The Storm Protocol (29 page)

I glanced at Foster and Roussel; they were mesmerised as to where the story was going.

‘Once the arrest team recovered from their shock and surprise, they shouted an order to surrender. The unknown assailant merely holstered his weapon, and slipped unseen into the dark. The thing is, while they were searching that wharf, the police officers got a bit jumpy. They were firing live rounds, in all directions, into the night. Even though he must have had officers in his sights during that time, he never once fired a shot. All they found were five dead bad guys and five shell casings.’

‘My beef is not with law enfo
rcement; never has been,’ I responded, by way of explanation. ‘They are just doing their job. I'm doing mine, and no hard feelings, as far as I’m concerned.’

Roussel and Foster exchanged a glance; from where I was sitting
, I couldn't tell what it was about.

‘September eleventh
, 2001,’ he continued. ‘The date will live long in the memory, for other more obvious reasons. But well outside the downtown area, shots were reported in a neighbourhood in Yonkers; officers were called to a boarded-up Food Lion. Six Colombian males were found dead, sprawled around twelve pallets of cocaine.’

I inclined my head in brief acknowledgement.

‘There was a handwritten note on top of one of the pallets,’ said the agent. ‘It was written all in capitals. It said simply,
just taking out the garbage.
’

‘Computers are to blame for that,’ I said. ‘I’ve lost the ability to write joined up.’

They looked at me in surprise, but I knew they understood what I meant.

‘Just a little freelance work,’ I said. ‘I used to do the odd job myself, especially if
the Colombians were involved. Let’s just say, we didn’t necessarily see eye to eye.’

‘On June the first,
1988,’ said the agent, ‘a young Irish immigrant was beaten senseless and left for dead in an alley in Brooklyn. Unusually for the time, he was legal; came over from Ireland on a green card he won in a lottery. The perpetrators were a bored and restless gang of Colombian youths. The young Irish man just happened to stray into their path at the wrong time; he survived against all the odds.’

‘Approximately three months later,’ he continued, ‘a you
ng Irish man ended up outside a particular bar. He walked inside, shouting and brandishing a gun. The eye witnesses in the lounge at the time all swore on oath that they didn’t believe he originally meant to kill; he just wanted to shake the gang up a little. It was indicative of his early naivety that he didn’t think they would be armed. They started pulling their weapons, leaving him with no choice. Five out of the six Colombian men were shot dead where they sat.’

Foster and Roussel were watching me with intense interest.

‘The last one; the leader of the gang, was mortally wounded. He managed to crawl out from under the table. The young Irish man walked over to the stricken youth. As he readied his weapon for the
coup de gras
, he was heard to whisper,
live by the Street, die by the Street
, before a single shot rang out and a legend was born.’

‘Not so sure about
legend
,’ I said, with a wry smile.

There was a period of intense silence
, as the information was digested by all.

‘Do you mind if we turn the tables a
bit; ask you some questions?’ asked Roussel.

He cast an anxious glance at the pottery shards behind his shoulder.

‘If I can answer them, I will,’ I said in response.

‘On the evening of the tenth of May
2011, were you present at Augustine Mansion?’

‘I was,’ I replied with a smile.

I couldn’t help it. He sounded so much like a policeman.

‘And did you kill Scott Mitchell and another as yet unknown person on that same night?’

‘I did,’ I answered, making him blink in surprise.

I’m not sure if it was my honesty that put him off, but he shouldn’t have been shocked. If he was worth his salt as an investigator, then he
should have already suspected the answer.

‘It was in self-defence,’ I stated
, ‘if that makes a difference. At least I thought it was at the time.’

I added the clarification, which soun
ded slightly lame, all things considered.

‘We didn't find any weapons,’ said Roussel.

‘Probably in the belly of a gator by now,’ I said. ‘I threw them straight into the middle of the river, both of them. You don't know how much I hated doing that. One of them was my favourite weapon; perfectly balanced.’

‘Who is the other guy? The one we weren’t able to ID?’ asked Roussel.

‘No idea,’ I said.

‘You did say you would answer all the questions,’ said Roussel.

‘I also said that if I knew the answer I would,’ I replied. ‘This time I don’t.’

He tried a different tack.

‘Well if you don’t know who he is,’ he asked, ‘any guesses as to why his criminal records are classified?’

I thought about it for a second.

‘Guido and Ernesto decided that I was no longer on the payroll,’ I said. ‘They asked me to do one last job, then sent a cleanup squad to tidy up after me and take out the trash, me included. I hadn't suspected at all, but they had decreed that I too was destined for the dumpster. Luckily for me, the team they sent were just slightly too green and I managed to neutralise them all. Unfortunately, the gentleman I was meeting wasn't so lucky; even though I tried my best to protect him, they managed to kill him. Don’t ask me how they tracked me to Louisiana, but track me they did, have no doubt about that. In answer to your question....’

I thought about it for a second.

‘He was an assassin; a mercenary, plain and simple. Probably freelance, but angling to get on their books. What better way to make a name for yourself than eliminating your predecessor.’

‘But why classified?’ asked Roussel. ‘I get everything else you’re saying
, but I just don't understand why his identity would be considered secret?’

‘His connection with the Mancini’s
, I would guess. Anyway, does it matter?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Roussel. ‘I have a feeling it does.’

‘Why did they want to get rid of you?’ asked Foster suddenly, switching the direction of the conversation.

‘I
’d developed a conscience,’ I said. ‘No, in fairness, I already had a conscience. More correctly, I rediscovered my conscience. That would be a better way to state it.’

I laughed at their expressions.

‘I know, it sounds pathetic doesn’t it, coming from the mouth of a professional killer. But I came to a realisation; something that should have struck me years ago really. In those warehouses, all I normally saw were stacks of merchandise, pallets of square bricks wrapped in polythene. It only occurred to me recently that it wasn't just the scumbags who were dying. Those polythene bricks were killing innocent people. Don't get me wrong, I take full responsibility for every time I’ve pulled the trigger, it just came to the point where I couldn't deal with the unseen casualties, and the Mancini’s knew it too.’

‘But they have always dealt in drugs,’ said Foster. ‘They are one of our biggest targets.’

‘Oh I know that,’ I said. ‘Call it self-delusion, call it self-denial, call it what you like. To be honest, all the other stuff I did, I was fine with. The prostitution, the protection, the racketeering; all of the guys that I killed during those times, would have done the same to me at the drop of a hat. It was dog eat dog. The drugs were different. No matter how I tried to rationalise it, at the end of the day I was culpable; as guilty as if I was injecting the gear into the addicts myself.’

‘So
, would you describe yourself as anti-drugs?’ asked Foster.

‘Strangely enough, I think I would,’ I said.

‘So, what is Storm?’ he asked.

I thought of the white folder and the myriad ope
n loops it would close for him.

But i
t was too soon.

‘It’s a drug,’ I said. ‘It was originally developed in the
1920’s as a pharmaceutical tool to enforce human compliance with communist ideals, and was later developed into a biological weapon.’

‘So
, what is the modern significance?’ asked Foster.

‘I’m no expert,’ I said, ‘but from what I understand
, it removes the power of free will. You will do whatever you are directed to do without question. However, there are also unforeseen side-effects. Apart from making the user compliant, it gives them a glorious and almost unimaginable high, without any of the nasty physical side effects normally associated with addiction.’

I nodded at their expressions.

‘Yes, imagine it,’ I said. ‘No cold turkey, no withdrawal symptoms, nothing to complicate the enjoyment. The addiction is purely mental, which makes it all the more difficult to resist.’

Foster sat back and drummed his fingers on his chin.

‘Can you imagine what would happen if a drug like that was to hit the street?’ I stated flatly.

‘Something big, something huge,’ muttered Foster
, under his breath.

‘Sorry?’ I said.

‘Nothing,’ he replied, shaking his head and rousing himself. ‘But sometimes it is nice to be right.’

He said this, more to himself than anyone else, allowing a small smile to crease his features.

‘So what's your story, Mr CIA man?’ I asked, turning to the anonymous agent. ‘Have you got any questions for me?’

‘Oh don’t worry,’ he said. ‘You’ve given me all the answers I c
ould possibly ever want to know,’ he added cryptically.

I looked at him quizzically, but he just shook his head. A small Mona Lisa smile briefly flitted across his lips. Enigmatic, isn’t that what they called it? I was just about to say something else
, when my sixth sense kicked into overdrive. I caught the merest flash of movement beyond the window. I didn’t hesitate.

‘Down,’ I shouted, as the window came crashing inwards in a shower of glass and cordite.

18
th
May 2011 – Eight days after the Storm.

Then ye shall rise up from the ambush, and seize upon the city: for the lord your God will deliver it into your hand. – Joshua 8:7.

‘Is everyone okay?’ I whispered into the intense silence, as the last shard fell to the ground with a tinkle.

They all nodded dazedly and I realised what was wrong. I could see them. I rolled sideways, grabbed the gun, turned onto my back
, and shot out the light, all in one smooth fluid motion. I felt the gossamer pinpricks on my face, as the hot bulb fragments fell like snowflakes.

The dark was much more comforting.

I unscrewed the silencer, turned and fired two shots out through the open window. In the confined space of the small room, the bark of the reports was temporarily deafening.

‘That should give us a couple of minutes,’ I
muttered softly.

I turned my attention to the front panel of the couch.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ whispered Roussel savagely.

I put a finger to my lips and then grabbed the panel with both hands. I jerked it towards me forcefully. There was a sharp popping sound
, and then the panel dropped free, revealing the small storage cavity behind it. I grabbed two more pistols and associated clips.

The agent was in the process of retrieving his weapon from the easy chair, so I thrust the brace of newly liberated guns at Roussel.

‘Here,’ I whispered to him sharply. ‘Take one of these and give the other one to Foster.’

As Roussel
worked, I continued whispering.

‘I presume everyone knows how to handle a gun?’ I asked
, in a low stilted voice.

All I could hear in response were the abrupt metallic clicks
, as clips were loaded and chambers were primed. I considered the professions of my erstwhile colleagues and allowed myself a small smile; silly question really.

I beckoned them all near
, so that I could keep my voice down.

‘Roussel,’ I whispered. ‘Seeing as you came in via the lane and through the yard, you’ll have the most familiarity with the back of the house. Take Foster with you and cover the rear.’

‘You,’ I whispered, pointing at the agent. ‘You stay with me and we’ll cover the front.’

‘Hold on a second,’ whispered Roussel questioningly. ‘How do we know these aren’t police?’

I picked up a shard of glass from the shattered window and showed it to him.

‘Since when do the police shoot first and ask questions afterwards?’

His face contorted as he thought about it and then formed into a grimace of apology. I motioned them towards the kitchen and Roussel crawled out slowly, picking a route gingerly through the broken glass. Foster followed him on his hands and knees, equally carefully.

The door
frame through to the kitchen was splintered, where some of the bullets had found their mark, but the equally damaged door still swung open noiselessly enough. I waited until they had both passed through, and what was left of the door closed behind them.

I strained my ears to catch the whispered shout.

‘In position!’

I gestured to the agent and we both sat back against the base of the couch. We were dire
ctly underneath the window sill, the one that faced the street. It was definitely the safest place in the house at that particular moment.

I glanced across at the CIA man. He blinked his eyes a couple of times in response. He’d heard it too; uncertain and forceful whispering, wafting through the damaged window. I strained my ears again, elongating the sense to its maximum reach. And then the shouted question, as the agent looked across at me in surprise.

‘Thomas?’

The name was loudly
yelled, and I almost didn't recognise it. I still wasn’t tuned back in to the local dialect, and people had not called me Thomas in a long time.

‘Or should I call you Eugene?’ shouted the stranger. ‘Which is a pretty
shit name, if you ask me? Are you shit, Thomas? Or shitting yourself maybe, like the snivelling little coward you are?’

I said nothing. I didn’t think he would be able to help himself and I was right.

‘We know you’re in there,’ he shouted. ‘And don’t think your little pop gun frightens us. We’ve got some serious weaponry out here.’

I flinched in surprise rather than fright
, as another burst of automatic gunfire came through the shattered window. A wound magically appeared on the opposite wall. I watched with a detached disinterest, as the scar opened and spread, consuming everything in its path. A picture and a mirror disintegrated under the relentless assault.

I glanced across at the agent. His eyes were closed
, but his face was relaxed. His grip on the gun was firm, but not tense. He had definitely been under fire before.

I wasn’t sure about Roussel and Foster. As long as they stayed low
, they should be fine. Foster was an unknown quantity, but Roussel and guns would definitely not be strangers.

‘So what’s it to be, Thomas?’ shouted the mystery voice.

The agent opened his eyes and looked at me. I gestured for him to move to his side of the window frame. The walls of the house were a foot thick. Unless they had cannons, there was nothing coming through them. We slid around each side of the couch with our backs to the walls, and used our knees to slowly inch our way up, until we were both standing.

When I had redecorated the house, I had specified a heavy full length drape curtain. I was now seriously glad that I had. I motioned to the agent with my hand, trying to demonstrate what I was about to do, and then slipped between the drapes and the wall, relieved when I saw t
he agent doing the same. I crept as close to the outside edge of the frame as possible, trying to get a sense of what was happening outside, and how many assailants there were.

We were lucky in some ways, even though we were the ones purportedly trapped. Since I had shot the bulb out, we had the slimmest of advantages. We would be able to see out
, but they would find it very difficult to see in. Unless we made any silly sudden moves, we would be able to keep our positions camouflaged and thus retain a slight superiority.

From my place of concealment
, I positioned myself slowly and carefully, trying to manoeuvre the scene outside as far into my field of vision as I possibly could, without giving myself away. My eyes had long since adjusted to the gloom. I let them wander over the tableau, building up a slow and steady mental picture.

There were two high-sided panel vans parked on the other side of the road. I could make out the barrels of three machine guns. As I watched, two other men came briefly out of cover. One of them was signalling to another
group of men further down the street. The signals were fairly easy to interpret, and if I was reading them right, four guys were being sent down the lane and around the back.

I made a sharp and loud
psst!
sound under my breath. The agent’s face slowly materialised from the gloom between the drape and the wall. I signalled with my hand below the level of the wall. Five men were out front and four were heading around the back. He silently confirmed that he’d understood.

‘What’s it to be Thomas, time’s running out for you?’

I inched back behind the relative safety of the solid masonry.

‘Fuck you,’ I shouted. ‘You want me? Come and get me!’

I knew that he couldn't afford to wait much longer. The amount of gunfire had been too great. Knowing who they were, I would have taken bets that my neighbours on both sides were already jamming the local emergency switchboard. There were only so many car backfires you could rationalise away in a given night. No, his time was running out. He would have to try a full frontal assault. That’s when the balance of power would shift. I knew it and the agent knew it too. I inched back into my position of surveillance. It looked like the two men I’d glimpsed before were readying themselves for the charge.

We shrank back behind the walls again as the three machine guns laid down covering fire. The room literally exploded in a shower of wood chips, pottery fragments and plaster dust. I heard activity on the front step. They had made it that far at least.

‘Roussel; there are four coming around the back! Be careful.’ I shouted.

‘Roger,’ came back the muffled acknowledgement.

I threw myself across the room to lay prone in the opposite corner. The agent shrank further into his place of concealment, and there was a split second of unnatural silence.

The next thing, the door seemed to explode inwards. I could see the muzzle flashes and the next thing I saw was the toe of a boot
, as someone kicked away the splintered remains of the door.

I saw the agent tense from his corner, and as the doorway filled with shadow, neither of us hesitated.

As if unconsciously connected, we started firing at exactly the same time, matching each other bullet for bullet, report for report, until the clips were exhausted. It was the first time I had emptied a full clip in anger.

The t
ime for superstitions was over.

We waited a couple of seconds. The agent crawled over and knelt down next to where the bodies had fallen. He felt for a pulse on one then the other, shaking his head slightly twice; two dead, seven to go.

No sooner had silence descended, than the shooting started again, this time from the kitchen. We waited, more tense than we had been during our own action. It was over in about ten seconds.

‘Roussel?’
I whispered hopefully; expectantly.

‘Still here,’ he replied softly
, and I could hear his voice cracking. ‘We’re coming back in.’

The two of them crawled back, keeping below the level of the window. They were covered head to toe in dust and debris. They appeared like war-painted warriors.

‘It was a turkey shoot,’ whispered Roussel, his plaster mask cracking with a smile.

‘As easy as shooting fish in a barrel,’ said Foster, but he was shaking a little.

‘Good job,’ I said.

‘One managed to crawl away, but he won't be making any more attacks.’

‘So, you can handle a gun.’

‘Me and Foster both,’ said Roussel.

‘I have shot a gun the odd time,’ acknowledged Foster with a fleeting smile.

He surreptitiously covered his gun hand with the other to stop it trembling.

The agent scrambled over to where we lay.

‘Sorry to butt-in on this NRA reunion, ladies,’ he said, ‘but there are still armed men outside this house who want to kill us, and I’d say they are seriously starting to get pissed right about now.’

As he spoke, there came a hesitant shout.

‘Boss, are you all right?’

When no one answered, he tried again.

‘Boss, are you in there?’

‘I’m afraid he can’t come out to play again, on account of his being dead,’ I shouted.

I heard a strangled cry
, followed by a car door opening and slamming.

Then a
shout rang out.

‘Jimmy, what the fuck are you doing? Not that, you fucking madman.’

I heard, rather than saw the object; the swish, as it sailed through the gaping hole where the window had been. The agent had seen it too; the unmistakable profile against the glow from the streetlights.

‘Grenade!’ he shouted.

Foster and Roussel were up and through the kitchen door like greyhounds. I was right behind them, smashing my way through the frame. I made a dive through the shattered remains of the back door, and landed heavily on the concrete tiles that lined the back yard.

Just before I hit the deck, I felt the ground swell of the explosion lift the air under my body
, and then the garden became a seething mass of dust and debris.

As I hit the ground again and rolled away, the force of the explosion seemed to collapse the house in on itself. It
appeared to shrink and fold inwards, before the sound of the detonation reinforced what my other senses were telling me.

It seemed to last for minutes, but
in reality, it was over in seconds. There was no sound; not even the tweet of a bird. A dangerous calm descended on me; the white heat of anger.

‘Is everyone okay?’ I asked matter-of-factly, as I allowed the rage to course through my body.

‘As well as can be expected, given the circumstances,’ coughed Roussel.

‘Same here,’ said Foster, gently feeling himself for broken bones.

‘Has anyone seen the agent?’ I asked.

They shook their heads collectively.

‘I think he went the other way,’ said Roussel. ‘Towards the explosion....’

His voice trailed off.

‘Give me your gun,’ I said to Roussel.