Richard Castle "Storm Front" a Derek Storm Novel - Chapter One

CHAPTER 1

VENICE, Italy

The gondolier could only be described as ruggedly handsome,
with dark hair and eyes, a square jaw, and muscles
toned from his daily exertions at the oar. He wore the
costume the tourists expected of his profession: a tightfi
tting shirt with red- and- white jail house striping, blousy black
pants, and a festive red scarf tied off at a jaunty angle. He fi nished
the outfi t with a broad- rimmed sunhat, an accessory he kept fi xed
to his head even though it was nearly midnight. Appearances
needed to be maintained.
With powerful, practiced movements, he propelled the boat
under the Calle delle Ostreghe footbridge. When he felt they were
suffi ciently under way, he opened his mouth and let a booming,
mournful baritone pour from his lungs.
“Arrivederci Roma,” he warbled. “Good- bye, au revoir,
mentre . . .”
“No singing, please,” said the passenger, a pale, doughy man
in a tweed jacket, with a voice that was vintage British Empire
boarding school.
“But it’s-a part- a the ser vice,” the gondolier replied, in heavily
accented En glish. “It’s-a, how you say, romantic- a. Maybe we- a
fi nd- a you a nice- a girl, huh? Put you in a better mood- a?”
“No singing,” the Brit said.

“But I could lose- a my license,” the gondolier protested.
He rowed in silence for a moment, cocked his head directly
toward the Brit, then resumed his crooning.
“Assshoooooole- omio,” he crooned. “Ooooo- sodomia . . .”
“I said no singing,” the Brit snapped. “My God, man, it’s like
someone is squeezing a goat. Look, I’ll pay you double to stop.”
The gondolier mumbled a curse in Italian under his breath,
but the singing ceased. The moon had been blotted by clouds,
giving him little light by which to navigate. He focused on his
task, pointing the boat’s high, gracefully curved prow toward the
middle of the Grand Canal, then out into the open waters of the
Laguna Veneta, a strange place for a gondola in the dark of night.
The currents were stronger here, and the fl at- bottomed vessel
was not well suited to the chop created by a stiffening breeze
blowing in from the west. The gondolier frowned as the Campanile
di San Marco’s tower grew faint in the distance behind them.
“Where are we- a going again?” he asked.
“Just keep rowing,” the Brit answered, his eyes surveying the
darkness.
A few minutes later, three quick fl oodlight fl ashes split the
night from several hundred yards away. They came from the bow
of a small fi shing boat that was approaching the gondola’s starboard
side.
“There,” the Brit said, pointing to the right. “Go there.”
“Sì, signore,” the gondolier said, aiming the boat in the direction
of the light.
Soon, they were alongside the fi shing boat, a white fi berglass
trawler. The gondolier took quick stock of its occupants. There
were three, and they weren’t fi shermen. One was stationed on the
bow with an AK- 47 anchored against his shoulder, the muzzle
arching in a semicircle as he scanned the horizon. One manned
the wheel house, with both hands fi rmly planted on the helm and
a handgun holstered on his right hip. The third, an egg- bald albino,
was in the stern, apparently unarmed, and focused entirely
on the Brit.

This would be easy.
The fi shing boat’s engine shifted into neutral and it slowly
glided to a stop. Once the boats were stern to stern, a brief conversation
between the Brit and the albino ensued. The gondolier
waited patiently for the exchange, then it happened: a small, velvet
bag passed from the albino to the Brit.
The gondolier made his move. The man with the AK- 47 never
saw the long oar leave the water and certainly didn’t realize it was
tracking at high speed in his direction— at least not until the blade
was three inches from his ear, at which point it was too late. He
dropped to the bottom of the boat with a heavy thud.
One down.
The man at the helm reacted, but slowly. His fi rst move was to
leave the wheel house and inspect the noise. That was his mistake.
He should have gone for his gun. By the time his error began to
occur to him, the gondolier had already dropped his oar and
leaped onto the fi shing boat, and was approaching with hands
raised. The gondolier had a full range of Far Eastern martial arts
moves at his disposal but opted, instead, for a more Western tactic,
delivering a left jab to the side of the man’s nose that stunned him,
then a right uppercut to his jaw that severed any connection the
helmsman had to reality.
Two down.
The albino was already reaching down to his ankle, toward a
knife that was sheathed there. But he was also far too late and far
too slow. The gondolier took one long stride, pivoted, and delivered
a devastating back kick to the albino’s skull. His body immediately
went slack.
The gondolier quickly secured all three men with plastic ties
he had produced from his pants pocket. The Brit watched in
dumbfounded terror. The gondolier didn’t even seem to be breathing
heavily.
“All right, your turn,” he said to the Brit, pulling another restraint
from his pocket, all traces of his Italian accent suddenly
gone. He was . . . American?

“Who . . . who are you?” the Brit asked.
“That’s hardly your biggest problem at the moment,” the gondolier
replied, preparing to reboard the gondola. “Being found
guilty of treason is a much greater—”
“Stay back,” the Brit shouted, pulling a snub- nosed Derringer
pistol from out of his tweed jacket.
The gondolier eyed the pistol, more annoyed than frightened.
Intelligence had told him the Brit wouldn’t be armed— proving,
once again, just how smart Intelligence really was.
Without hesitation, the gondolier performed an expert back
dive, vaulting himself off the fi shing trawler and into the choppy
waters below. The Brit yanked the Derringer’s trigger, fi ring off a
wild shot. The gondolier had moved too quickly. The Brit would
have had a better chance hitting one of the innumerable seagulls
in the faraway Piazza San Marco.
The Brit swiveled his head left, right, then left. He turned
around, then back to the front. He kept expecting to see a head
surface, and he fully intended to shoot a hole in it when it did.
The Derringer was not the most accurate weapon, but the Brit
was a deadly shot. Spies often are.
He waited. Ten seconds. Twenty seconds. Thirty seconds. A
minute. Two minutes. The gondolier had disappeared, but how
was that possible? Had the Brit’s bullet, in fact, struck its target?
That must have been it. The man, whoever he was, was now at the
bottom of the lagoon.
“Well, that’s that,” the Brit said, returning the Derringer to
his jacket and gripping the sides of the boat so he could stand and
survey his situation.
Then he felt the hand. It came out of nowhere, wet and cold,
and clamped on his wrist. Then came the agony of that hand
twisting his arm until it snapped at the elbow. He bellowed in
pain, but his excruciation was short- lived: The gondolier vaulted
himself onto the boat and delivered a descending blow to the side
of the man’s head. The Brit’s body immediately lost what ever
starch it once had, slumping, jelly- like, into the gondola’s seat.

“You should have let me sing,” the gondolier said to the Brit’s
unconscious form. “I thought it sounded lovely.”
The gondolier snapped restraints on the Brit, found the velvet
bag, and inspected its contents. A handful of diamonds, at least
two million dollars’ worth, sparkled back at him.
“Daddy really ought to do a better job protecting the family
jewels,” he said to the still- inert Brit.
The gondolier stood. He lifted his watch close to his face,
pressed a button on the side, and spoke into it.
“Waste Management, this is Vito,” he said. “It’s time to pick
up the trash.”
“Copy that, Vito,” said a voice that sprouted from the watch’s
small speakers. “We have a garbage truck inbound. Are you sure
you’ve fi nished your entire route?”
“Affi rmative.” The gondolier surveyed the four incapacitated
men before him. “Only found four cans. They’ve all been emptied.”
A new voice, one that sounded like it was mixed with several
shovels of gravel, fi lled the watch’s speakers. “We knew we could
count on you,” it said. “Good work, Derrick Storm.”