Storm Front: A Derrick Storm Thriller (32 page)

The Lincoln had taken advantage of this disability and had closed to within two cars. It would soon be directly behind them, or next to them, or wherever Volkov wanted it to be.

“Hand the seat up to me,” Storm said.

The car seat was a dense, unwieldy hunk of padding, composite plastic, and metal. It weighed in at roughly thirty pounds, and was bottom heavy, since that’s where the metal parts that anchored it to the car lived. Cracker struggled to get it through the narrow opening between the two front seats and into Storm’s lap.

“Terrific. While you’re back there, get that cigar case. There’s a lighter in there, yes?”

“Yeah, of course. It’s actually more like a small blowtorch.”

“Perfect. Put it behind my back in this seat. I’m going to need to grab it quickly when I turn around.”

As Cracker completed that task, Storm rolled down his window and punched on the cruise control at fifty. A small gap opened up ahead of him, but that was fine: He wouldn’t have to worry about ramming the car ahead of him while he attempted the stunt he had been planning.

There was now only one car—a green Toyota—between the Jaguar and the Lincoln.

“I’m going to need you to come up here and grab the steering wheel,” Storm said. “Keep us straight as best you can. It’s going to battle you and try to tug you to the left. But if you get to the side of the wheel, left becomes up and right becomes down. You can use gravity to keep it down. Does that make sense to you?”

“Yeah, got it.”

Cracker got himself in position, then put both hands on the wheel. The Lincoln pulled into the left breakdown lane to pass the one car that had separated it from the Jaguar. It was the move Storm had been waiting for.

“I’m letting go now,” he said.

The wheel tugged left, but Cracker had all the leverage he needed to hold it in place. Storm grabbed the car seat, twisted his body so he was facing backward, then perched himself on the side
of the door, so that both the seat and his torso were outside of the Jaguar.

With both hands, he heaved the car seat at the windshield of the Lincoln, putting as much strength as he could muster into the throw.

It hit the windshield dead center, creating a huge crater. The Lincoln swerved violently, rocking on its suspension, and Storm briefly hoped it might spin out. Instead, it righted itself by side-swiping the green Toyota, which sparked a chain-reaction accident behind it—but did not, unfortunately, slow the Lincoln.

Storm focused on the pickup truck, assessing the damage he had caused. The force of those thirty pounds hurtling backward had not broken the entire windshield, as Storm had hoped—the shatterproof glass did its job and held—but it did punch a car seat–sized hole in the middle. That would have to do.

Storm retreated back into the Jaguar, which was being held steady—or at least somewhat steady—by a very determined Whitely Cracker. Storm seized the cigar lighter and the first Poland Spring bottle and lit the piece of shirt sticking out the top. He hoped Volkov appreciated this tribute to Vyacheslav Molotov, the Russian foreign minister who introduced the world to the crude, homemade bomb that still bore his name.

Storm waited until he was sure the wick was lit, then leaned back out of the car and tossed his creation toward the hole in the Lincoln’s windshield.

Unfortunately for him, because he was on the left side of the car and facing backward, he was using his less-accurate right arm. He missed. The bottle bounced harmlessly off the top of the Lincoln’s cab and did not ignite until it hit the pavement, well behind the pickup.

There was no more gunfire coming from the Lincoln. Perhaps the car seat had injured or killed the passenger as it hurtled through the pickup. Or maybe he was just reloading.

Storm lit the next wick, then tossed. It missed wide right. Attempt number three splattered into the grille plate and burst
into a fireball, but it was like hitting a charging rhino with a BB gun. The Lincoln was not affected.

Attempt number four hit the windshield in front of the driver but bounced the wrong way and, more to the point, did not go off until it struck blacktop.

Storm had two more chances. Worse, there was once again sniping coming from the Lincoln. The shooter was leaning out his window and squeezing off rounds in steady succession. The first six missed. The seventh struck the Jaguar’s right rear tire just as Storm got the next shirt lit.

Storm was thankful he was inside the car when it happened. The wild lurching of the Jaguar might have thrown him had he been trying to hang on outside.

As it was, he was tossed against the side of the vehicle, taking a chunk out of his forehead. It was not a serious wound, but it was a bleeder. Storm cursed as blood poured into his eyes.

“Oh my God, are you hit?” Cracker said.

“Just drive,” Storm growled.

The Jaguar was now on its rims on both sides in back, pouring a steady stream of sparks behind it. The engine was working double to maintain the speed requested of it by the cruise control, its twelve cylinders firing furiously.

Storm looked down at the second-to-last Molotov.

“Come on, Derrick,” he urged. “Let’s do this.”

He twisted himself out of the car, exposing more of himself so he could get his left arm free. He focused on the hole in the wind-shield, except it wasn’t a windshield anymore. It was a catcher’s glove. And he wasn’t a grown man anymore. He was a twelve-year-old pitcher, in his backyard, standing on the makeshift pitchers’ mound his father had created for him.

“Keep your eyes on the mitt,” his father always told him when he was struggling with his control. “Don’t aim. Just throw.”

The old man had kept him on target in so many aspects of his life.

This would just have to be one more.

He whipped his left arm, following through as best he could with the throw.

The bottle traced a straight line toward the pickup truck, spiraling gently as it sailed in the air. Throwing a two-inch-diameter bottle through a hole no more than two feet wide from out the window of a fishtailing car traveling at fifty miles an hour was, Storm knew, a nearly impossible task.

But impossible is what Derrick Storm did for a living.

The bottle passed through the hole. The interior of the pickup’s cab was suddenly engulfed in flame.

The Lincoln veered suddenly to the right, clipping a car in the right lane then going into a spin. Midway through the spin, it lost its grip on the pavement and rolled.

It rolled once, tossing the erstwhile gunman from out his open window into a stream of oncoming traffic.

It rolled twice, caving in the roof of the cab.

It was when it rolled a third time that the combination of several factors involved—the growing conflagration inside the cab, the rupturing of the gas tank, the twisting of metal—came together to create an enormous explosion.

Storm did not bother to watch the rest. He settled back in the Jaguar, grabbed control of the steering wheel, and went back to the battle of keeping them on the road.

“Is that… is that it?” Cracker asked, his face having lost all its color.

“One more thing,” Storm said. “Hand me the last bottle.”

Storm braced the wheel with his leg as Cracker gave him the bottle. Storm yanked out the cloth, tilted it back, and let the Macallan slide down his throat.

T
hey came to a stop at a combination gas station/used car lot just off the Turnpike, a seedy place that had seen everything—except a bullet-riddled Jaguar XJL limping into the parking lot on its rims.

“I’m still confused about one thing,” Cracker said as they climbed out. “How did he find us? I mean, you told me all those bugs were CIA… so it’s not like he could listen to us in my car.”

Storm thought it over as he pried open the trunk of the wasted Jaguar. He retrieved the Dirty Harry gun, putting it back in his shoulder holster. Its weight felt good. He checked the revolver. It was full.

“When you were with Volkov this morning, did he touch you at some point? Bump into you? Hug you? Grab you?”

Cracker thought it over. “No, I mean we shook hands, but… The only other time we had contact is when he asked to borrow my phone. But I don’t think we…”

“Let me see your phone,” Storm interrupted.

He turned the phone over and located a small piece of black tape that blended nicely with the back of the phone. Storm peeled away the tape to reveal a tiny microchip.

“He put a tracking device on it,” Storm said, showing Cracker
the chip. “He collected his men and waited until we stayed put for a while. Then he moved in. I’m sure we gave him pause when he realized we were at an FBI office. But he knew time was on his side.”

Storm tossed the tape and microchip into a nearby Dumpster and was about to hand Cracker his phone when it rang.

Storm took a glance at the screen. The caller appeared as “GREGOR VOLKOV.”

Storm stared at it. “Don’t you ever die?” he asked, rhetorically. How could it be that Volkov had survived that accident, unless… Of course. He hadn’t been in the Lincoln. Storm realized he had never actually laid eyes on the man driving. Whoever it was, it hadn’t been Gregor Volkov.

It rang again. Storm answered the call with “What do you want?”

“Derrick Storm?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t believe it, it is Derrick Storm!” Volkov boomed in Russian-tinted English. “How delightful to hear your voice. I was very surprised to see you in Manhattan this morning. I had been under the impression you were dead. It was a very pleasant impression.”

“Yeah, well, the feeling is mutual.”

“You must be referring to that little scrape in Mogadishu,” he said, laughing.

“Actually, I was referring to the pickup truck that I just saw burst into flames on the New Jersey Turnpike.”

“Oh, is that what happened?” Volkov said, as if it were nothing more than the answer to a riddle he’d only casually considered. “I wondered why we lost communication. Too bad. Too bad. They were good men. But apparently not good enough. I should have known they were no match for Derrick Storm.”

“I’m assuming you didn’t call to praise me, so let’s cut to the chase: Whitely Cracker isn’t coming with you. He’s not going to
make those trades for you. He’s with me and he’s staying with me. So you can either drop it and slither back to whatever hole you hide in, or you can die. It’s up to you.”

“Tut-tut, Derrick Storm. Do you really think a man as prepared as myself didn’t have a backup plan? I certainly hoped the gentlemen in the pickup truck would persuade Mr. Cracker to join me. But I got myself a little… insurance.”

Through gritted teeth, Cracker said, “What are you talking about?”

“Would you be so kind as to put me on speakerphone? I’d like you both to hear something.”

Storm turned to Cracker. “Put it on speaker.”

Cracker touched a button. Storm said, “Okay. We’re listening.”

Volkov spoke to a person in the room with him. “Go ahead, my dear,” he said. “Beg for your life.”

The sound of Mrs. G. Whitely Cracker V filled the air: “Whitely, honey? I love you. I’m so sorry… that I…”

“Melissa! Oh my God, what are they—”

“That’s enough.” Volkov cut them off. “Isn’t it fortunate for me that my men were able to grab her just before she hopped away like the little bunny she is. They tell me she almost made it out, too. Would you like to hear from your darling children, Mr. Cracker, or can you trust that if I’ve got your wife, I’ve got them as well?”

“What do you want, Volkov?” Cracker said, trying to sound brave. “You want money? I’ve got all the money you need. I’ll give you ten million for each of them, wired to any account anywhere in the world, no questions, no strings. Make it twenty million. Half now and half when—”

“Keep your money, Mr. Cracker. You must not have been listening to me this morning. Why would I want your money when I can have power? Ultimate power. For myself and my country. I assure you, there is not enough money in the world to make me give up that dream. Not even in your bank account.”

Storm looked at Cracker’s face. His expression was shocked
and overwhelmed and utterly desperate. Without a single word spoken, it informed Storm that trying to talk sense into this man wouldn’t work. So, yes, Storm could tell him that there was no point in negotiating with terrorists. Storm could tell him that they needed to take control of this situation, to strike before being stricken, to trust that Volkov was ultimately a pragmatist who wouldn’t kill the Cracker family while he still needed them for leverage. Storm could tell Cracker if he acquiesced and did what Volkov wanted, he and his family would be dead the moment Volkov no longer found them useful.

But Storm knew Cracker was beyond listening. Cracker had clearly made his mistakes—his recent actions, in par tic u lar, made him anything but the tower of virtuousness the world took him to be. Still, at his core, he was a decent man who would do anything to save his wife and children.

Even if doing it would actually result in them all being killed.

“Okay,” Storm said. “So you’re holding the cards. How’s this going to go?”

“Mr. Cracker will present himself to me at the international departures entrance to Terminal B at Newark Airport in two hours,” Volkov said. “Since I know where your mind is going at this moment, let me start by saying that if we find Mr. Cracker suddenly placed on the No-Fly List or if there is anything else done to impede his progress out of the country, the consequences for his family will be severe.”

“I under—” Cracker started, but Volkov shouted him down.

“I’m not finished. Mr. Cracker will be carrying his passport, but he will have no other luggage. He will come alone. I have trained my men to know what your CIA agents look like and what their tricks are. If I or my men get even the slightest inkling Mr. Cracker is not alone or that you have organized some kind of resistance, trust that I will mail him back his family in pieces.”

“Okay, we got it,” Storm said before Cracker could respond. “But we can’t make that happen in two hours. Your men destroyed
our car. His passport is at his house in Chappaqua. We can’t get a new car, get up to Chappaqua, and then get down to Newark Airport in two hours. Make it four hours.”