in time to snap back with, Who I’m working for is none of your business.

  It wasn’t exactly a denial of Shanghai Seven ties. Yet there was something about it—coupled with the look—that told Heat there was something else going on.

  But if Callan wasn’t with the Shanghai Seven, whose bidding was he doing? Why had he ransacked Heat’s apartment? Why was he looking for the bills? Why was he harassing her as The Serpent? Who had sprung him from prison in the first place?

  Heat looked at the bloody hole where the back of Callan’s head had been and realized she might never know. The secret may have died at the same time Callan hit the floor.

  Meanwhile, Colonel Feng—it was indeed Colonel Feng—had walked toward Callan’s inert form and toed it briefly, even though it was abundantly clear Callan was beyond feeling that or anything else. Then, showing no hesitation or outward distaste over his task, he began patting Callan down and searching his pockets. He skipped what was left of the head—there was clearly no place to hide anything up there anymore—but otherwise gave the body a thorough inspection.

  Then he turned to Heat.

  “Where is the CD?” he said in English.

  CD? Heat thought. Isn’t the Shanghai Seven after the counterfeit bills, like Callan?

  “What CD?” Heat asked, legitimately confused. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Feng sighed, like he was already impatient with the interview. “Captain Heat, I’m talking about the CD that was stolen from a warehouse in Shanghai and is”—he seemed to catch himself before he said too much—“evidence in an ongoing investigation I am conducting.”

  Heat now remembered the compact disc Storm had mentioned in her apartment. He had talked about how it was so effectively encrypted that he hadn’t been able to figure out what was on it.

  “Evidence? Really?” Heat said. “So this is official police business?”

  “Yes, of course,” Feng said, a pinched smile on his thin lips.

  “In that case, you won’t mind if I call NYPD headquarters at One Police Plaza so I can confirm that you’ve registered with them, as all visiting law enforcement—especially foreign law enforcement—is required to do.”

  Heat pulled out her phone. Feng barked an order in Mandarin. The man who ended Callan’s life advanced quickly across the room and knocked Heat’s phone out of her hand.

  “He thinks it’s rude to make a phone call in the middle of a conversation,” Feng said. “And I’m afraid he’s going to insist on your continued politeness until we’re done here. You see, manners are very important in Chinese culture.”

  Feng sneered. His underling’s pistol was casually aimed at Heat’s midsection.

  Heat kept her gaze steady. “You won’t get away with this, Colonel Feng.”

  Her use of his name seemed to startle Feng for a brief moment. But he recovered quickly.

  “I am not interested in your threats. I am interested in the CD. It was taken by a man named Derrick Storm, an American intelligence operative who failed to register himself with my country, making both his theft and his mere presence there illegal.”

  “You’ll have to take that up with the State Department. I’m just a captain with the New York Police Department. I have nothing to do with foreign intelligence.”

  He smiled. “I’m sure. Just as I am merely a colonel in the People’s Armed Police.”

  “I’m telling the truth.”

  “Then why was Derrick Storm in your apartment for several hours on Thursday evening?”

  Heat tried not to show any reaction. How did Feng know where Storm was? Certainly, Derrick Storm would have been careful enough to make sure he wasn’t followed. For a man in Storm’s line of work, that was second nature.

  “Yes, we know about that, Captain Heat,” Feng continued. “I think you’ll find we know a lot of things. Which is why, if you have nothing to hide, and if you really are a regular police captain, as you claim, you will answer my question truthfully. Why was Derrick Storm in your apartment two nights ago?”

  “There have been a lot of people in my apartment lately. Most of them didn’t knock before entering. Callan was one of them. Up until a few minutes ago, I thought he was working for you.”

  Feng looked down at Callan, but did not comment.

  “Captain Heat, your evasiveness is boring me. Derrick Storm gave you the CD and Bart Callan, who we have been following for quite some time, was about to take it from you. But obviously he didn’t quite get around to it. So it is still in your possession. This is the last time I will make this request politely. Hand it over so we can end this unpleasantness and be on our way.”

  “I don’t have any CD,” Heat said.

  “Very well. If that’s how we have to do things.”

  Feng gave another instruction in Mandarin to the pistol-packing man nearest Heat. He advanced on Heat with the gun raised.

  “My associate is going to search you,” Feng said. “I suggest you—”

  But Heat was having none of it. She had already been groped more than enough for one day. Brazilian jujitsu is useful for any number of things. Disarming an attacker is one of them.

  Her hand flashed and the man no longer possessed his gun. Then she stomped her foot on the side of his knee, expertly tearing his medial collateral ligament. The man collapsed, howling in pain. Heat assumed a defensive position, daring the next guy to try anything.

  Feng was just considering what to do about this when they heard a commotion five floors down. The front door to the building had opened and several pairs of heavy feet were tromping up the stairs quickly. There were times—like when there had been reports of shots fired—when the NYPD liked to make a noisy entrance.

  Heat was looking toward the staircase through the still-open apartment door as a quartet of New York’s Finest completed their ascent.

  “NYPD,” one of them said.

  “Gun!” another shouted.

  “Hands up,” the first said. “Let’s see those hands everyone. Hands.”

  All four officers had their weapons out. Feng considered them without consternation, as if the dead fugitive on the floor was of no particular concern.

  “This isn’t over,” Feng hissed at Heat.

  * * *

  Heat had never seen a man who seemed as calm about having just participated in a conspiracy to commit murder as Colonel Feng. He issued an order in Mandarin to his men, who immediately holstered their weapons. Then he strolled breezily toward the armed cops.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said genially. “I’d like you to meet Captain Heat. She’s one of yours. Or at least she claims to be.”

  “Sir. I need to see your hands up now,” the officer replied.

  “Yes, yes,” Feng said, taking a long drag on his cigarette before holding up his hands in a desultory manner. “Now why don’t you get some handcuffs on me? I would be delighted to pay a brief visit to your precinct.”

  Feng held his arms out. His men followed suit. As they were led out of the room, none of them took a glance back at Callan, nor did they seem especially concerned about having just killed a man.

  Heat watched them go. She knew she would get a chance to question Feng later in an NYPD interrogation room, which meant it would be on her terms, not his. She didn’t think she’d get anything out of him about the Sh
anghai Seven or what was on the CD that mattered so much. But it was possible he’d be willing to give up information about Bart Callan, like who he was working for.

  In the meantime, Heat had to play a different role—not the interviewer, but the interviewee. She gave the patrolman a short narrative on what had occurred. She knew it was a story she was going to have to repeat at least a few more times. It was going to be a long night.

  Once the officer put in the call to his desk sergeant that a homicide had occurred, Heat herded George out of his apartment so the cops could get in and crawl around—and so he wouldn’t have to be further traumatized by having to spend any more time with Callan’s remains.

  “You going to be okay?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I . . . I think so. Thanks to that Chinese gentleman. Who was he, anyway?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Will you tell it to me? I’m starting to think it’s something I might need to know.”

  Heat nodded. “Okay. But first I’m afraid you have to be a witness to a homicide. Stay here until the detectives get here and tell them everything that happened.”

  “You got it, Ms. Heat.”

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a few things to attend to outside.”

  She walked down the five flights of stairs and went back out into the street. Her first task was to locate her gun before someone else did. She walked over toward the window it had flown out of, discovered a small hole in the pavement that lined up with that window, then found the gun a few feet away.

  After pulling out the magazine, she dry-fired it at the ground a few times. It seemed no worse for wear after its five-story fall. It made the same well-oiled snapping sound it usually did. She reloaded it, then returned it to the empty spot in her shoulder holster, immediately feeling the relief of having its weight back in its proper place.

  Then she pulled out her phone and dialed the number for Storm’s new burner phone.

  It rang several times before going to a voice mail box that hadn’t yet been set up. She tried the number again, getting the same result.

  She didn’t think Storm was sleeping. From the tone of his last text, it didn’t seem like he would be doing that anytime soon. So where was he? What was he doing?

  Heat dialed one more time, then settled for a text. She first wrote about Callan, who had long ago put the hit on Cynthia Heat because she was in possession of counterfeit bills, and who now seemed to have been working for someone else—Heat didn’t know who—before the Shanghai Seven cut him down.

  HAVE ASCERTAINED S7 IS AFTER THE CD, she finished. BARELY ESCAPED AN EFFORT TO FIND IT BY YOUR FRIEND, COL. FENG. I WILL HAVE A CHANCE TO INTERROGATE FENG LATER. FOR NOW, CAN YOU CRACK THE ENCRYPTION SO WE CAN SEE WHAT IS SO IMPORTANT ON THERE? CALL WHEN YOU CAN. PLEASE CONFIRM RECEIPT OF THIS MESSAGE.

  She hit SEND, wondering why Storm wasn’t answering, pondering where he might be when it found him.

  TWENTY-TWO

  STORM

  Derrick Storm had performed extraordinary feats of strength in his life.

  He had once, to aid a Filipino farmer, stepped in for a faltering ox and hitched himself to a plow, removing it from the field where it had become stuck. In Mozambique, he had once saved a life by lifting a small car off a little girl’s legs before she bled to death. On the occasions when he did meander into a weight room, he could bench-press over three hundred pounds and squat over six hundred.

  That’s what made it all the more strange when, as he slowly regained consciousness, he found he lacked the ability to lift his eyelids.

  They seemed to be attached to his eyeballs with mortar and concrete. And no amount of effort could pry the two surfaces apart.

  That wasn’t all. As Storm began slowly performing a systems check, he found he had a slight ache in his back. That he could explain. A projectile of some sort—fired from a tranquilizer gun, perhaps?—had hit him there as he ran away.

  But why was his butt so sore? There was a definite throbbing coming from the gluteus maximus on his left side.

  Storm’s hand—he could move his hand!—began exploring his lower half. He was wearing pants, which was always a good sign when one was coming out of a blackout; however, they weren’t the same pants he had been wearing before the blackout. That was a bad sign.

  Why had someone changed his pants?

  He remembered he had been wearing a somewhat unwieldy outfit: two pairs of long johns and a bulky pair of sweatpants. Which meant someone had peeled off not one but three layers from his slumbering body. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the circumstances.

  His hand kept going, pressing here and there until—

  Ouch! Yes, there was definitely a tender spot on the side of his butt. It was throbbing lightly. Had he been shot there, or . . .

  He moved his left leg and felt the tug of a few stitches. It was like someone had performed surgery to remove a bullet. But it must have been a small bullet, maybe one that had only barely penetrated, because it felt like there were only a few stitches.

  Storm’s success with being able to move both his leg and his hand made him determined to try again with his eyelids. And, yes, this time he was able to break through the layer of masonry that held them down.

  He blinked a few times, restoring a thin layer of moisture to his eyeballs, which slowly came into focus. He was lying on a black leather couch. The couch was in an office. The office was in the Cubby. And the Cubby was deep underground at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia.

  Storm recognized the carpet, the lighting, the general hum of the place. He was not restrained in any way, so he was not being held prisoner in the strictest sense of that word. Except it was impossible to leave the Cubby unescorted. So, in that way, he was a captive.

  There was still the possibility he was going to be handed over to the Shanghai Seven like some kind of offering. It just hadn’t happened yet. Perhaps Jones wanted to debrief him first. Perhaps Jones would propose a deal.

  “Hey, look who’s awake!” a woman’s voice said.

  Storm looked up and saw her coming around a desk toward the couch. She had wavy brown hair that fell just right, alluring brown eyes, and the kind of symmetrical face that typically ended up on a movie screen.

  Clara Strike was that kind of gorgeous. Breathtaking, really. And for a moment, Storm’s heart forgot all the times it had been shattered because of her. It thumped in his chest much the same way it had the first time he had ever seen her.

  She was wearing a conservative dark pantsuit, pairing it with heels that were definitely not standard CIA issue and a blouse that had just enough buttons undone to put certain thoughts in Storm’s head.

  Storm was reminded of a theory in physics known as quantum entanglement. First posed as a theoretical possibility many decades ago, quantum entanglement posits that once two particles have been brought together, they are never again truly separate. If you tickle one particle by altering its spin, its partner feels the change instantaneously, no matter how far away it has traveled—even if it’s across the galaxy.

  It’s one of those wildly counterintuitive aspects of quantum physics that makes no sense to those doomed to the limited realm of the human senses. Einstein himself denounced the theory, which he derided as “spooky actions at a distance,” as a logical impossibility.

  And yet a team of researchers at Delft University of Technology in the Netherlands recently concocted an experiment, using electrons trapped inside diamonds, which seemed to prove quantum entanglement was, in fact, real.

  Storm could have saved them the trouble and expense. His interactions with Clara Strike long ago confirmed quantum entanglement. For as much as he wanted to separate from her, for as far apart as they sometimes were, he could never seem to pull it off. She could always change his spin.

  Still, while the heart beats on its own, it needs to be protected from itself by the head. This was Clara Strike, he reminded himself. He needed to be cautious.

  “How ar
e you feeling?” she asked. She sat down next to where he was lying and placed a warm hand on his hip.

  Storm sat up. “Like a million bucks, all green and wrinkled.”

  “Do I want to know what you were doing on Jones’s lawn, dressed up like a football field?”

  “No.”

  “Well, just to warn you, one of those agents out there had his phone on camera mode. I’m told the footage of you throwing that grass rug off your head, making a break for it, and then getting put down like a rampaging elephant is absolutely priceless comedy. Apparently the only thing that’s stopping it from becoming a viral YouTube sensation are all those strongly worded nondisclosure agreements we sign. But I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s playing on a loop at the office Christmas party.”

  “Great. I’m sure it’ll go well with the virgin eggnog. Where’s my dad?”

  “He’s still out, as far as I know. We put him in the medical wing in the main part of Langley rather than bring him down here. We felt it would be best if he had a doctor keeping an eye on him. He’s not quite the young stud that his son is and we were worried about the combination of overexertion and the tranquilizer those agents used.”

  She had moved her hand from his hip to his chest. Storm sat up rather than allow himself to continue to be fondled.

  “Take it easy, big guy,” Strike said playfully. “You’ve been through a lot, too.”

  “Yeah. Speaking of which, why does my ass hurt?”

  She gave him an arch smile. “While you were out, we turned you over to the aliens for an anal probe.”

  “Seriously.”

  “Then I don’t know. You were up in medical before they brought you down here. That’s all I know.”

  “Wonderful. Surgery without my consent, performed while I was unconscious by the always trustworthy medical staff of the Central Intelligence Agency. I’m sure I have nothing to worry about.”

  “You look fine to me. If you want to turn the tables on the CIA, I’ll let you play doctor with me later when I get off work. We’ll go to my place and turn the lights low. You can probe whatever you like.”

  “I’m not joking,” Storm said with a testy frown. “What the hell did they do to me up there?”