The Storm Protocol

by Iain Cosgrove

  ‘You’re not a very good shot, are you?’ he said.

  ‘Who sent you?’ I asked a third time.

  ‘I don't work for anyone except myself,’ he said.

  The third time, the phut sound and his scream of agony almost coincided. I waited for the cries and profanities to abate.

  ‘It’s only a flesh wound,’ I said. ‘Straight through the fat and muscle in the top of the leg; you’ll live. Who sent you?’

  I placed the barrel of the silencer under his chin to lift his head, forcing him to look at me. I could see the pain but also still too much bravado.

  ‘Who sent you?’ I repeated, shouting this time.

  He spat in my face with real venom. There was another phut; another almost parallel scream of agony.

  ‘It’s just the fleshy part of the thigh,’ I said, over his howling. ‘The other one this time though. Hopefully I’ve missed all the major veins and arteries; only time will tell. The problem for you, given your current predicament, is that you’re going to find it increasingly difficult to stand up, which will put additional strain onto your wrists, and you’ll then get into a vicious circle of pain prompting more pain. All you have to do is tell me who sent you, and I’ll stop the pain.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ he said. His eyes followed the muzzle of the silencer up to his shoulder. He started shaking his head.

  ‘No!’ he cried; too late.

  There was another scream, another stream of profanities, but this time, they started turning to entreaties. I could see the cycle of pain starting to take effect; he was finding it difficult to stand. The bullet wounds weren't bleeding that heavily, but because I’d shot him through muscle, it was diminishing his ability to use his legs. This was forcing him to hang from his wrist restraints, which was now causing pain in his shoulder.

  ‘You know how to stop it,’ I said, tapping the muzzle thoughtfully against the side of my cheek. ‘Just say the word.’

  ‘Thomas.’

  My name was spoken behind me. I turned.

  Both Dale and Roussel were looking at me. I knew what they were thinking, and when Dale opened his mouth to speak again, I knew what he was going to say.

  ‘Don't even think about it,’ I said implacably. ‘I told you this was personal for me. I also told you that I was going to handle some of these things my way, so back off.’

  ‘We don't have to like it,’ responded Roussel defiantly.

  ‘I don’t care whether you like it or not,’ I said flatly. ‘If you don’t want to watch, then fuck off, but leave me to get my answers my way.’

  I stared them down. Neither of them said anything further, but neither of them moved either; there were answers aplenty in that one action.

  I could see my captive was getting tired. The wounds were taking more of a toll on him than I’d thought they would. Torture definitely wasn’t my thing, so I didn’t know how to judge these types of injuries. I needed to get answers fast. I placed the muzzle against his other shoulder.

  ‘Tell me what I want to know, or this one is gone as well,’ I said menacingly.

  He looked at the gun, and then at me, and I saw what I'd been looking for; complete and utter supplication and surrender.

  ‘Who sent you?’ I asked.

  ‘Dave Keegan,’ he answered immediately, and without hesitation.

  It wasn’t the answer I had been expecting. I must have blinked in surprise, because he smiled a little through the pain.

  ‘And just who the fuck is Dave Keegan?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s the head of security for Black Swan,’ he answered.

  My face cleared; now I was beginning to understand.

  ‘How did you know who I was? How did you manage to target me?’ I asked.

  I glanced around at Roussel and Dale as I asked the question. They were sitting as far forward as they could; listening intently to every word.

  ‘We were all brought in for a briefing last night,’ said the captive. ‘Photographs of you were circulated among the group. They were definitely recent photographs, because you happen to be wearing the same clothes you are now. We were told you would be in Kinsale. Apparently they got the photographs and a note anonymously and then to top that, some girl came forward; gave them fresh information about where you would be, which corroborated the note. They requested that we stake out the likely main areas, with spotters covering all the major routes. Their job was to communicate back to the main group in the car park. It was a complete stroke of luck that you literally delivered yourself to us.’

  ‘Were you told to watch for anybody else?’ asked Dale suddenly.

  The captive glanced up as though he hadn't seen Dale or Roussel before.

  ‘Only him,’ he said jabbing his head at me, and then wincing at the pain in his shoulder.

  ‘Were you told anything else?’ I asked.

  ‘We were told to bring you in alive if possible, but dead or badly beaten would also have been just as good.’

  ‘So what do these guys want with me? What did you say their names were again; Dave Keegan and Black Swan?’ I asked.

  ‘Don't think it’s anything to do with Dave,’ said the prisoner, offering his opinion for the first time. ‘It’s his boss who has the hard on for you. Dave is just doing his masters bidding.’

  ‘Do you know why?’ asked Roussel.

  ‘No idea,’ said the prisoner.

  He turned back to me.

  ‘But you must have seriously pissed him off in another life.’

  I shrugged the comment off.

  ‘There, that wasn't so hard was it?’ I said.

  I bent down and pulled up my left trouser leg, extracting the knife I always kept in the ankle holster. The captive watched with trepidation and horror, his eyes following the blade as it travelled almost in slow motion.

  Roussel and Dale watched in morbid fascination as I suddenly moved; cutting loose his bonds with four brisk, clean slices. With nothing there to support him any longer, he pitched forward. I caught him cleanly and gently lowered him to the floor.

  As he moaned and shifted around on the ground, I went to the car and extracted three or four cheap, clean T-shirts from our stash. I walked back and dumped them on the ground next to his prone body. I refilled the bucket with water and I uncoiled the remainder of the tow ropes and set them beside him. I also extracted his phone from his inside pocket, and placed it on his uninjured side within easy reach of his good hand.

  As I turned to leave, I accidentally caught his leg a glancing blow with my foot, causing him to wince in pain.

  ‘Sorry,’ I mumbled.

  I bent down, re-holstered my knife and then walked back to the car. I waited in silence for Dale and Roussel to join me. I could see the two of them in my rear view mirror. They were heatedly debating something. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but I had a fair idea what it was about.

  Eventually, they seemed to come to a decision. As they got in, they slammed the doors so hard behind them, that the car rocked on its suspension.

  ‘What the fuck was all that about? Do you not think that was slightly over the top?’ Roussel asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘You could have got the answers you wanted without half killing him. Or was that for our benefit; to prove what a big man you are?’

  ‘I didn't kill him, did I?’ I protested. ‘And no, I’m not trying to prove what a big man I am; I don't need to, especially to either of you.’

  The steel was evident in my voice.

  ‘I needed answers, he could give them to me, he gave them to me; job done, simple as that.’

  ‘You could have made us accessories to murder,’ protested Dale.

  ‘Could have, but didn't,’ I said. ‘I had no intention of killing him. I’ve left him with water, material for bandages, rope for tourniquets, and a phone to call his friends. If he dies, it’s not on my conscience.’

  ‘Jesus, you can be a cold hearted bastard sometimes,’ said Roussel.

  I laughed humourlessly. />
  ‘You’re only learning that now,’ I said. ‘I kill people for a living, remember?’

  ‘So, was all that violence worth it?’ asked Dale.

  ‘Then or now,’ I asked, but it was a rhetorical question and he looked at me with a puzzled expression.

  ‘Well, point number one, I resent the implication of all that violence,’ I said sharply. ‘I shot him through muscle and fat. The only lasting effects he’ll have will be the scars; something to boast about to his future girlfriends. And point number two; yes; in answer to your actual question, I do think it was worth it, because before, we were guessing at the relevance. Now we know for certain.’

  ‘What do we know though?’ asked Dale.

  I could see he wasn’t convinced.

  ‘Well, we definitely know that Scott Mitchell is connected to Black Swan and we now definitely know that Black Swan has a thing about me.’

  ‘Richard O'Neill is the key to it all,’ said Dale. ‘We need to find out more about Richard O'Neill.’

  ‘Well, I told you what the solicitor said,’ I answered. ‘He was playing a part; probably just a pseudonym.’

  ‘Maybe, but the solicitor also said that he was probably a relative of your mother, and that is the key here, I think. Identify him and we potentially have some real answers. Does she have any living cousins, brothers, sisters?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘All her siblings are dead.’

  ‘In fairness, she never told you about your father. She could have kept other things from you,’ said Dale gently.

  I could feel my anger rising, but before it reached the point of no return, the reasonable side of my brain, the logical part, took over and I acknowledged silently that Dale could well be right.

  ‘So, I could have relatives still around that I don't know about?’ I stated flatly, as if acknowledging it to myself for the first time, which in a sense I was.

  ‘Yes you could.’

  ‘So, how do we make headway on that?’ I asked, as I fired the car into life.

  Dale and Roussel looked at each other. They simultaneously removed their phones and dialled, smiling at each other as they did so.

  ‘Hey Dodds, it’s me,’ said Dale. ‘Do you have a pen handy? I need you to check some details for me.’

  ‘Hey James, it’s me,’ said Roussel. ‘What? Yeah, Kinsale is lovely. But a few things came up while I was here. Can you do me a big favour? I need to trace down a couple of leads.’

  I smiled and engaged drive, accelerating smoothly back onto the road to Kinsale.

  Chapter 44 – Rejection

  22nd May 2011 – Twelve days after the Storm.

  Reject your sense of injury and the injury itself disappears. – Marcus Aurelius.

  Black Swan hated waiting. He never had to wait for anything; he was always the one in control. He was the director, constantly giving the orders and deciding on the strategy. Other people had to defer to him. That was the way it was.

  He smiled broadly as the next song came on the radio.

  ‘Huey Lewis and the news, folks with – I want a new drug.’

  How ironic. He didn't need a new drug; he had his old one, and he was well and truly addicted. The only drug he'd ever craved was power. But craving it and attaining it were two different things. Society would judge him differently, if they knew the truth about his rise to the top; or maybe they wouldn’t. He was a drug dealer after all, whichever way you sliced it.

  He remembered his initial interview with Bull McCabe.

  ‘I like you,’ Bull had said. ‘There is something thoroughly engaging and honourable about you. But there’s something scary about you too. There’s a rod of iron running through you boy. Don’t ever lose that, not for anybody.’

  He thought about David McCabe, his nemesis. It was probably just as well that things had turned out the way they had. They were too alike.

  Still, he couldn’t help wondering what would have happened if they had united instead of splintering apart. Strangely, he didn’t think either of them would have been quite so successful.

  As he knew well, nothing motivated like rage. Nothing got you out of bed in the morning like a good healthy dollop of hate.

  It was truly ironic really. The reason David hated Eoin was utterly and entirely without premise. The truth was; Bull McCabe had intentionally stepped down in favour of Black Swan. He had been getting older and slower, and had early on recognised the steel that ran through Eoin; like letters through a stick of rock. The Bull felt he could temper and forge the steel from afar, in his own image.

  The twins were too young to take over; they did not yet fully realise what would be expected of them in the family business. The Bull did not know which way they would go; it would be tough initially, finding out exactly what misery and suffering was perpetuated, just so that you could live in luxury. It took an unusual kind of person to overlook the despair and misfortune that other people were required to endure.

  Because of that, Eoin had been the one initially tasked with growth and development, making sure the boys had something worthy of their inheritance, should they have chosen to accept it.

  Bull took discrete steps to keep hidden, but he was always in the background, watching, directing and approving.

  The sheer irony of it all was that in the end, the Bull had been the architect of his own demise. After years as a widower, he’d started an illicit affair with a married woman. Her husband had been an accountant, as meek and mild as they came, but when he’d found out about the affair, something inside him had snapped.

  He’d bought a gun, illegally of course, and in a delicious irony, had acquired it through an associate of the Bull himself. He didn’t care who Bull was. In truth, he didn’t know who Bull was, nor would it have made a difference if he had.

  Like all cuckolded husbands, he wanted revenge. From the testosterone fuelled depths of his bitterness and failure, the rage and hate had festered and heightened. He followed the Bull home one day after an assignation with his wife. He then sat outside, day after day, watching and waiting while the rage got stronger. One day, the inevitable happened; he snapped and trailed Bull to his favourite pub. He waited outside for an hour, allowing the resentment and hostility to build unabated, until he reached the point of no return. He calmly walked in and emptied the entire clip into an astonished and helpless Bull, in front of an incredulous and horrified clientele.

  The police never found out about the affair or the accountant assassin. The investigating officers were told to keep it short and sweet and to make no waves. Eoin had paid a lot of money to keep it quiet, and then had paid a lot more money to commission his own discrete investigation.

  There was obviously no way he was letting the police know the real story; it suited him at the time to let the police think it was a drug feud, little realising, although he should have done, that the spotlight would eventually alight upon him.

  The accountant had become overwhelmed with guilt, so one week after the killing, when his maudlin and depressed wife was out shopping, he’d run a pipe from the exhaust through the window of his car. As it had idled in his garage, he’d simply opted out of life and gone into a deep and never ending sleep.

  The police had put it down to pressures of work. The company that the accountant had worked for had been going through very hard times, so it was not seen as an unusual or out of character act. In another strange and bizarre twist of fate, he was buried in the same Clonakilty graveyard as the Bull, only two plots away.

  When Eoin had joined the company, the twins had initially loved him. They were not too distant from Eoin in years, and had very similar tastes and very similar personalities. Love did not figure large on any of their agendas.

  David had regarded Eoin’s accession to the McCabe throne with deep suspicion. Whenever David asked his father what had happened, the Bull refused to be drawn on it.

  ‘It’s none of your business boy; at least not yet, it’s not.’

  Th
e Bull was a proud man. David wrongly interpreted his silence as a refusal to acknowledge his failure to hold onto his own company; a stubborn denial of the loss of his empire to a suave and ruthless interloper.

  The truth was; Eoin had been targeted with building and expanding the business, specifically for the twins to someday inherit. Unfortunately the accountant, along with his own short sightedness and stupidity, had scuppered Bull’s plans.

  The first part of the exercise had been executed flawlessly. All of the company incorporation documents had been signed over to Eoin as per their gentleman's agreement. Bull had insisted that the only way it would work was if Eoin had absolute authority.

  However, all of the documents pertaining to the second phase, the inheritance rights of John and David, were still in the middle of being drafted, when Bull died in a hail of bullets. So when the will was read, it came as a complete shock and surprise for the twins to discover that the true and rightful heir to their company was Eoin Morrison.

  David had continually refused to believe that Eoin had nothing to do with his father's death and when John died, the gulf between them became insurmountable. It still made Eoin sad, especially when he knew the police had the same subtly different version of their feud; one that was just plain wrong.

  But Eoin did not hate David McCabe.

  The same could not be said in reverse.

  David despised Eoin Morrison.

  Who was Eoin to judge though? Eoin hated Thomas O’Neill with the same ruthless and passionate intensity. Did the chain end there, or was the circle of hate as strong as ever?

  Black Swan shivered. He was only wearing slacks and a shirt, and the problem with most of the old Georgian houses was that they tended to retain the cold and block out the heat, the reverse of what was required. The insulation he had installed was ineffectual against the massive heat sink of the large stone walls.

  Even though the house had been rebuilt with a sophisticated under floor heating system, Eoin preferred the honesty and integrity of a real open fire. He ambled over to the fireplace, and from the ornate brass bucket that was set to one side of the large slate hearth, he started picking out one of the free local papers.