The Storm Protocol

by Iain Cosgrove

  Even with the large bruise on the side of her face, and the deathly pallor of her skin, to me she looked beautiful. Must be going soft in my old age, I said to myself. I realised then that her eyes were open and focused exclusively on me. To her credit, she hadn't jolted or started or even screamed; there was just a wan smile.

  ‘You sure know how to show a girl a good time,’ she said weakly.

  I laughed in spite of myself.

  ‘It worked, didn’t it?’

  ‘Thank you,’ she replied earnestly.

  Then she seemed to realise something, and her eyes darted up and down the room in panic.

  ‘You need to leave,’ she said. ‘My....’

  She searched for a word.

  ‘....manager is due here any second. If he sees you here, you are dead. Especially after all they have been saying about you over the last day or so.’

  ‘I can look after myself,’ I said evenly.

  ‘I’ll be dead too,’ she said.

  ‘Don't worry,’ I replied soothingly. ‘If he turns up, I’ll think of something.’

  I could see she was about to argue and then thought better of it. She appeared to be very tired. I went to the end of the bed and pretended to be studying her notes. When I was satisfied that I’d memorised the name and address that were written in tightly spaced biro, I sat back down again.

  ‘So, what can you tell me about this Black Swan guy?’ I asked.

  ‘Only that you don't want to mess with him,’ she answered quietly.

  ‘Have you met him?’ I asked.

  She shook her head; negative.

  ‘Do you know where he lives?’

  Her brow furrowed in concentration.

  ‘North side I think,’ she said. ‘That’s all I know.’

  She closed her eyes again.

  ‘You’re a strange man,’ she stated suddenly.

  I laughed abruptly.

  ‘You’re not wrong, Kate Howard.’

  ‘And lonely too, I think,’ she said, ignoring my use of her name.

  I was just about to answer, when I saw him loom large in the porthole windows at the end of the room. He would be through the double doors and into the ward in seconds. I had to protect her; I was the one who had put her in this position.

  I sprang off the chair, and grabbed her around the neck with both hands. Her eyes flicked open in genuine fear. I winked at her and increased the pressure slightly. I saw comprehension flit across her face for a second, before she started making choking sounds.

  I heard the shout.

  ‘Hey you; what the fuck are you doing?’

  I looked up and tried my best to fake panic. I let go of the girl and dashed out through the double doors at the far end of the ward. I could hear her hamming it up, choking and coughing; good girl.

  The door flipped closed behind me. I was just deciding which way to go, when there was an almighty crash. I heard the whistle of the bullet and the thud as it hit the far wall and then, a second later, it started raining glass and metal reinforcement.

  I’d recognised this guy from the street last night. As they’d been driving her away in the ambulance, he’d stayed aloof and watchful; obviously a handler. I chastised myself silently; I hadn’t realised these guys would have weapons. I don’t know why it hadn’t occurred to me; when I was running protection, I always carried a piece.

  I ran for the stairwell and threw myself through the door. As it closed behind me, I felt the glass shatter. I threw myself to the outside of the stairs, using the banisters to steady myself, and took them two at a time to try and minimise any target area. I heard the bullets fly; feeling and sensing the zings, as they ricocheted dangerously off the steel stairwell fittings that enclosed the small confined space.

  I crashed through the bottom doors and raced across the car park, as though the hounds of Hades were upon me. I reached the car, lungs burning and legs pumping. I jabbed the unlock button on the alarm and hurled myself into the driver’s seat. I slid the key smoothly into the ignition and fired it up in one fluid motion.

  The hairs on the back of my neck were doing their job. I ducked instinctively and slid the gearshift into reverse, just milliseconds before the windscreen exploded out with a crash. I buried the throttle, glad I didn’t have to worry about gears; the girl who’d upgraded me to automatic at the rental desk, was now worth her weight in gold.

  I hand braked the machine savagely through ninety degrees, causing him to dive for cover. I slicked the gear lever into drive and then floored it. The car bucked like a stallion, as the front tyres scrabbled furiously for grip, gravel kicking and spitting in all directions.

  ‘Come on!’ I shouted and slapped the wheel in frustration.

  Without warning, the front tyres suddenly bit into the exposed tarmac and the car rocketed forward. I kept my foot planted, as the vehicle gained speed. I ducked as there was another crash, and the side window came in, but at last I was moving ahead of him.

  I raced through a gap, flicking the wheel left and right as the tyres screamed in protest. We were now in parallel lanes within the car park.

  At the end of my lane, I kept my foot planted to the floor and hung on grimly, as I hauled the steering to the right. The tail stepped out savagely, to smash side-on into the line of cars at the end. I steered frantically in the opposite direction to the skid and managed to over correct, smashing into another two or three cars with the nearside front wing. I ignored the tearing rending sound; like a car in a junkyard crusher.

  Two more bullets thudded into the side, deadened by the door padding and the air bags. My thigh and calf muscles were straining with the effort of keeping the accelerator at its maximum.

  After another two or three slight wobbles, the car straightened and I wrestled it back under control. The speed started building again, and I felt the danger diminishing slightly. I dispatched the next obstacle, the car park barrier, with a crash, wincing at the additional damage; there was my excess gone.

  I watched in the rear view mirror with interest. I saw him tuck the gun into the waistband of his jeans, as he started sprinting as fast as he could after me. An idea formed, growing and maturing as it took shape.

  I let the speed of the car drop slowly, infinitesimally almost; I wanted him to think he was gaining on me. As the distance between us decreased by degrees, I saw his expression change gradually from despair, to hope, to grim determination, and then I saw the anger on his face. He was letting his emotions take over.

  He suddenly veered off the footpath and onto the road, until he was running full tilt behind me, gaining with every stride. I watched him in the wing mirrors rather than using the rear view. I wanted it to appear as though I was frightened and distracted. I needed to try and disguise what I was going to do next; my timing had to be absolutely perfect.

  Even in the bright sunshine, I could see the beginnings of a crooked smile. In his head, he was turning slowly from potential loser to potential winner. In his own mind he was starting to get the upper hand.

  As the distance closed between us, and his features became more discernible and real, he reached for his waistband; the signal I was waiting for.

  I flicked the car into reverse, without even a dab on the brakes. There was a rending and crunching sound; like someone was stirring a bucket of marbles with a golf club. The tortured tyres screamed their outrage, bellowing clouds of noxious fumes into the atmosphere. Milliseconds later, their grip was restored.

  Too late, he saw the intent, but by that stage he had closed the gap between us himself. I finally glanced in the rear view mirror and his eyes held mine. I saw a flash of fatalism and then fear. His muscles bunched for the leap to safety, but the distance was not quite enough. I had judged it to perfection.

  The bang, when I heard it, was still pretty shocking; it sounded like a melon that had been dropped from a height onto concrete. The impetus of my continued speed, as it built steadily backwards, kept him pinned to the rear of the car.

 
Even in his badly injured state, the survival instinct took over. He must have had a dozen broken ribs at least, but he managed to weakly wrestle the weapon fully from his waistband, and extend his arm through the shattered back window. A ghastly smile of bleak resolve twisted his features, his arm trembling almost uncontrollably, as he fought to steady the gun. I closed my eyes and braced myself back into the seat.

  The impact jarred my spine to the core. The car following us had been day dreaming; not expecting another vehicle reversing towards it at high speed. I slipped my own into drive again and what remained of the gearbox, engaged the ripped and shredded tyres.

  The gun dropped from his lifeless fingers, as his body slipped off the trunk of my car. As I shot forward, I saw the impetus of the vehicle behind carry it up and over his prone body, as the energy of the crash continued to diminish. It lifted clumsily into the air, dropped, and then lifted again, to the limit of its suspension travel. I watched with a kind of detached disinterest, as it swerved off to the side, after running him over. His lifeless body lay sprawled and broken, like an abandoned puppet.

  I shuddered, not with horror, but more a grim realisation. I had the feeling that things were only going to get more dangerous. It was a good thing I had put contingency plans into operation. I extracted the shipping notification from the inside pocket of my jacket.

  ‘It’s about time we evened up the odds a little bit,’ I said to myself softly.

  #

  Back at the house that night, I stared at the large DHL box that I had earlier placed on the kitchen table. I was still a little bemused at how easy it had been. It was the largest box that DHL provided for personal air freight. It was pretty large, yes, but it was exceptionally heavy, too. The waybill noted that it contained machined car parts and a selection of nuts and bolts. I had also estimated a value of one thousand dollars for insurance purposes, and had noted that the parcel was very heavy, caution required.

  The guy behind the counter at the DHL collection point at Cork airport had looked at me strangely.

  ‘What’s all this shit then, mate?’ he’d asked.

  ‘Parts for cars; I restore big American cars for a hobby,’ I’d said. ‘I collected all this stuff over the last twenty odd years. When I decided to come home, I thought I’d bring all this stuff with me, too. Worth a good bit to collectors and the like; it’s a niche market.’

  I’d noticed the stickers on it; it had already gone through the customs X-Ray machines.

  ‘Oh right,’ he’d said, completely disinterestedly. ‘The customs guys have estimated the duty at sixty five Euro and seventeen cent.’

  I’d handed him the cash and smiled at him, but his interest was already elsewhere; shouting at his mates to turn down the radio, so he didn’t hear the football scores.

  I made myself a cup of tea; how glorious it was to be able to taste real hot tea again and real milk too, after what seemed like a lifetime of coffee.

  I worked systematically, first removing the packing tape, before stacking the contents on the table. When I had finished, I had a pile of about a hundred small boxes on one side, and a large single box on the other. I always believed you needed to set out your stall properly to do anything well.

  I picked up one of the smaller boxes and studied it. Ostensibly, it was a container of M14 bolts. They even had the photograph and description on the outside of each box. I slit the tape and opened it, extracting what looked like a standard mild steel bolt, finished in iron grey. I hefted it in my hands; it was the right weight too. I extracted a nut from the same box, and screwed it half way down the shaft of the bolt; it worked.

  I attached my portable vice to the table and inserted the bolt, thread down, and tightened it into position, so that only the head of the bolt was visible above the jaws. I took two very thin custom made spanners, and placed them over the head of the bolt, facing in opposite directions. I took hold of the spanners, one in each hand, and twisted them with all my strength in opposing directions.

  There was a sharp crack. The top of the bolt split open, as I started to unscrew it like a lid. I removed the spanners and finished the job with my fingers, placing the lid to the side. I removed the bolt from the vice and tapped it into my hand. When I lifted it, a 9mm bullet dropped neatly into my palm.

  The bolts had been custom manufactured to my specifications, to move ammunition freely around the country and across borders. I had never used the method before, so it was pleasing to see that it actually worked.

  Placing the gleaming bullet aside, I turned my attention to the larger box. It was filled with an assortment of springs, rods, tubes and an array of oddly shaped brackets.

  I extracted the pieces one by one, and laid them in piles. Each was labelled with both a letter and a number, and also labelled with the type of car; Mustang, Charger, Challenger etc.

  When the piles were finished, I made another cup of tea, and then worked quietly and methodically until I was done.

  At about midnight, I sat back and looked at my handiwork. I now had five 9mm automatic pistols, two semi automatic rifles and two fully automatic machine guns. The odds were looking infinitely better already.

  I looked at my watch; it had been a long day, but there were still a couple of things I needed to do.

  I drove the car to a secluded industrial estate, stopping on the way to buy a plastic petrol container which I filled with petrol.

  I parked in a shaded area, devoid of security cameras and lights. I doused the car, a little sadly, in petrol, and stuffed a soaking rag into the tank, so that it trailed out of the filler point and along the floor. I then dribbled a trail of petrol from the rag about twenty yards behind the car.

  Flinging the can away, I lit the trail of petrol, hearing it go up with a whoosh. Even though I was expecting it, the explosion made me duck and jump, as I walked briskly away.

  As the flames crackled, and what was left of the glass cracked, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and dialled the pre-saved number.

  ‘Hello, is that Hertz? It is; oh good, I’m wondering if you can help me? I think someone has stolen my rental car. What do I need to do?’

  #

  The iPhone made camera noises, as the button was clicked repeatedly. As Thomas Eugene O’Neill walked up his path and inserted his key into the door, another barrage of clicks could be heard.

  The car was parked under a defective streetlight, casting the occupant in deep shadow. He was staying well hidden, as he had on the plane. For him it was a waiting game; not now but very soon, he would make his move.

  Chapter 26 – Happenstance

  15th May 2011 – Five days after the Storm.

  Coincidence, if traced back far enough, becomes inevitable. – Hindu temple inscription.

  Roussel had dragged a kitchen chair out onto the veranda of his apartment. Of course, it was labelled an apartment block, but it was really one of those glorified motels; a suite would have been a better way to put it.

  Most of his meagre belongings were packed ceiling high in boxes, some still with Boston shipping labels on them. The suite was supposed to have been temporary accommodation, but that was five years ago. On the plus side, it was cheap, it was close to work, and he didn’t need to worry about getting on with his neighbours; they changed pretty much every week.

  He tipped the chair back, his bare feet braced on the top of the balcony railings. He knew he’d have to shift position, especially if anybody wanted to get to the rooms further down. He also reasonably surmised that no one would need to at three o'clock in the morning.

  He swirled the amber liquid around the bottom of his glass, the ice cubes tinkling against the expensive and ornate crystal. The tumbler had belonged to his father, part of a set, one of the only things he had kept from the old house.

  He took a sip, and rolled the spirit around on his tongue, in anticipation of the heat and the bite. He shuddered with satisfaction, as it burned its way to his gullet; warmth spreading out in tendrils, like the venom fr
om a viper.

  Picking up the bottle, he studied it closely. A true caricature of a southern man would have been drinking Jack Daniels, Jim Bean, or most probably Southern Comfort. Not this southern man. Powers Gold Label was his poison, a taste he’d acquired courtesy of a late-night mutual support session with Guilbeau. It had been a particularly difficult case, one involving a mutilated child and a deranged father. Off his head on some hallucinogen, the man had believed his infant son possessed by malevolent demons.

  As a policeman, he knew for a fact that evil never slept; it was always alive and well in the world, and could be found in the most peaceful and quiet of places.

  He poured himself another couple of stiff fingers. He rarely drank, and even less rarely drank heavily. Good job really, as his supply of Powers was beginning to dwindle. He’d bought a case on eBay when the dollar had been favourable against the euro. But now he was down to his last two bottles, so he was using them wisely and judiciously.

  He couldn't sleep; his head was buzzing and his brain was alive with different thought patterns, most notably Tony’s cryptic comment.

  So what exactly was it that he was looking for? He’d already tried acquiring wealth and success; the dusty boxes from Boston, stacked three high in his tiny suite, were testament to how important that was to him now.

  Was it companionship he craved? He didn't think so. He was alone, yes, but he wasn’t lonely; there was a difference. It was a long time since he’d courted a woman, but in fairness it was a long time since he’d wanted to. He didn’t feel ready, and it wasn’t one of those masculine, petrified of commitment scenarios. It was deeper and more fundamental than that.

  At the present moment, he was a vagabond, a vagrant if you preferred; a gypsy with no roots. Seeing the old family place had brought it all home to him, but he’d also recognised something else; something equally as important. Not only did he now have a burning desire to belong, but it was a burning desire to belong to this land; this community.