Project Icarus - Disavowed Series 01 (2021)

by Shah, R D

  “I like this coat, and besides, it’s got my driver’s licence in it,” Munroe justified to himself given the urgency of getting out of the house. He then picked his host up again and headed back towards the entrance, but he stopped dead in his tracks as the door handle began to turn.

  Munroe froze, his gun raised, and watched as the door slowly swung open and a man in blue jeans wearing grey body armour over a navy T-shirt stepped inside. There was a moment of hesitation and then he turned to face the sight of Munroe, with Kessler flopped over his back, pointing his handgun directly at him. The man remained stationary – there was no twitching or jerking back in surprise but instead only a slow movement from the other side of his body as his left hand reached for something by his waist. Munroe shook his head warningly but the handgun was already being raised towards him and so he discharged two shots. The first clipped the man’s neck but the second hit its intended mark just above the left eye, sending his assailant to the ground in a puff of red mist.

  Munroe was already moving to the far side of the living room to find cover when he heard the familiar sound of a metal spring unloading and a grey canister flashbang dropped into the hallway, bouncing along the carpet before coming to a stop next to the dead body.

  With his eyes clenched tightly shut Munroe turned his head, clutching Kessler’s body close to one ear and raising his shooting hand to his other. Both rooms were lit up in a bright light as the canister erupted in a white flash and unleashing a deafening explosion, sending plumes of smoke outwards in every direction. Fortunately Munroe’s reaction had softened most of the intended sensory overload and he looked back to the doorway to see two men pile through it holding M4 carbines with vertical grips, training their barrels around the hallway in arcs.

  The first shot Munroe got off hit the closest attacker right in the forehead, sending him colliding backwards into the other one, knocking him off balance. His next shot merely winged the second man’s shoulder as his assault rifle now began spraying bullets across the living room, sending trails of broken plaster into the air as they riddled the walls of the front room.

  Munroe’s final shot capped the man right through the throat and with blood gushing from the wound the attacker dropped his rifle and fell to the carpet in a writhing heap, clutching at his neck.

  Before the attacker had even hit the floor, Munroe was already manoeuvring through the living room side door into a dining room and heading deeper towards the rear of the house when the bombardment of gunfire erupted all around him. The rouge-tinted china on the dining table began to explode around him as the barrage shredded everything it came into contact with and Munroe plunged to the floor, bringing Kessler slamming down on top of him. Inches above the mayhem continued as shots tore over both men, slamming into the walls and sending pieces of plasterboard down on top of them.

  Munroe pressed his head to the floor and waited. If Kessler’s friends had wanted him alive then their plans had changed and they had no misgivings about taking out the old man either.

  The volleys above him abruptly ceased and Munroe could now hear the attack being focused on the other side of the house. He seized the moment and rushed to his feet, slung Kessler back over his shoulder and ran as fast as he could to the only visible way out, the large single window at the far end of the dining room. Above the intense sound of gunfire the shattering of glass was hardly audible as Munroe crashed through the window and landed with a hard thud on the lawn outside, with Kessler rolling off to one side. The nose of Munroe’s gun had hit the ground barrel down, twisting his wrist painfully in the process, but after a quick shake to ensure no bones were broken he got to his feet to see the old man regaining consciousness, his eyelids beginning to flutter. One swift punch to the face and Kessler was once more out cold. Munroe heaved the old man back onto his shoulder again and, after quickly rotating his gun hand a few times just to shake off the stiffness, he made his way towards the waist-high wood-panelled fencing skirting the property and the row of conifers towering behind it.

  Back at the house the gunfire was beginning to die down, and by the time he’d dumped Kessler’s body over the fence and followed after it the commotion had stopped completely. With the old man back on his shoulders, Munroe pushed past the dense conifers until, on the other side, he found himself only a hundred metres from his rental car. Better still, there was no one guarding it.

  Within seconds he had reached the silver Renault, unlocked the front passenger door and pushed Kessler inside. It was now he got his first clear look at the men undertaking the assault. Three tan Humvees were parked up in a line and six men, dressed identically to the others in jeans and grey chest body armour, were lined up outside the front entrance about to make a breach of the chateau. Everything from the trucks, weaponry and tactics screamed military, but the nearest HQ Munroe knew of was the NATO air base in Bordeaux-Mérignac, twenty miles away.

  Munroe made his way to the driver’s side and quietly slid into the leather seat as he felt an unsettling twitch in the depths of his stomach. With the high-tech rescue of Icarus back on Waterloo Bridge and now this crew of trained mercs, whoever was pulling the strings clearly had serious, professional backing.

  He turned to the slumped body of Kessler, propped up in the seat, and then tapped the old man’s leg. “You and I need to have a talk,” Munroe whispered, waiting for the team to enter the house, and with the sound of flashbangs going off in the distance he turned on the engine and slowly drove away into the night.

  Chapter 11

  “So, I’m eleven years old and my parents are downstairs watching Star Trek.”

  “The Next Generation?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one. Anyway, I sneak into their room and make my way over to this big old dressing table where my father used to keep his socks and, as quietly as I can, I pull open the top drawer and begin rummaging around. It takes me a few nervous seconds of scrambling around in the dark before I feel it, right at the back. A Playboy. I’d seen my father looking at it earlier that day and I just had to get my hands on it. Of course nowadays I wouldn’t even bat an eyelid, but to a thirteen-year-old boy in the throes of puberty, it was like hitting the jackpot, hitting pay dirt. Anyway, so I get my hands on this ‘jazz mag’, right, and I sneak back to my room to check it out. Now I don’t know whether my father had some sixth sense or what, but within minutes he bursts into the room and busts me ogling this full spread of Miss November and he goes ballistic. He snatches the magazine out of my hands and starts giving me this big lecture about how I’m too young to be looking at such things and how I should be ashamed of myself because women are not objects, which is a foolish point to make because it was his magazine, so I told him: ‘Father, you bought this magazine, not me!’”

  The storyteller took a deep breath and then exhaled with a knowing shake of his head. “Of course I knew the moment I said it I’d gone too far. You could see the sparks in his eyes flaming up. Sure enough, within seconds my father had slid off his belt, folded it in half and proceeded to give me five of the hardest slaps on the ass I’ve ever had. My cheeks were burning for hours. Anyway, my point is that corporal punishment is no way to treat your own child, and I never forgave him for it. I was his own blood, for Christ’s sake. It’s just heartless, mean. It’s got no place in a modern society. Of course you have to teach your children the difference between right and wrong, but there are other ways of doing it without getting violent which are just as effective.”

  “OK. So how do you maintain discipline? For me shouting works. Put the fear of God into them.”

  The storyteller shook his head in disagreement. “No, there’s a better way. We use the naughty step method.”

  “The naughty step?”

  “Yeah, the naughty step. You telling me you’ve never heard of the naughty step? Everyone’s heard of the naughty step.”

  “Well I haven’t.”

  The storyteller looked dumbfounded, but with a disbelieving sigh he proceeded to explain. “
OK, when your child does something wrong you give them a warning not to do it again, and if they do, then you place them in a designated area, like on a step or a chair, and that becomes your naughty step. Then you tell them they’ll have to stay there for, let’s say, five minutes. Then, when the time’s up, you go back to them and ask for an apology. If they give you one then you give them a hug, say that’s very grown up of you and, tada, they’ve learnt their lesson. If not then they have to stay there for another five minutes. And you keep doing it until they finally crack.”

  “And what if they don’t want to stay on the naughty step?”

  “Then you keep placing them back on the step and start the timer again. It’s like breaking a horse in the old west. Repetition. You keep doing it until they apologise.”

  “And that works?”

  “Oh, sure. Eventually. Think of it like a battle of wills. You may have to put them back on that step twenty or thirty times, if your child’s really unruly, but if you stick to the process it becomes like second nature to them. The child realises that you’re the boss, and if they don’t want to end up on the naughty step then they better do as they’re told. And it’s all done without ever having to lay a hand on the ones you love. No violence, and you’re a dad of the modern age… Perfect.”

  “I like that. I’m sold. Next time my boy plays up I’m going to try it. Yeah, the naughty step.”

  “Of course, not all kids are redeemable,” the storyteller said gruffly as he gazed towards to the fragile-looking thirteen-year-old boy lying at his feet, tears still streaming from his puffy red eyes and down his cheeks, and over the silver duct tape wound tightly around his mouth. “Not these ones, for sure.”

  Both men now looked down the rows of brown wooden pews standing in the main hall of the church, dozens of people crowding its cold stone floor, each one of them hogtied. The sounds of quiet whimpering and the terror in each of their wide eyes had absolutely no effect on their captors.

  “Are you sure that’s all of them?”

  “Yep, all sixty-eight. The whole commune.”

  “Good, then let’s finish up.”

  Both men made their way to the church entrance and outside onto the village’s main dirt street and into the refreshingly cold night air. Parked a few metres away were four black Range Rovers surrounded by a group of men in full camouflage fatigues, all armed with hefty FN P90 submachine guns.

  They had already reached the men when a blue Porsche Cayenne pulled up next to the nearest Range Rover and from the passenger side Hans Bauer, wearing an expensive grey Armani suit, exited the vehicle and slowly made his way over to join them.

  Noting the new arrival, the storyteller and his colleague moved back to either side of the church entrance and pushed the heavy set of wooden double doors shut, reducing the moans and terrified screams to nothing more than muffled background noise.

  “Any problems, Hector?” Bauer asked, looking up at the church steeple.

  “A few,” Hector replied, flipping his finger towards two black ziplock body bags by the tires of the furthest Range Rover. “A few of the parents tried to stop us with shotguns, but it was taken care of.”

  Bauer looked over at the bags. “Take them to the crematorium and have them burnt. And retrieve the spent bullets once they’re done.”

  “Of course, sir. I’ll see to it.”

  Bauer began scanning the area until he saw the body of a man propped up next to the church’s left wall; he had dark skin and wore torn jeans and a black Southern Comfort T-shirt. “Is that the frame?” he asked, and Hector replied with a nod.

  “He’s a local cartel man, low level. We grabbed him off the streets last night and one of the parents’ shotguns was used on him. It’ll look like a either a drug vendetta or a cartel warning. Whatever conclusion the authorities reach it’ll be anything but us.”

  Bauer was now nodding his head. “Good, because in the next few hours the whole world is going to hell. Every government and intelligence agency in the western hemisphere will be out for blood and grasping at any leads they can find. Any and all ties that could link to us must be severed, and with Ferreira and his little experiments gone we remain insulated.”

  Hector was nodding sternly as Bauer glanced over at the locked church.

  “Have you used enough gasoline?”

  “More than enough, sir, and those stone walls will heat up and act like a pizza oven. There won’t be much left.”

  Bauer stared up at the church steeple once more and then he began to make his way back to the Porsche, glancing back as he did so. “I want men here until it’s all over. I don’t want anyone making a miraculous escape, understood?”

  “Yes, sir. Until the end.” Hector watched as Bauer pulled open the car door, whereupon he paused. “And I want them burnt to a crisp. No evidence except for dental records.”

  “Yes, sir,” Hector replied again, dutifully, and he continued to watch as Bauer ducked into the car only to reappear again a few moments later.

  “Well… what are you waiting for?”

  Hector swivelled on his heels and headed back to the church entrance and opened one of the doors just a crack. He reached into his top pocket and retrieved a red-tipped match which he cracked into life on the tip of his thumbnail. With that he flicked the lit match inside and watched the line of petrol ignite and begin quickly travelling in a straight line towards the sixty-eight children, mothers and fathers all writhing in abject terror as their flaming harbinger of doom approached.

  Hector took a final look and then slammed the door shut again and briskly made his way down the church steps and onto the main street. He walked towards the others as behind him the screams began to morph from terror into ones of scalding pain.

  Within a minute most of the shrieking had stopped and had been replaced by the sound of roaring flames. As one stained-glass window blew outwards, sending a thick black torrent of smoke into the night air and upwards to the glittering stars above, Hector ordered all the men but two to take off. He took one final look at the pyre of flames twisting upwards into the sky and then got into the last jeep and wound down the window, sniffing the air. “Smells like roast beef,” he said without any hint of emotion or care, before turning his attention to the other occupants. “I’m hungry. You boys fancy some dinner?”

  Chapter 12

  Munroe slid the white plastic tub of ice onto the bedside table, took a piece and popped it into his mouth before stepping out onto the balcony of the surprisingly impressive Best Western hotel. The streets of Bordeaux were, even at this early hour, beginning to ramp up for the day as delivery vans and early commuters started venturing out into the city, and he crushed the piece of cool ice between his teeth and took a moment to enjoy the scene. The sun would be up soon and already he could feel the change in the air as a gentle breeze blew over him. He closed his eyes and allowed the freezing, melted liquid to trickle down his throat. It felt invigorating. It was one of the few oddities he enjoyed even if, for most people, the thought of crunching ice was unappealing.

  The drive from the chateau had only taken half an hour, and Kessler had been out for the count throughout. It wasn’t until he pulled into the hotel’s underground car park and then dragged the older man from the silver Renault that the moans had begun. In the guise of a chaperone for his drunk uncle, Munroe had checked in at reception, and after a quick back and forth with the night clerk, to explain the old man had fallen flat on his face, causing his bloody nose, the two had headed for the second floor and one of its rooms.

  He stepped back into the room and closed the balcony doors as the sound of groaning started up again from the bathroom. He calmly strode over and pulled open the door.

  Standing up from the toilet seat and with a white bedsheet tying his wrists to the shower rail, Kessler looked over with heavy eyes and grimaced.

  “You’ve made a serious mistake.” He flared his nostrils before recoiling at the sharp pain in his fractured nose, which had swollen up nic
ely. “You’ve killed us both.”

  Munroe said nothing but stepped over to Kessler’s side, untied the bedsheet and sat the old man back down on top of the toilet seat before rebinding both his wrists. “Your mistake was drugging me back at your chateau, and anyway, I’m sure your friends wouldn’t want to kill one of their own.”

  Kessler’s eyes widened doubtfully. “My ‘friends’ don’t like loose ends, and they’ll consider me a liability… just like you.”

  Munroe didn’t show it, but he was surprised at how well the old man was coping with all this, given that he must have been in his late seventies, and had been smacked around, knocked unconscious and restrained. Kessler had remained calm, collected and somewhat blasé in the way he spoke and it was this that made Munroe uneasy. “Then maybe we can help each other.”

  Kessler considered it for a moment, and then he began to nod his head. “Well, you could free me of this bedsheet and then blow your own brains out. That would help.”

  Munroe would have smiled, but he could tell the old man was deadly serious. “I don’t think I can be that helpful, but you’re right about being a liability.” Munroe allowed his eyes to dull and he now looked anxious. “You were right, I am ex-special forces, and I’m not a member of this DS5 you mentioned, but I was asked to do some contract work for them.”

  “So you are a rent-a-cop,” Kessler replied, taking a touch of enjoyment at the knowledge.

  “Not quite, but something like that.” Munroe tapped his forefinger gently against his thigh thoughtfully before bending down on one knee so he was at face height with the old man. “Your boy, Icarus, has taken an interest in me,” Munroe said solemnly, “and in my wife and child, which is the reason I offered to track him down.”

  If Kessler knew anything he didn’t show it, but he did look intrigued. “Did he hurt them in some way?”