Storm Front

“Sorry, friend, but I don’t have time to do things by the book,” Storm said.

Storm hailed an elevator, which took him to the fifty-second floor. It was quiet and hotel-like. Storm walked quickly to Unit J, all the way at the end of the hallway, and rang the buzzer. There was no answer. He rang again. Still no answer.

Demming was likely out. Wall Street types were known to entertain clients until the small hours. Storm decided the most advisable place to wait for Demming was inside his apartment.

He stepped back and looked at the door. It was reinforced steel, the kind that would be very noisy upon breaking. But the lock was operated by an old-fashioned, analog keypad. It took Storm exactly twenty-eight seconds to get it open. There were advantages to growing up with a dad who worked for a time in the FBI’s bank robbery unit. Learning how to crack safes was one of them.

Feeling smug, Storm opened the door and walked over the threshold straight into a bloodbath.

It was everywhere. On the walls. On the floor. On the couch. Even on the artwork. It almost looked like it had been coming out of a hose.

Even though he knew he was too late — a step behind Volkov, once again — Storm drew his gun. He entered cautiously, making sure not to step on any of the blood spatters but also keeping his eyes up, in case Volkov and his men were somehow still in the apartment.

They weren’t. Demming was. His body was behind the couch. What appeared to be a very large pair of dirty women’s under-wear had been stuffed into his mouth and tied there by pantyhose. A tuft of pink frill escaped from one side of the gag.

He was shirtless, revealing a series of bruises that made it obvious he had been badly beaten before his death. Ribs that had suffered compound fractures broke through the skin in several places. There were cigarette burns up and down both his arms. His nipples had singe marks above and below them, suggesting that diodes had been connected to them and current had been run through his body. And, of course, the fingernails on his right hand were missing.

The torture had been extensive. Demming had obviously suffered greatly before his death, much more so than the other victims. Someone had wanted Demming to feel pain. Lots of it.

Still, none of that was directly related to his death, the cause of which was quite clear: His throat had been slashed so viciously he had practically been decapitated. That explained all the blood.

Storm reached down and touched Demming’s exposed shoulder. The body was cold. So was any trail that might lead Storm from this apartment to wherever Volkov was now holed up.

Storm quickly swept through the remainder of the residence. He did this knowing there would likely be nothing left behind of any use. There hadn’t been at any of the other scenes. But he had to check.

Storm worked methodically, going room by room, willing himself to stay focused. Still, his mind wandered: Volkov now had all six MonEx codes. If he knew what to do with them — or had given them to someone who did — a financial tsunami could be heading for Wall Street at any moment. After all, ForEx didn’t close on business days. It was like knowing a huge landslide was coming and having no idea how to escape the base of the hill.

The apartment was, as Storm suspected, devoid of anything useful. He was preparing to make his exit when a pair of uniformed police officers entered the front door.

The first thing Storm said was “Before you overreact, I’m with the CIA and I didn’t do this.”

The lead cop took one look at all the blood, took one look at Storm, then drew his weapon, and aimed it at Storm’s chest.

“NYPD,” the cop shouted. “Let’s see those hands.”

Storm allowed himself to be handcuffed, even as he tried to explain to the officer that this was all just a big misunderstanding. Like the cop hadn’t heard that one before.

He was made to lie facedown in the hallway as backup was radioed in. Soon, what felt like half the officers in the New York Police Department’s Twentieth Precinct poured into Demming’s apartment.

As the next hour unfolded, Storm was allowed to shift to a sitting position, then shunted into the kitchen. Identifying himself as CIA had saved him a ride in a squad car and a trip to the Twentieth Precinct lockup, but it hadn’t exactly endeared him to anyone in a uniform.

From his place in the kitchen, he could hear the cops’ chatter. Clark Laster had awakened from his sleep hold–induced slumber no worse for wear but substantially pissed off. Laster called the police, who were sharp enough to assume that the man who had asked for Demming’s apartment had likely proceeded to… Demming’s apartment.

The early talk had Storm doing twenty-five to life at Attica, CIA or no CIA. Then the medical examiner, an attractive black woman, arrived and ruined the cops’ fun: time of death had been several hours before, meaning this burly stranger who only just showed up had not likely been involved.