Project Icarus - Disavowed Series 01 (2021)

by Shah, R D

  Kessler’s look of incensed innocence began to evaporate as he too looked over at the offending item. There was only one sheet and it appeared to have been stuffed inside in a rush, leaving just a few centimetres poking out. Munroe had noticed it after having the drink spilled on him. It was a newspaper clipping with only one word visible, part of the banner headline. ‘Icarus.’

  “For someone who knows little of his friend’s activities you appear to follow his work closely.”

  Munroe now got to his feet and he moved to the hallway door where he poked his head out. Once satisfied it was clear turned his attention back to Kessler, who was looking not so much uncomfortable as angry. “Who else is in the house?” Munroe said in little more than a whisper, pushing the barrel of his gun closer towards Kessler.

  “It’s only us,” Kessler replied softly through gritted teeth.

  “Well I don’t believe that.” Munroe urged the older man to his feet with a flick of his gun. “Why don’t we go take a look, and then we can have a good chat about what you do know.”

  As Kessler stood up something curious happened to Munroe, and he began to feel his knees weaken. Then his head began to swirl slightly, knocking him off balance, and suddenly it dawned on him. He thrust Kessler back into his seat with the butt of his gun and immediately reached for the glass tumbler on the side table and raised it to his nose. It was pure vodka, but there was another scent, almost undetectable. Something chemical.

  “What’s in this?” Munroe growled as he threw the glass to the floor, smashing it and sending shards everywhere.

  “Don’t worry, it’s just something to make you a bit more comfortable,” Kessler said, his lips now curling upwards sinisterly, and he stood up as Munroe staggered backwards and very slowly tugged away his gun with ease. “It’s been seeping into your pores ever since I spilled it on you. But don’t worry, it won’t kill you.” Kessler now looked over Munroe’s shoulder and nodded. “He, on the other hand, is a different story entirely.”

  Munroe barely managed to turn his head before he felt a nylon cord thrust around his neck and then tighten. His head was swimming as the pressure intensified and it was at this point that instinct took over. Raising his left leg, he slammed it hard against Kessler’s chest, sending the older man flying back into the sofa. The momentum thrust him backwards against his unseen attacker, pushing them both back into the hallway, landing hard on the floor. The jolt did little to loosen the grip around his throat and Munroe now slammed his elbow into the attacker’s side and hip repeatedly. The firm stomach muscles felt like a man’s and with this in mind he struggled to place his feet on the ground either side and then he arched his back and slammed his hips down hard into the person’s groin.

  The blow hit its mark and along with a pained groan the grip on the cord loosened around his neck. Munroe slid both palms through the opening and then pulled it over the top of his head. He flung himself off to one side and groggily got to his feet to face the unknown attacker. He’d been expecting the face of Icarus, but the man before him was nothing like him. Still lying on the floor, cupping his genitals, the man was muscular, with thick, defined arms sticking through a sleeveless black T-shirt, wearing black gloves and a blonde crew cut.

  Munroe lurched forward and landed a heavy blow again in the man’s groin with the heel of his boot, but as he went in for a second time the attacker grabbed his sole and twisted it, sending him twizzling to the floor with a hefty slam. The drug was now really kicking in and by the time Munroe had stumbled to his feet the blonde-haired attacker was on him. Munroe blocked two flailing haymakers with his forearms and managed to drive his heel into the side of the man’s calf, putting him down on one knee, but ‘Blondie’ replied with an upwards punch to his ribs which sent him careening backwards and through the nearest doorway. Munroe slammed against the kitchen table, his head colliding with a brass cooking pot dangling from the overhanging partition, the blow dropping him face first to the surface. He looked back to see the attacker rushing him through the doorway. The kick he delivered to the chest had had less of an effect than he’d hoped for, his drug-laden muscles now stiffening, but it sent the man back a pace, giving him time to slip around the table, where he began retreating backwards slowly as Blondie advanced on him.

  Judging by the growing numbness in his hands and the way his vision was wavering, everything seeming to be lit up intensely, it was a given that his body would succumb to unconsciousness at any moment. As the attacker began to move closer Munroe retrieved a final desperate note from his playbook.

  And it was desperate.

  He came to a stop at the end of the kitchen table and waited as the man paced towards him down the narrow walkway, the table on one side and the kitchen appliances on the other. Munroe began to look as if he was starting to cry in helplessness, and when the attacker was no less than a metre from him he flung up his arm, pointing behind him and shouting in a terrified, high-pitched voice, “Jesus Christ, look out!”

  He couldn’t believe it, but Blondie actually turned to look, and in that moment Munroe reached for the refrigerator handle next to him and flung it open with all his weight behind it. The timing was perfect, and it hit the man just as he turned back to face him, sending him down onto his hindquarters with a bone-crunching whack. Without missing a beat Munroe reached up and grabbed the nearest overhanging brass pot, and then with a full swing slammed it down on top of the man’s head, sending him to the floor in a crumpled heap.

  The blow had done its job and Blondie was out cold, blood running from his nose, but it was now Munroe who collapsed to the floor, his back slamming against the far cupboard as the heavy pot dropped with a clang between his legs on the white tiled floor.

  “Impressive. You’ve got real stamina,” Kessler congratulated as he appeared at the kitchen doorway, pointing Munroe’s own SIG Sauer P320 at him. “Most people go down in half that time.”

  Munroe was now unable to move his arms, which lay limply either side of him. As his vision began to fog over, and as the familiar serenity of deep sleep captured his senses, he heard a few final words.

  “Well then, Mr Munroe. What exactly should we do with you?”

  Chapter 10

  The distant sound of slapping could be heard well before the stinging feeling of the blow, and Munroe woozily opened his bleary eyes just as another struck him across his right cheek.

  “Good. Finally,” Kessler said in exasperation. “Drugging you may have taken twice the time but waking you up has been almost intolerable.”

  Munroe had no idea how long he’d been out but given the view of a moonlit sky from the kitchen it had been some time. The muscles in his neck were sore from the attempted strangulation and as he looked past Kessler he could see the man who’d administered it. Blondie was leaning against the far kitchen wall, his bulging arms crossed, with a white plaster strip running across the bridge of his nose and two black bruises underneath each of his eyes, which were glaring at Munroe forebodingly.

  “That looks painful,” Munroe said with a slur as the numbness in his tongue began to subside, “you should get it looked at.”

  Blondie angrily unfolded his arms and took a step forward but Kessler put his arm out and tapped the muscular beast on the chest.

  “No, Gustav. There’ll be time for that later.”

  “Gustav!” Munroe said with a weary chuckle. “I had you pegged as a Barry or a Brian.”

  Kessler delivered another hard slap across Munroe’s cheek and then shook his head in dismay. “For someone in such a precarious predicament I would have expected a bit more humility.”

  Munroe wrinkled his nose at the blow and attempted a smile, even though his lips were also still numb and his head was pounding. “That’s the problem with expectations, they tend to let you down.”

  Kessler let out a short snort. “I don’t like to be let down, Mr Munroe. But by the time I finish you’ll be screaming like everyone else.”

  The word ‘everyone’ di
d not sit well, and Munroe struggled momentarily with the nylon rope binding his arms behind the back of the chair.

  “It’s quite tight, I assure you,” Kessler noted as Munroe turned his attention to the cooking hob just feet away. It was an old gas stove and one of the burners was lit, its blue flame licking the glowing metal point of an ice pick which had been laid across it. “Cooking tonight? You really didn’t have to go to the trouble on my account.”

  “Oh, but I do, Mr Munroe,” Kessler growled, and he picked up a green ceramic plate off the kitchen counter and smashed it over Munroe’s head, sending pieces tumbling down around him. “Consider that your entrée.”

  Kessler reached over and picked up the black wooden handle of the ice pick and held it to within inches of Munroe’s face, the orange glow lighting up the droplets of sweat on his forehead. “I think we’ll forgo another entrée, but the main will consist of the curdling of horrified screams as I slowly probe one of your testicles with this red-hot ice pick.” Kessler moved the weapon nearer. “By the time I move on to the other one, you’ll beg to lick my arsehole just to make me stop.”

  Munroe’s expression remained calm yet resilient and he winced slightly. “Not really the meal I had in mind.”

  Kessler glared at him furiously and it looked as if he were about to jam the glowing point deep into Munroe’s eye, but at the last moment he pulled back and returned the ice pick to the stove burner. “Enough of the games,” he shouted, allowing Munroe’s cavalier attitude to get the better of him, frustrated that his initial threats had failed. “Why have you come here, Mr Munroe. What is it you want?”

  Finally they could talk, and even though Munroe knew he was playing a risky game the only card he held was information. If he gave it up straight away he’d be dead within minutes. “I want Icarus.”

  With closed eyes Kessler raised his face to the ceiling, his lips taut in a grimace. “Icarus, Icarus, Icarus. Hasn’t that poor boy has suffered enough.”

  “Tell that to the people he butchered,” Munroe replied, sending a line of drool onto his shirt as he grappled to gain control of his mouth due to the after-effects of the unknown drug he had been given.

  Kessler raised his eyebrow uncaringly and slowly shook his head. “Oh please, Mr Munroe. Let’s not bullshit each other. You’re not here for those deaths.”

  Now it was Munroe who raised his eyebrows. “And how do you figure that?”

  “Because that’s a job for the police, and police don’t swan into a foreign country and go waving guns at old men like me… No, you’re something else entirely, and unless you tell me what that is, I am going to ask Gustav to begin breaking your fingers one by one.”

  Kessler flicked his hand towards Gustav, who was now smiling; he raised both his gigantic palms in the air and wiggled them slowly.

  “We’ll get to the ice pick later, I promise, but let’s begin with some old-fashioned bone snapping.”

  If ever there were a time to let slip a morsel of information, now was that time, and as Gustav took a step forward Munroe gave a nod. “OK. You’re right. I’m not here for all his victims. Just two of them.”

  Kessler signalled to Gustav and reluctantly the muscular henchman stopped within a foot of Munroe’s chair. “Go on.”

  “Two of them were MI6 officers.”

  Kessler looked stunned, and his shoulders sagged. “How do you know that? Even if you’re MI6, you shouldn’t know that.”

  It was an odd reply, but before Munroe could say anything a wicked look emerged across Kessler’s face. It wasn’t one of fascination but rather exhilaration, and he moved close to Munroe and looked over at Gustav.

  “Unless… Could we have a true believer? Here in this very kitchen?”

  Munroe had no idea what the old man was talking about but he played it straight and stared unemotionally as Kessler craned his head closer.

  “Could you be working for… DS5?”

  Munroe continued to stare blankly but Kessler obviously saw something in his eyes, perhaps a flicker of recognition, and he laughed out loud and slapped his hands together as Gustav also let out a deep grunt of satisfaction.

  Munroe wasn’t sure exactly what his connection meant to these people, but whatever it was, it wasn’t good. “Not for them, but I’ve had contact with them, and you should know, they’ll be on their way as we speak.”

  His answer wasn’t what Kessler had been hoping for and his excitement waned for a moment, but as he continued to stare at Munroe his smile returned.

  “Oh, I doubt that, Mr Munroe. If they knew who I really was they would have sent a team instead of a hired lackey to do some of their legwork.”

  Kessler leant back against the kitchen table and folded his arms. “You have no idea of the fiery cauldron you’ve been dropped into. Do you? What are you, ex-special forces? That’s usually the murky pool they dip into when they need a hired gun.”

  There were a lot of things that Munroe could have been concerned about at that moment. That he was tied to a chair at the mercy of Gustav. That he could be murdered at any minute, or that the ice pick on the stove was now red hot again. But what was top of his list was that this man appeared to know more about the organisation he was working for than he did.

  None of this was lost on Kessler, who once more folded his arms together. “You, my friend, have found yourself in the middle of something very, how should I say, hush hush. Not just within Whitehall’s corridors of power but globally. Very secretive, but I’m sure DS5 told you none of that.”

  Munroe said nothing as Kessler continued to speak, his voice wavering from time to time. He appeared to be taking great joy in illuminating everything Munroe didn’t know.

  “Icarus is but a pawn. A pawn within a much larger game. A chess match, if you like, that has been playing out for some years. We all have our parts to play, although young Icarus has taken it upon himself to try and shorten the game, and it’s left a bitter taste in everyone’s mouth.”

  “Can I ask you a question?” Munroe asked politely, and Kessler smugly replied with a nod.

  “Of course, ask away.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  Gustav sent a hard punch across Munroe’s face, knocking him to one side as Kessler waved the blonde meathead off. “It’s all right, Gustav. It can be frustrating being a lapdog and not in the know.”

  Kessler knelt down next to Munroe and rested his elbow upon the armrest. “Icarus is not his name, obviously, but it refers to something much bigger.” The old man began to unbutton his white shirt all the way to the bottom, and then he slipped out his right arm and lifted it up in the air before pointing to a small, black tattoo on the underside of the skin. It was a maze within a triangle, and at its centre lay a red circle, thin lines running off it in all directions like the symbol of a dark sun. “There is only one way in, and once inside you never leave.” Kessler sneered at Munroe’s puzzled expression and he tapped the tattoo with his free finger. “And neither would you want to. Project Icarus represents the kind of true devotion that transcends time and can never be extinguished There are those who build for a better future and those who hope for it… We take it.”

  Munroe was struggling to fully grasp what the old man was alluding to. To him it sounded like any other terrorist organisation he’d come across. And there had been a few. But as he stared into Kessler’s blue eyes he recognised something that all these people shared. It was the look, glassy wide eyes with an unshakeable stare. The look of a believer.

  Kessler, still kneeling, slipped his shirt back on and began to button it up. “Of course no one gets the tattoos anymore, they’re far too identifiable. A practice from a bygone age, but one that is soon to resurface in all its magnificence. As a kinsman of yours once wrote, ‘Cry Havoc, and let slip the dogs of war’.” Kessler looked up at the kitchen clock and then smiled ominously. “But I’m sure you can discuss it with your new friends.”

  “New friends?” Munroe replied as Gustav emitt
ed a playful grunt.

  “Yes, I called them just before you woke up. They should be here any minute. But I should warn you, they don’t like to play as I do… they’re far more serious.”

  Munroe thought about it for a second and then he gave a polite and accepting nod of his head. “Then I should thank you for giving me the time I needed.”

  A look of puzzlement fell across Kessler’s face and he leant in closer. “For what?”

  “For this.”

  Munroe pulled his hands free, grabbed the red-hot ice pick from the stove and jammed it between Gustav’s ribs, sending the searing hot spike sizzling directly into his heart, which dropped the man to the floor like a sack of bricks. Kessler was already stumbling backwards as Munroe grabbed him by the hair and held him tightly in his grasp. “Piece of advice,” he said, holding up a small shard of green ceramic plate between his fingers. “If you smash something over someone’s head, make sure they don’t catch any of it. Cuts through nylon easily.” He threw the piece at Kessler’s chest and tightened his grip. “And thanks for the information. A little bit vague, but I’ll take it.” With his left hand Munroe jerked Kessler forward, as his right fist slammed into the old man’s face, crumpling his nose in one blow.

  Kessler dropped to the floor in an unconscious heap as Munroe slid out of his chair and knelt beside him to pat down the old man’s jacket. He quickly found the bulge he was looking for in the side pocket and retrieved his black SIG Sauer P320. “And I’ll take that back, government property and all,” Munroe whispered to himself as he grabbed Kessler’s arm and hoisted the body onto his shoulders using a fireman’s lift. “Now let’s take a ride.”

  Munroe quick-stepped it back to the hallway and headed for the front door but he stopped within a few feet, realising there was one thing he’d forgotten. To his left in the front room his dark navy coat was still folded on the yellow sofa and he made a beeline for it, dropping Kessler down to the floor momentarily and slipping it on.