Contents
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
About the Author
Also Available from Hyperion
Also by Richard Castle
Castle on DVD
Copyright
Chapter One
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.
Chapter Two
A black 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.
Storm wondered, Had his death caused the same reaction in her?
“Don’t worry,” Jones said. “Clara is out of country.”
“Do me a favor,” Storm said. “Don’t tell her I’m still alive. It’d make things . . . complicated.”
Jones smirked, revealing rows of perfectly crowned teeth.
Did Jones have a heart? Or was he the ultimate Machiavellian company man? Ice-cold. Storm wasn’t sure, even after all of the years that he had worked from him.
“Whatever you want, Derrick,” Jones said, inhaling deeply.
“I want another promise from you,” Storm said. “When I’ve done whatever it is that you want, promise me that you’ll let me be dead again—this time forever.”
Jones leaned forward and stuck out his right hand to shake.
“You’ve got my word,” he said.
“My debt is paid?”
“In full. After this time, you’re done.” And then Jones added, “Besides, you’re getting too old, too soft for this.”
Storm returned his smile. “What’s so important that you called in Tangiers?”
“A kidnapping here in Washington, D.C.”
“You called in Tangiers because of a kidnapping?” Storm repeated in an incredulous voice.
“There’s more to it.”
With Jones there always was. His mind was already racing. He knew Jones would not be calling him out of his self-imposed retirement because of a kidnapping. It didn’t make sense. The CIA was not authorized to operate inside the borders of the United States. Kidnappings fell under the jurisdiction of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and although in public the CIA and the FBI always presented a united front, Storm knew there was an intense rivalry between them. That was putting it mildly. Jones despised the FBI’s current director, Roosevelt Jackson.
“Who’s been kidnapped?” Storm asked.
“The stepson of a U.S. senator,” Jones replied. “His name is Matthew Dull, and his stepfather is Senator Thurston Windslow from Texas.”
Thurston Windslow. The first player in the Kabuki play that was about to begin. Windslow was one of the most powerful senators on Capitol Hill and chair of the U.S. Select Committee on Intelligence—the oversight committee charged with keeping an eye on the CIA and Jedidiah Jones. No wonder Jones was interested. But there had to be other players and more to this than a kidnapping.
“Who kidnapped his stepson?” Storm asked.
Jones waved his cigar in his hand, dismissing the smoke around him and Storm’s inquiry in one move. “We’re on our way to Windslow’s office. He can fill you in. That way you will go into this fresh without any preconceived impressions.”
It was classic Jedidiah Jones. Storm had been here before. Jones liked his officers to assess situations on their own—to come up with their own opinions. He wanted to see what they would learn. He wanted to see if they might discover something that he might have missed. Jones would give them just enough to get them started and then feed them information if they needed it, when he felt they needed it, and only if he felt that they needed it. Jones played it close to his vest, and even when you had completed a job, you were never really sure of how it fit together with some grander plan. Only Jones understood the master plan. He operated in a world of smoke and mirrors where nothing was what it appeared and nothing could be taken at face value. Even those closest to him were never confident that they knew what Jones was orchestrating.
Storm said, “What about the FBI?”
Jones shrugged. “What about them? They’re on the case. The special agent in charge is a woman named April Showers.”
Another player enters the game.
“April Showers? Is that her real name?”
“Yes, it is. Her folks must have had a sense of humor. Or they were hippies from the sixties. Either way, she’ll be at the senator’s office when we get there.”
“And who am I supposed to be?”
“You’re a special advisor. You’re name is Steve Mason. That way Derrick Storm can remain dead.”
“And if something goes wrong, there’s no Steve Mason to be found.”
“Exactly,” said Jones.
“It seems like a lot of trouble—bringing me back and giving me a false identity—just for a kidnapping.”
Jones blew out a series of perfect smoke rings. “It’s sad really,” he said. “Smoke rings. With everyone banning smoking, it’s becoming a dying art.”
Chapter Three
Through the bullet-resistant windows of the black limousine, Storm saw the U.S. Capitol dome rising before them as they rode east on Constitution Avenue. It was an impressive sight, especially brightly floodlit at night.
The car passed the Russell Senate Office Building (SOB), which was the first of three ornate office buildings used by the nation’s one hundred elected U.S. senators. In a city obsessed with acronyms, Storm had always thought the shorthand SOB seemed a fitting description for where senators did their business.
The Dirksen SOB was next. Opened in 1958, it had been known for nearly two decades simply as SOB Number Two, until Congress decided to name it after the late Illinois Republican Senator Everett M. Dirksen, an orator so famous that he’d been awarded a Grammy for an album of his patriotic speeches called Gallant Men.
Senators loved naming buildings after their own.
When the limo stopped at the Dirksen SOB’s western entrance, the SPS security officer in the front seat jumped out and darted inside to alert the Capitol Hill Police officers on duty that two VIPs were arriving. Jones and Storm would not be delayed by security checks. There would be no walk-through metal detectors, no searching of briefcases and emptying of pockets. Instead, both men were quickly escorted to Senator Windslow’s office, where a secretary immediately led them into the senator’s inner chamber.
As with most other things on Capitol Hill, senate offices were doled out based on seniority and power. The bigger the office, the more important the senator. Windslow had been assigned the largest office in the Dirksen. His private domain had fifteen-foot-tall ceilings, ornate carved wooden bookcases, and thick carpet. Expensive brown leather sofas and overstuffed chairs faced an executive desk made of polished mahogany that had clearly not come from some General Services Administration warehouse. One wall was covered with framed photographs that showed the senator posing with foreign presidents and dignitaries. It was proof that Windslow relished his power and clearly enjoyed taxpayer-funded junkets to exotic locales. Another wall was decorated with the Texas state seal and a pair of mounted longhorns from a Texas steer.
The senator rose from behind his desk but made no effort to walk forward and greet them. He let them come to him with outstretched hands.
“About time you got here, Jedidiah,” Windslow snapped, as he shook the CIA spymaster’s hand. “You’ve kept me waiting ten minutes.”
Windslow looked at Storm, and the two men immediately sized each other up, like two schoolboys squaring off during recess.
Tall and thin, Windslow was in his early seventies and instantly recognizable. He was a familiar face on Sunday morning television talk shows and evening newscasts. But it was his haircut and voice that made him
memorable. He had pure white hair that he wore in an outdated, carefully coifed pompadour swept back from his forehead and held firmly in place with a glossy shellac spray. He spoke with a slow, deliberate Southern drawl that was sprinkled with homespun sayings that he frequently used to remind voters that he was one of them, a yellow-dog Democrat. In Texas, which he had represented for more than thirty years, he was considered undefeatable.
“So this is your man,” Windslow said.
“Senator Windslow,” Jones said, “this is Steve Mason. He doesn’t work for me, but he occasionally does piecework for me. He’s a private detective.”
“You’re the fixer?” Windslow asked bluntly. “You’re the man who gets things done no matter what—am I right?”
Storm didn’t like the fact that there were three others in the office. He’d identified FBI Special Agent April Showers as soon as he walked in. A telltale bulge under the jacket she was wearing had given her away. He’d recognized the senator’s wife from news articles. But he had no idea who the twenty-something-year-old girl was sitting nearby.
“I’m here to lend a hand,” Storm said, dodging the senator’s questions.
“I’ve already got enough hands,” Windslow replied. “I’ve got the entire FBI lending a hand, and so far, it hasn’t done any good. What I need is someone with a fist.”
No one spoke for a moment, and then the senator’s wife said in a quiet voice, “My husband seems to have forgotten his manners. My name is Gloria Windslow.” She rose gracefully from her seat, showing the emotional control of a well-trained politician’s wife. Even in times of great emotional stress, she knew that she needed to be composed.