A Bloody Storm: A Derrick Storm Short Read Online Free PDF Page A

said. “You don’t have a choice.”
    “Just like I didn’t have a choice about my statement,” she replied.
    “Did you know the Good Samaritan called the hospital to check on you?” Cumerford asked.
    “What?”
    “Steve Mason, or whatever the hell his real name is. He’d been specifically ordered not to risk calling. But apparently he’s not someone who colors inside the lines.”
    “No, he doesn’t think much of rules,” she said. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
    “You were sleeping. Apparently, when they didn’t put his call through to you, he said a few things to the hospital staff that upset their English sensibilities.”
    Showers fought the urge to smile.
    As they neared the intersection of the A14 and M11 roadways, Cumerford noticed a road sign that had two yellow, bending palm trees emblazoned on it, with a bright red background.
    “There’s what the Brits call an extra service area ahead,” he explained. “We can pull in there and get something. Most of these service areas have a food court. That would be a smarter place for us to stop than getting off the main motorway and going into a pub, where you might be recognized.”
    “I come to England and end up eating at McDonald’s.”
    “The BBC has been showing photos of you almost every hour for the past two days,” he said. “They’re calling it the Oxford Massacre. The Brits aren’t used to gunfights, especially at peaceful college demonstrations.”
    To Showers, Cumerford seemed like an okay guy. He’d been a special agent about five years longer than she had and had done a stint in Washington, D.C., before being sent to London. It was a cushy assignment reserved for FBI agents who were rising stars.
    “I’d kill for a good cup of coffee” he said. “The Brits may know how to make tea, but they’re lousy at brewing a simple cup of coffee. It’s one thing I miss.”
    “My stomach is a bit upset. I’ll just use the bathroom.”
    They pulled off the A14, and Cumerford parked near the front of the main service building. It was a modern, one-floor structure with large glass windows. Inside were five fast-food eateries, including a McDonald’s and a Kentucky Fried Chicken, located in a half-circle food court mobbed with customers.
    “I’m going to use the head, too, before I get my coffee,” Cumerford said. “I’ll meet you in the food court when you are done. Don’t make me come looking for you.”
    He shot her a smile.
    The restrooms were to the immediate left of the entrance, about twenty feet from the food court. When Showers walked into the women’s side, there were two girls washing their hands ata row of sinks. She slipped by them into an empty stall and struggled to unbutton her pants with her left hand. She struggled with the button and zipper and silently chuckled. She’d had an easier time fatally shooting a man with her left hand than she had dropping her jeans. As she sat down, she heard the girls at the sink depart. In the quiet, she let out a loud sigh. She was exhausted, but mostly frustrated, because she knew her shoulder injury was going to take her out of the action. She’d accomplished what she’d been sent to England for. She’d solved the double murders in Washington, D.C., that she’d been sent to England to investigate. She would explain to her superiors that Lebedev and Nad had orchestrated the kidnapping of Matthew Dull and the assassination of his stepfather, Senator Thurston Windslow. She didn’t know why Storm and the CIA hadn’t told her about the gold. She wasn’t supposed to know about it. But she’d been drawn into that aspect of the case when Lebedev started torturing Petrov in the back of the Mercedes. She suspected that “Steve Mason” already was scheming with Jedidiah Jones about ways to recover the gold. But she wouldn’t be part of that now. She’d be stuck at a desk tending her wound. She wondered if she would ever see Steve Mason again or if he would simply disappear