Read Online A Brewing Storm: A Derrick Storm Short by Richard Castle - Free Book Online
Authors: Richard Castle
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sidewalk. She jumped back and shot him the finger as the Taurus raced down the lot’s ramp.
As soon as the car reached the garage attendant’s station, Storm leaped from it, tossed the keys to one of the workers there, and grabbed the four gym bags from the backseat.
“C’mon!” he hollered to Toppers.
“Where are we going!” she shrieked.
“Follow me! Now!”
Storm rushed down the parking ramp to a basement exit. With Toppers chasing after him, he ran up two flights of concrete steps to a street exit that opened into an alley behind the office building. He dashed out and hurried down the alley to Nineteenth Street NW—a one-way street filled with southbound traffic. The bored taxi driver who stopped for them didn’t bother getting out of his cab. Instead, he pushed a remote button to pop the car’s trunk. Storm tossed the four bags into it and got into the backseat with a now breathless Toppers.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
“State Department and we’re in a hurry.”
“Everyone is,” the cabbie said. “That’s what’s wrong with this country.” The driver, whose taxi license was on display, was from Ghana, and he launched into an immediate monologue about the ills of America’s rushed society. Storm ignored the mindless chatter. He was looking at the alleyway to see if anyone had followed them. He didn’t see anyone.
The cabbie abruptly stopped talking, and when Storm looked at the car’s rearview mirror, he saw why. The driver’s eyes were locked onto Topper’s breasts, which were heaving as she struggled to catch her breath from running.
“You might want to redirect your eyes to the road,” Storm suggested.
Storm again glanced behind the cab to see if the Ford was behind them. It wasn’t. He had a hunch that the men inside it were now in the parking garage having a frantic conversation with FBI Agent Showers. She would have known that a ransom drop was being made as soon as Storm traveled from the Dirksen SOB to Riggs National Bank. Why else would he go there? Storm assumed that she had immediately sent two special agents to tail them. At that point, Agent Showers had made a critical error. She’d felt a false sense of security because of the monitor in the Taurus. She had not felt a need to flood the area with agents or call in air surveillance. Storm had not only abandoned the car in the underground parking garage, he’d also left the cell phone that Jedidiah Jones had given him on the vehicle’s front seat. It was probably ringing right now.
When the taxi was about a block from the State Department, Storm announced that he’d changed his mind. “Take us to the Jefferson Memorial,” he said.
As the cab continued south into the traffic traveling around the National Mall, Storm checked for tails. There were none. They had gone “black.”
“You guys married?” the cabbie asked when the cab stopped at a red light.
“No, we work together,” Storm said.
The cabbie caught another peek at Samantha’s cleavage. She was wearing black wedge leather slip-ons without stockings, a tight denim blue jean skirt, and a bright pink, short satin jacket that was layered over a cream-colored silk blouse and sexy black lace camisole.
“You’re a lucky guy,” the cabbie said as the light changed. “To work with such a pretty lady would be a pleasure indeed.”
Samantha smiled and said, “Thank you!”
Ten minutes later, the taxi reached the Jefferson Memorial parking lot. Storm took the four gym bags from the trunk and eyeballed the lot while the driver got out of the car to open the rear passenger door to Samantha, anxious to take a mental snapshot of those architectural marvels, no doubt .
Confident that they hadn’t been followed, Storm led Toppers to the Ford cargo van that he’d parked here earlier.
“We’re taking this,” he explained, unlocking the doors. “Get in.”
Storm had just stored the four gym bags in the cargo area when the rhythmic voice of Rihanna
As soon as the car reached the garage attendant’s station, Storm leaped from it, tossed the keys to one of the workers there, and grabbed the four gym bags from the backseat.
“C’mon!” he hollered to Toppers.
“Where are we going!” she shrieked.
“Follow me! Now!”
Storm rushed down the parking ramp to a basement exit. With Toppers chasing after him, he ran up two flights of concrete steps to a street exit that opened into an alley behind the office building. He dashed out and hurried down the alley to Nineteenth Street NW—a one-way street filled with southbound traffic. The bored taxi driver who stopped for them didn’t bother getting out of his cab. Instead, he pushed a remote button to pop the car’s trunk. Storm tossed the four bags into it and got into the backseat with a now breathless Toppers.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
“State Department and we’re in a hurry.”
“Everyone is,” the cabbie said. “That’s what’s wrong with this country.” The driver, whose taxi license was on display, was from Ghana, and he launched into an immediate monologue about the ills of America’s rushed society. Storm ignored the mindless chatter. He was looking at the alleyway to see if anyone had followed them. He didn’t see anyone.
The cabbie abruptly stopped talking, and when Storm looked at the car’s rearview mirror, he saw why. The driver’s eyes were locked onto Topper’s breasts, which were heaving as she struggled to catch her breath from running.
“You might want to redirect your eyes to the road,” Storm suggested.
Storm again glanced behind the cab to see if the Ford was behind them. It wasn’t. He had a hunch that the men inside it were now in the parking garage having a frantic conversation with FBI Agent Showers. She would have known that a ransom drop was being made as soon as Storm traveled from the Dirksen SOB to Riggs National Bank. Why else would he go there? Storm assumed that she had immediately sent two special agents to tail them. At that point, Agent Showers had made a critical error. She’d felt a false sense of security because of the monitor in the Taurus. She had not felt a need to flood the area with agents or call in air surveillance. Storm had not only abandoned the car in the underground parking garage, he’d also left the cell phone that Jedidiah Jones had given him on the vehicle’s front seat. It was probably ringing right now.
When the taxi was about a block from the State Department, Storm announced that he’d changed his mind. “Take us to the Jefferson Memorial,” he said.
As the cab continued south into the traffic traveling around the National Mall, Storm checked for tails. There were none. They had gone “black.”
“You guys married?” the cabbie asked when the cab stopped at a red light.
“No, we work together,” Storm said.
The cabbie caught another peek at Samantha’s cleavage. She was wearing black wedge leather slip-ons without stockings, a tight denim blue jean skirt, and a bright pink, short satin jacket that was layered over a cream-colored silk blouse and sexy black lace camisole.
“You’re a lucky guy,” the cabbie said as the light changed. “To work with such a pretty lady would be a pleasure indeed.”
Samantha smiled and said, “Thank you!”
Ten minutes later, the taxi reached the Jefferson Memorial parking lot. Storm took the four gym bags from the trunk and eyeballed the lot while the driver got out of the car to open the rear passenger door to Samantha, anxious to take a mental snapshot of those architectural marvels, no doubt .
Confident that they hadn’t been followed, Storm led Toppers to the Ford cargo van that he’d parked here earlier.
“We’re taking this,” he explained, unlocking the doors. “Get in.”
Storm had just stored the four gym bags in the cargo area when the rhythmic voice of Rihanna
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