The Storm Protocol (28 page)

‘Can you miss?’ asked Sean.

‘The missile is GPS guided,’ said the major. ‘It’s impossible to miss once the coordinates are uploaded. It’s just safer to point the launcher at the target than in another random direction.’

Sean nodded his understanding.

‘As part of the missile deployment solution, there is a sensor that measures the concentration levels of the gas within the target area. This is identified on the rangefinder as an amber warning light. You will need to fire one missile every minute until that amber light goes out.’

‘So what happens then?’ asked Sean
, expecting more.

‘Then, Sergeant Kelly, I'm afraid you wait.’

Sean blinked at the unusual pronunciation of sergeant. He’d almost forgotten that Major Thompson was American.

‘For how long, sir?’

‘Approximately seven hours. That's why it's critical that you identify fortified positions that you can contain. Once the weapon has been deployed, no one can be allowed to leave or escape.’

‘So what happens at the seven hour mark, sir?’ asked Sean.

‘You wait for a further hour,’ said Major Thompson.

He and the general exchanged that same look again.

‘No matter what else happens,’ he added cryptically, ‘you must wait that extra hour. Then you go in, still wearing your masks and secure the area.’

‘What happens if there is any resistance?’ asked Sean.

Major Thompson and General Bradford exchanged their first smile of the conversation.

‘Son,’ said Bubba, ‘and trust me on this. There will be no resistance.’

#

Almost exactly a week later, Kelly assembled his team under one of the training tents in Camp Bastion. They were fresh off a four day vacation
, and it had been decided, further up the chain of command, that it was the ideal time to equip and train the team with the new weapon.

Sean watched them critically out of the corner of his eye. It was the same picture you would get watching any gathering of men from eight to eighty. They were all jockeying for position; all trying
to establish themselves as the alpha male.

He knew they regarded him with some suspicion
, and they also collectively thought that sometimes he was a little too easily led, but he’d been working on those qualities. He knew he was becoming a better solider and a better leader. But most of all, he knew from long experience on the battlefields, that once those helmets went on and the doors of the compound were opened, they would do anything for him and for each other. They were, in short, just an ordinary bunch of lads who had become moulded into a superior fighting force by an extraordinary situation.

‘Quiet!’ he shouted suddenly
, into the melee.

He laughed at their discomfiture
, as they came shuffling and muttering over to where he stood.

‘Right ladies,’ he said, as he started handing out the simple operational manuals. ‘Gather round, we’ve got some work to do.’

18
th
May 2011 – Eight days after the Storm.

It is easier to judge the mind of a man by his questions rather than his answers. – Pierre Marc Gaston de Levis.

I was dog tired, and I knew it wasn't over. The death squads always came in fours, so there was another one out there somewhere, maybe watching me right now. This would be an interesting conversation; I’d have to keep my wits about me.

‘I think we’ll start with
our most recent party crasher first,’ I said, indicating my latest captive.

I screwed the silencer car
efully onto the end of the 9mm.

‘Let’s be perfectl
y clear about one thing,’ I added. ‘No one speaks unless invited to do so. I have killed many times before, I am on the run and I am very tired, so I will have no hesitation in killing again, do I make myself clear?’

As I removed the gag from the last captive, I studied each man closely. Without the benefit of speech, their eyes were the next most expressive communication tool they had. My initial snap judgement looked like it was proving to be correct. All three of them were fearful certainly, but not afraid; there was a subtle difference between the two emotions.

As I finally freed the gag, I put a hand over his lower face, placing the silencer to my lips and raising my eyebrows. He understood my meaning; he didn’t like it, but he understood it. I removed my hand slowly from his mouth, and sat back down in the chair. He looked at me with a baleful stare; he was not happy.

I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could formulate the words
, he made his first error.

‘You’re making a big mistake,’ he said
softly.

I didn’t let him finish the sentence. The vase on the window ledge
, behind and slightly to the right of his head, exploded into a thousand pieces. Mum had loved it, but I’d never cared for it; an expedient choice of target.

‘The instructions were very simple,’ I said. ‘The next one will be six inches to the left.’

He nodded, but again there was something controlled about his demeanour; grudging acceptance, rather than blind panic.

‘Do you know who I am?’ I asked.

‘You are Thomas Eugene O'Neill, a.k.a
The Street,
a.k.a.
Street
,’ he replied without hesitation.

I acknowledged the delivered statement without surprise. He would know who I was
, all right.

I studied him closely
, prior to moving on. He was good-looking, tanned and well built; lots of work in the gym, I suspected, but very little martial arts or combat experience. His defence had been instinctive, rather than trained. His southern US accent was the only surprise. Guido and Ernesto tended to avoid the Confederacy; another one of their many foibles.

I removed the gag from the second man. He regarded me with wary and watchful eyes
, but didn't make the same mistake as his predecessor. He waited for the question.

‘What do you want from me?’ I asked.

He looked at me and held my gaze.

‘Storm,’ he said eventually
, and with finality.

Yet again, it was no surprise to me; they wanted their folder back.

I turned to the last of the men; the older one, the first one I had apprehended. He had a swagger, an aura of self assurance about him that made me assume he was their leader. I removed the gag from his mouth. He spat a couple of times and coughed.

‘Who are my former employers?’ I asked him.

He smiled at the word
former
.

‘Guido and Ernesto Mancini,’ he answered
, without pause.

‘So this question to all of you,’ I said, tapping the silencer to my temple and pointing to each of them in turn. ‘Where is your buddy, your colleague, the last member of the team?’

I watched them closely as they exchanged quizzical glances. They were either extremely good at faking it, or they had absolutely no idea what I was talking about.

I transferred my attention back to the first captive.

‘Okay, let’s try a different tack,’ I said. ‘Give me your name and occupation.’

‘Detective Charles Rous
sel, badge number 6566,’ he answered immediately. ‘I work out of St James Parish CID in Louisiana.’

‘I know where it is,’ I said softly, to hide my surprise.

I turned my attention away from Roussel to the second man.

‘And you?’ I asked. ‘Same question.’

‘Special Agent Dale Foster, Drugs Enforcement Administration,’ he said, with emphasis on the
Special
. ‘I’m normally based out of Westchester, New York, but I’m currently task force liaison with NYPD, based on 10
th
avenue.’

This time I couldn’t hide my surprise.

‘DEA?’ I inquired incredulously.

‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘Although I’m not here in an official capacity,’ he added, his voice trailing away.

I shook my head a couple of times, and then turned my attention to the last man.

‘Don't tell m
e,’ I said sarcastically. ‘FBI right?’

‘Almost,’ he said unsmilingly. ‘Let's just say it’s the other one and leave it at that
, shall we?’

I looked at him wordlessly for a few minutes. I then whipped out the small Swiss Army knife I always carried
, and cut their bonds quickly and cleanly. As they sat there, rubbing their wrists and ankles to renew the circulation, I spoke up again.

‘Well gentlemen,’ I said. ‘This changes everything.’

I showed them the weapon I held, and then slowly and deliberately laid it to one side. As fellow armed professionals, I hoped they would interpret it as a sign of trust.

‘You,’ I gestured at Roussel
, as I spoke. ‘Can I call you Charles, by the way?’ I asked.

‘Sure,’ he nodded.

‘So, Charles,’ I continued. ‘I’m guessing that you eventually managed to find a paper trail; maybe a set of documents that attested to my ownership of a certain Plantation house, even though I tried to hide the transaction as best I could, by using a lawyer from well outside the normal parish boundaries? And because of that, you believe I'm implicated in at least one, but more probably, both murders that happened on that evening of May tenth, am I right?’

‘That just about covers it,’ he said.

‘You see, Charles,’ I said. ‘I get you. I understand why you are here. I thought it would take law enforcement longer to find me, but I do understand the logical route you travelled to get here, and the assumptions you made about my innocence or guilt.

I gestured at Foster.

‘But you....’ I said.

I gestured at the nameless CIA
agent.

‘And especially you....
’ I said.

I paused to let it sink in.

‘I have no idea what possible interest you guys could have with me?’

‘If I may,’ responded
Foster.

I nodded at him.

‘Sure, go ahead,’ I said.

‘For me, it started about a week ago,’ said Foster. ‘All I got at first was a vague indication, then some more specific rumblings about something big about to go down. I started to take notice, especially when a particular duo of unrelated informants gave me roughly the same information, but from wildly differing standpoints and for wildly different reasons.’

I inclined my head briefly, inviting him to go on.

‘We then got lucky with a bust; a man called Sam Rudino.’

My eyebrows arched up in the middle.

‘Really?’
I asked. ‘He was always a meek and mild one. So what trouble has young Sammy got himself into?’

‘He was involved in a fight outside a nightclub,’ said Foster.

‘His ego was always grossly mismatched with his personality when he had a few drinks on board.’ I said. ‘But unfortunately for him, he didn’t have the fists or the fight to back up his mouth. Go on.’

‘When we brought him in, or rather when we interviewed him, it transpired that he was in a spot of bother.’

Foster smiled at the memory.

‘Let’s just say
, he misappropriated an amount of something that didn't belong to him.’

I whistled softly.

‘I was always telling them,’ I said. ‘That place was just far too relaxed. It was full of more holes than a Swiss cheese, but they never listened to me.’

I clarified the statement.

‘Not on that, anyway,’ I finished abruptly.

‘Who didn’t listen?’ asked Foster interestedly.

‘It’s your story,’ I said. ‘But you know exactly who I mean; Guido and Ernesto, of course.’

Foster acknowledged my remark with a flash of triumph; obviously some personal vindication of some sort.

‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘Sam confirmed to us, or at least as far as he could corroborate, that this ghost we’d been chasing; this big one.’

‘Storm,’ I offered.

‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘As far as Sam could ascertain, Storm was a drug; a new drug that was going to be coming out of a place called Cork, in Ireland.’

He stopped to scratch the side of his face absently.

‘Because he had decided to be so helpful,’ continued Foster, ‘we decided to cut him some slack. We went back to Rudino’s, and in an effort to cover Sam’s light fingered indiscretion, we interviewed two more individuals that he’d indicated might be able to provide us with a few more leads.’

‘Let me guess,’ I said, ‘Mario and Franco; more gossip between them than a couple of Neapolitan Nonna’s.’

Foster laughed in spite of himself.

‘You know them?’ he asked, half a statement really
. ‘So it wouldn't surprise you to know that it was them who gave us your name?’

‘Not in the least,’ I replied.

‘So....’

Foster reddened slightly.

‘....here is where it gets slightly tricky. At the start of my career, I was desperate to be noticed and to get ahead.’

‘Aren’t we all,’ I commented.

‘Maybe so,’ he acknowledged. ‘But in this case I let it cloud my judgement. Due to some over exuberance and under investigation on my part, I may have inadvertently encouraged my superiors in an ultimately expensive and fruitless investigation.’

I smiled at the description.

‘You were sold a pup,’ I stated flatly.

He nodded.

‘So when I presented them my latest evidence; as circumstantial as it comes, I think you’ll agree; they were not overly enthusiastic, to put it mildly. Firstly, there was the linking of
Storm
, the new drug, with Ireland, and the rumours of its manufacturing base being established in Ireland too. Secondly, there was the name
the Street
, given to me during an interview, also linked with both Ireland and the Mancini’s. In their eyes, I’d added two and two and got a hundred. You can imagine their response. I was politely told that I really needed to take a break. So here I am.’

‘Okay, I can see how you got my
nickname,’ I said. ‘But how did you find me, once you got here?’

‘The FBI reporting p
ortal gave me your real name,’ he answered.

‘But how did you find the house
, if you are here unofficially?’ I asked.

‘The register of marriages, births, and deaths,’ said Foster. ‘I
drew a blank on you, but your mother’s death certificate lists this address.’

‘Very resourceful,’ I said, actually genuinely impressed.

‘What about you?’ I asked Roussel, turning back to him. ‘How did you find me?’

‘Same method; slightly different route,’ he said. ‘I didn’t have to rely on the register of marriages, births, and deaths.
I had a tip off and the local police did the rest of my digging for me.’

‘Very commendable,’ I said.

The third man was watching me with a slightly superior smirk.

‘And what about you?’
I asked the anonymous agent. ‘You've kept very quiet; what's your story?’

‘I don’t have one,’ he said. ‘You
, on the other hand....’

He paused and closed his eyes. They flickered under the lids like computer hard drives seeking information.

‘July seventeenth, 1993,’ he said at last.

I blinked in surprise.

‘An NYPD team closed in on an extremely large shipment; heroin I think, but that’s the only thing I’m hazy about. Just before the team received the order to go, a man strolled out into the middle of the deal. Even though there were five heavily armed gang members, they seemed afraid. Unfortunately, one of them panicked and they all ended up dead. But here’s the kicker....’

The a
gent looked directly at me, as he spoke.