Chapter 33

The sky was a bright shade of indigo, and the clouds hung like ornaments from the blank expanse. It was raining, and sheets of water fell in earnest, making the ground shine like molten silver. Beneath the large window Storm stood before, he could see the blurry images of people running with their bags over their heads, wet and dripping. Cars zoomed by, and music blared from the corner of the streets. The effect was that all he saw seemed like an oil painting.

As he watched, rage swelled within him, rising until it threatened to burst out of him. He clenched and unclenched his fists as his heart pounded in his chest. His nostrils flared, and the sides of his head ached. It was as if a thousand shards of glass were stabbing his brain, drawing blood. He was disappointed. He was frustrated. He was angry. And most importantly, he was feeling particularly murderous.

Here he was again, on the edge of his victory, and he had been thwarted again. Years of meticulous planning and