As he walked out, numb to the core, the two older gentlemen smiled serenely at him and then at each other. It was like printing money for them; a guarantee of another hundred grand in the bank. John and all the other middle class pricks like him had no real fight in them. They would rather put their families out onto the street than risk losing a pinkie finger. P T Barnum had been right; there truly is one born every minute.
Chapter 2 – Salvation
10th April 2011 – One month before the Storm.
The greatest enemy to human souls is the self-righteous spirit which makes men look to themselves for salvation. – Charles Spurgeon.
John watched the smoke rings, practised over many years, and allowed himself a small smile. A lifeline had been thrown to him soon after, and from a very unusual and unlikely source.
#
Glenn Collins was a self serving hypocrite, who ordinarily would not even have made it onto John’s tolerated acquaintances list. Unfortunately, he’d had absolutely no control or influence over who he’d got for a brother in law, despite plenty of subtle and not so subtle hints.
John despised the very ground that Glenn walked on, but Glenn would never have suspected it. John was always civil for the sake of Sandra, his sister, but even if he had been openly hostile, Glenn would not have noticed. He was the most self-absorbed person John had ever met. He only ever thought of himself, no exceptions. Even his wife and children were outsiders in Glenn’s world.
Tonight was different though. Even for a self important idiot like Glenn, he was acting really funny. Requesting a clandestine meeting in the lane at the back of John’s house; asking him not to tell Sandra (John’s sister, his own wife) that he was there. None of it made any sense. Glenn was always a bit eccentric, but this was different; this was bordering on paranoia. John had sensed something else this time; a small, barely vocalised hint of real fear.
John dropped the sparkling silver coins into the slot on the vending machine and extricated the evening paper; part of his home bound routine. He had a ten minute walk to his house from the Metro stop, and he liked to spend a few minutes reading the news.
He flipped the paper around to read the back page; like most American males, he headed straight for the sports section. After a brief and depressing perusal of scores, he flipped it back to the front page a few moments later. He froze for a couple of seconds, as if the gaze of medusa herself had fallen upon him. He stopped dead and read the article in detail, his mouth moving as he silently spelled out the words.
The two old dudes from the casino manager’s office were pictured outside a courthouse, smiling the same supercilious smiles he had personally witnessed less than a week ago. In the article, their lawyer had outlined to the journalist why the prosecution’s case against them had failed. It hinged on a lack of physical evidence and also, critically, no witnesses had been persuaded to come forward.
He read on, swallowing hard with every new revelation. Drugs, prostitution, racketeering, gambling, you name it, they were in it. Fuck! He threw the paper away from him like it was alight; he could almost feel the information burning his fingers. He had known he was in deep, but this was Titanic deep.
Fuck, Fuck, Fuck.
The Mancini’s; how had he not recognised them?
The entrance to his laneway put paid to any additional rational thought on the matter. He would listen to whatever whine was in season for that week, and then get Glenn the hell out of the way. After that, a little research was in order, to see what kind of a shit storm he was really inside.
As he approached the house, he could see Glenn hiding behind the fence, looking more conspicuous and obvious than if he had been standing in front of it. Jesus, the man really was an insufferable idiot. Anne, John’s wife, was bound to see him if he stayed there, and she would mention it to Sandra and then all Glenn’s attempts at subterfuge would be for nothing.
John gesticulated wildly for the cretin to step into the garage; clicking the automatic door opener that he always carried in his pocket as he did so.
He entered the garage, noticing Glenn was in a strangely subdued and silent mood. John sat heavily on the fender of his car next to Glenn, who wordlessly handed him a plain white folder.
‘What’s this?’ asked John, thrown for a second by the sudden change in focus.
‘A whole heap of fucking trouble for me,’ said Glenn softly, his normal bravado in temporary abeyance. ‘I was a bit distracted a couple of nights ago; problems between me and Sandra.’
He looked up at John and quickly flashed a humourless grin.
‘That’s not what this is about by the way,’ he said shortly. ‘Anyway, once a month we are instructed to clean the inner offices; the ones that are normally locked. I picked this up by mistake in one of the restricted areas.’
‘How the fuck did you manage that?’ asked John, forgetting his own worries for a second. ‘You can’t exactly mistake it for window cleaner,’ he added sarcastically.
‘I wasn’t stealing it, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ said Glenn, a little hurt. ‘I honestly thought it was a copy of our health and safety statement. I had a new employee starting that day, there are some additional steps for the restricted zones, and we use plain white binders. It was only when I got outside, that I noticed the different content.’
Glenn was a contract cleaner for the US government. But sometimes, in certain company, his role became embellished, to the point where it was not mops and brooms he was trained in. At these times, there were normally a crowd of young girls and lots of alcohol involved.
‘It looks very medical and very confidential,’ he said furtively. ‘I had a brief look, but didn’t want to probe too deep. And the name threw me for a second,’ he finished, a little lamely.
So now it’s starting to make sense, thought John. Go over to see my brother in-law the pharmacist; the medical guy who will do my dirty work for me. See if I really am in trouble, or if I can go back to the lazy, sloppy way I normally conduct my business. If he can, John will save me, if only for Sandra’s sake.
‘I should hang you out to dry, you fucking idiot,’ hissed John, and then his tone changed. ‘Why not just give it back and apologise?’
‘Either way, I’d say my contract is gone at the very minimum,’ said Glenn. ‘They’ll either spin it that I stole it on purpose, or they’ll say I was using untrained, or worse, unregistered staff in a restricted facility.’
‘Which you were,’ said John sternly.
Glenn shrugged his shoulders dismissively.
‘Everyone in the cleaning business does it,’ he said. ‘It’s the only way you can keep the margins down and stay competitive.’
‘Why not just chuck it away and wing it?’ asked John. ‘Why bother finding out what it is?’
‘Two reasons,’ said Glenn. ‘One is natural curiosity. I’ve always been a bit of a nosey devil and if I’m going to potentially lose my livelihood, I’d like to at least know why.’
He looked at John straight then, and for the first time, John saw a brief glimpse of the old self important swagger.
‘But the second reason is pure greed,’ he said, with a glint of steel in his eye.
He tapped the word Storm on the front cover.
‘I have a hunch that it might turn out to be a very valuable commodity indeed.’
#
John examined the butt closely; he always smoked them as close to the filter as he could, to get the last drop of satisfaction. Happy that the nicotine was all used up, he threw the filter to the floor and ground it under the sole of his boot. He was a cautious fellow and always mashed them into dust; you couldn’t be too careful with fire.
He turned and his heart jumped. A stranger was standing in the now open doorway, wearing an immaculately tailored suit; obviously very expensive. How the fuck had he managed to get there so silently? John tried to compose himself, and some of his natural bravado returned.
‘This is a restricted area, staff only,’
he said formally.
The stranger just stared at him.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked weakly after a while, wilting under the unrelenting gaze.
‘For your sake, I really hope so,’ said the stranger, in a soft and slightly peculiar accent. ‘I have come to collect something that does not belong to either of us.’
John blinked at the slightly ambiguous statement, and then his confusion cleared and the beginnings of a smile creased the corners of his mouth.
‘Ah, the messenger,’ he said.
Without a word, he brushed past the stranger, slipped through the doorway, and reappeared about a minute later with a plastic carrier bag. He handed it to the stranger, who wordlessly accepted it.
The stranger opened the bag and extracted the single item, a white ring binder with the word Storm written in small diagonal letters across the front. He flicked through the individual pages one by one, concentrating more on the watermark than the contents. Satisfied that he’d got what he came for, he dropped it back into the bag and looked up at John.
He was about to open his mouth, when he saw a small kick of brick dust to his left. At almost the same instant, he heard a sound. It was so faint as to be almost unintelligible to a normal human, but it was as loud as an ambulance klaxon for him; silenced high velocity rifle fire.
#
The milliseconds ticked by in slow motion. I dropped the folder to the floor and spun John around so that his back was against my chest. Grabbing him around the neck, the 9mm sprouted from my hand as if by magic, as I pulled him backwards as fast as I could, heading for the sanctuary of the passageway. As I moved, I frantically scanned the rooftops, fire escapes and windows across the street. I could see a brief flicker of movement, a glint of sun on scope, and in that second, I felt John buck slightly in my hands.
I dragged him back through the doorway, as far away from the street as I possibly could, just as a burst of machine gun fire splintered the door frame. I left him on the floor in the hallway; I could tell he was badly injured, but I had other things to take care of.
I could hear screams of panic inside the pharmacy, so I decided to add to them. Running into the body of the shop, I fired off two rounds, the sound amplified hugely in the confined space.
‘Run, he’s got a gun,’ I shouted into the confusion, before turning back to the job in hand.
Carefully approaching the back entrance again, I could see it was a fire door, and had been clicked open to stop the wind banging it closed. I drew myself up short and slid into place to the left of the opening, with my back against the inside wall. I needed to know what I was up against. My first job was to neutralise the cover, and that meant the rooftop.
I had some rough co-ordinates on him based on my first glimpse. I removed the small dental mirror from my pocket, the one that I always carried, and manoeuvred it around the door jamb, hoping the reflections would not give my position away. Sure enough, I could see the tripod on top of the wall, with a black shape moving slightly behind it.
With a sniper at such close range, you do have a chance, but only one. I made sure the safety was off and I had a round in the chamber; one is all I would be allowed if he was any good.
I knew he would have his sights trained on the centre of the door; common sense really. I closed my eyes and visualised the scene outside, until I could literally see where he was. I counted to three, and then making myself as slim as possible, I threw myself through the door as far as I could in a sideways motion. I heard the muffled crack and felt the impact in the concrete of the floor beside me.
I rolled head over feet in combat style and was up in a second. I aimed; squeezed the trigger; crack. I saw the shape slump forward, knocking the tripod over the edge of the building parapet. One target neutralised.
I felt movement to my right, and instinctively threw myself backwards through the open doorway, as another burst of machine gun fire whistled over my head. As I fell, I could see the sparks and splinters of brick, as the bullets found their mark. I rolled sideways and was on my feet like a cat. I dived forward through the opening again and spun slowly in mid air, hands held out to the side. I kept low and started firing, as soon as I cleared the door jamb.
I saw the surprise on his face, as he struggled to lower his aim. I felt the thud of each round, as they drove him backwards over the railings. As he plummeted to earth, his finger jammed on the trigger and I heard multiple crashes, as he took out windows on the way down. He screamed once and then there was a tremendous crunch. There was a small period of intense silence, punctuated almost immediately by a car alarm, and then suddenly, the air was filled with the screams and shouts of pedestrians and bystanders.
I knew there would be others, so I retreated and waited. They didn’t have their covering support now. The next couple of minutes would see if I was up against professionals or amateurs.
I moved back to the cover of the door, eyes scanning the horizon; nothing. As I settled back against the wall, I regulated my breathing to the extent that it was completely silent. I strained to block out the normal everyday noises; the screaming and panic on the street below was subsiding, and the pharmacy had been abandoned. And then I heard it; the imperceptible rise and fall of disguised breathing. Someone was approaching the door.
I saw the blade before the hand. Someone was pitching a knife against a gun. They were foolhardy, overly confident or supremely skilled; it does happen. I waited until the arm was extended halfway through the doorway.
I dropped my left hand across the forearm and spun violently, driving my elbow with precision into his kidney. I heard a grunt of pain as the knife dropped. Seizing the advantage, I slid sideways slightly and reached my right arm across his throat, throwing him downwards across my extended right leg. He hit the ground with a thump, and I followed up with a knee to the solar plexus. He jerked upward in a reflex and then collapsed back. He wasn’t going anywhere fast.
I was just about to rise, when the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I trusted my body implicitly, so I threw myself backwards and rolled away, as a bullet thudded into the cheap plywood panelling of the fire door. I was up and aiming as the second bullet struck the solid concrete of the floor, sending up sparks and chips of floor paint. As the shadow filled the doorway, I fired three times in quick succession, feeling the satisfying recoil on each. I heard a thud and then another, followed by a sigh. I waited a couple of seconds, index finger increasing the pressure on the trigger, until the dark suited figure dropped to the ground a few feet in front of me.
I walked over and felt for the carotid artery, nodding in satisfaction when I found no pulse. I waited a further minute, my senses on high alert until I was satisfied that no one else was coming.
It made sense; most of the Mancini cleaning squads operated as quads and I had definitely seen at least one of these guys before.
I walked back to the prone assailant, kicking away the knife that his scrabbling fingers had been reaching for. He must have been in agony, but he didn’t show it; just a healthy dose of bravado. They were always the same, these lads.
‘Who sent you?’ I asked pleasantly.
‘Fuck you,’ he coughed, with some venom and some blood too.
I brought the butt of my gun down on the centre of his mouth like a hammer. I felt a few teeth go, and saw a nice fountain of blood from his lip.
‘Who sent you?’ I asked again, softer this time.
‘Go to hell!’ he spat in my direction, along with some blood and the remainder of one of his teeth.
With those two defiant actions, he had told me what I wanted to know.
‘After you,’ I said quietly.
I placed the gun barrel between his eyes and pulled the trigger in one fluid motion. He barely had time to register surprise.
I quickly walked over to John and knelt beside him. His breathing was coming in agonising rasps rather than breaths and the carpet under his back was stained a deep red. I felt for the pulse on his neck; it was er
ratic and skittish, like a kitten at play.
His bloody fingers plucked loosely at my sleeve. I silently cursed the dry cleaning bill, but leant closer. He was flailing at my arm wildly now and I could see in his eyes the panic; he knew he was dying.
‘Stop them,’ he stuttered, so low that I could barely hear him.
‘Stop who?’ I asked, puzzled.
He shook his head weakly in annoyance.
‘It’s all about Storm,’ he said. ‘You have to stop them creating it or there will be a perfect Storm.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked, puzzled, but then realised it was too late.
The light had gone out from his eyes; I could feel the spirit vacating his body, as it relaxed and slumped further to the ground.
I closed his eyelids and made the sign of the cross. Old habits did indeed die hard. I holstered the 9mm and picked up the carrier bag; some light reading.
I was going to find out what the hell was going on, even if it was the last thing I did.
I pictured the two brothers, apoplectic with rage, and realised I had another chore. I had a resignation letter to write.
And all the while, the words echoed in my ears from old.
‘Be careful what you wish for, Thomas.’
Chapter 3 – Enigma
11th May 2011 – The morning after the Storm.
It may well be doubted whether human ingenuity can construct an enigma, which human ingenuity may not, by proper application, resolve. – Edgar Allan Poe.
Something was bothering him. He had not been sleeping too well of late, but a six pack and a heavy night had seen him slip into one of those intense and overriding sleeps.
The Storm Protocol Page 3
