by Shah, R D
Munroe allowed the question to linger and then after a light frustrated sigh he shook his head. “No, they were involved in a car bombing a few years back, but I found a picture of them on the door of his house.”
“So you have been in contact with him, then.”
Munroe offered a nod. “I was called to a hostage situation in London. Icarus asked for me by name. It ended peacefully and your man was taken into custody… but he escaped.”
Kessler’s lips flickered in amusement but he remained silent as Munroe explained further.
“The thing is, Mr Kessler, I’ve been calling my contact at DS5 for the past hour and I’m not getting any reply, which leads me to one of either two conclusions. One, they’ve no one manning the phones, which seems unlikely given it’s a government agency, or two… for whatever reason, I’ve been cut loose, which means as a contractor I’m a party of one. Either way, I need to find out what the connection is between my family and your… madman.”
Kessler sat there for a moment and scanned Munroe’s face with the look of a judge, jury and executioner. His head tilted to one side and then his eyes tightened before flinching at the pain in his nose. “Icarus is no madman, of that you can be sure. He’s as pure as the driven snow, and everything he does is calculated. And to correct you, he is not mine, or ours, but he is on a mission, and believe me when I tell you it is one that neither of us want to see accomplished.”
Munroe was about to ask what, but he hesitated and allowed the old man to continue.
“Concerning your family, I can say that I know nothing. Whatever his business it’s his alone, but what I can tell you is David, ‘Icarus’, is a man of sheer focus and determination. His talents lie in subterfuge, counter-surveillance, assassination, and if you took him into custody peacefully then it was only because he wanted you to. I should know, I trained him. In my younger days I tutored many from an early age before they entered the ranks, but no one like him. Despite what you may think of his crimes, I can assure you that when it comes to his skillset, he’s about as good as it gets.” Kessler paused and smiled smugly. “He was bred to be that way.”
Munroe sat back on his haunches and gazed at the old man cynically. “Who the hell are you people?”
Kessler’s smugness slowly evaporated and he stared at Munroe with a dynamism that had seemed lacking in the old man thus far. “We are Daedalus, Mr Munroe. Named after the fabled father of Icarus, who flew too close to the sun and melted his wings. It is a lesson that we have learnt from, and will not repeat.”
“I don’t know about that, Mr Kessler. Your boy Icarus appears to be singeing his own wings pretty well right about now. Going rogue and all.”
Kessler looked untroubled by the assessment and he raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps, but setbacks do occur. The true measure of a person is how those issues are rectified, and that is something we are very good at, holding steady to the course laid out. Daedalus is the beginning of a new world. A far better world than the one so far constructed. There are few people who know our name, and I only tell you this because I see something in you. Something I’ve not seen in a while.”
“And that is?”
“I see providence in you, Mr Munroe. I see a man capable of great things. I see someone who wants to belong to something, but hasn’t yet found it. Tell me, were you abandoned as a child?”
Up until that point Munroe had been playing the game, but the question caught him off guard. “So you’ve seen my file, you do know who I am.”
Kessler was already shaking his head. “On the contrary. Before you turned up at my door I had never seen or heard of you before, but you exude a certain self-belief, a self-reliance that usually comes from those who have experienced extreme adversity or abandonment. These experiences provide a strong motivating factor for instilling such traits for the man one becomes. It’s no wonder you became what you are.”
“And what’s that?” Munroe asked, his eyes widening, sounding sincerely interested.
Kessler stared at him now without any malice or judgement. “You’re a killer, Mr Munroe, as all special forces men should be. But not without good cause, and I sense in you it is the cause, the right cause, that you yearn for.” Kessler leant closer towards him. “I can offer you that cause.”
Munroe leant backwards and his mouth dropped open ever so slightly. He didn’t trust the old boy one iota. There was something about Kessler that reeked of deceit, but it was underpinned with conviction and a belief that was absolute. Besides, some of what he was hearing resonated to Munroe’s core. “You see a lot, Mr Kessler.”
Kessler sat back upright. “It’s what I do best,” he said confidently, and if one set aside, in that moment, that he was sitting on a toilet seat, hands tied together with a bedsheet and with dried blood encrusting his nose, the man looked almost saintly. “And if you’re willing, I’d like to offer you an opportunity. An interview of sorts. We need men of moral fibre and resilience. Even given the unfortunate start to our relationship, strong kinships have formed from far worse beginnings.”
Munroe stood up and then looked down upon the old man blankly, his breathing becoming heavier. He took one last deep exhale and steadied himself. “You’re asking me to betray the people I work for, to join a group I know nothing about, who protect a man like Icarus, and all based on the guess that I was an orphan!”
Kessler looked genuinely upset by the misinterpretation of his offer. “You said it yourself, DS5 have dropped you like a dead weight. They have betrayed you. It’s their usual way of doing things. Believe me, I know them well, and it seems better than you do, especially that snake McCitrick.”
Munroe looked surprised, and it was noted immediately by Kessler. “I wouldn’t trust anything that passes between that man’s lips. That’s not even his real name, didn’t you notice? ‘McCitrick’! Take out the ‘C’s… Mitrick… My trick! He has a sense of humour, I’ll give him that, but make no mistake – he’s a bullshit artist with a bit of power and a questionable agenda. As for Icarus, as you have already mentioned, he’s gone rogue, and we want him stopped as much as you do. The man he was, the man I cared about, is long gone, and the man he has become… the terrible things he’s done…” Kessler looked like he had a bad taste in his mouth. “Unforgivable.”
Munroe looked puzzled and he gazed downwards to the floor, contemplating the offer as Kessler continued.
“I can see the conflict playing out inside you, Mr Munroe, but despite what you think you know, or don’t, could it be that you have found yourself on the wrong side?”
“The wrong side of what?” Munroe snapped, and he ran his fingers through his hair irritably. “I don’t know what fuck ‘this’ is.”
Kessler raised his bound hands comfortingly. “I understand your frustration, but I’ve not lied to you since we met. I said you had been dumped in the middle of something you had no idea of. What I’m offering you now is a chance to know what is really going on and then… well, then you can make up your own mind.”
Munroe rubbed his forehead as Kessler waited patiently for an answer. To say he was becoming torn about what to do was an understatement. What did he actually know about McCitrick and DS5? Nothing. And the Home Secretary on the call could have been impersonated. Christ, he’d never even met the man.
Munroe slammed his fist against the bathroom wall and grunted. “OK, let’s say, just for argument’s sake, I consider what you’re saying is true. That I’ve been duped royally. This DS5, whoever the fuck they are, will come after me with a vengeance. No loose ends and that. So what the fuck do you expect me to do?”
Kessler offered a friendly and supportive smile. “Undoing this bedsheet would be a good start, and then allow me to make a call and I can tell you everything about the situation you’ve found yourself tangled up in.” Kessler gave a shake of his hands. “But I can’t help you with Icarus’s fascination with you or your family. As I said, I don’t know anything about that, but when we find him, you will get your answ
ers, of that you have my word.”
The small bathroom fell into silence as Munroe contemplated his options and his eyes darted about the floor broodingly. To be so out of control in any situation was unsettling for him, not in his nature, and he fretted through taut lips as Kessler sought to reassure him further.
“If DS5 is at the heart of your concerns then it needn’t be. In just under an hour they will no longer be a problem.”
Munroe looked up and stared at the old man in shock. “What?”
Kessler looked confident and almost magnanimous seated upon the white porcelain toilet seat. “I can’t give details, but let us say it’s a venture that your Fawkes would have been proud of.”
“Fawkes?” Munroe repeated as an icy realisation shot through his mind. “Guy Fawkes?”
Kessler only smiled. Munroe stood there totally stunned for a mere moment, then he rushed out of the bathroom and grabbed the iPhone lying on the bed. He tapped in a number and made his way back to the bathroom to find Kessler now looking unsure of himself.
“What are you doing?” he demanded as Munroe pulled the phone from his ear and attempted a redial.
“McCitrick, ‘My Trick’. Not bad. Was that on the spur of the moment, or is it an inside joke for you lot?”
Kessler looked upset by the con played on him but then he clicked his head to one side, looking reverent. “You bullshit well, Mr Munroe. Not bad. I almost believed you were reconsidering your position.”
Munroe held the phone to his ear and offered a forced smile. “Two rules to bullshitting, Mr Kessler. Firstly, always hide a lie between two truths, and secondly, when telling a lie, you have to make yourself believe it. The face can easily give away too much unintentional information. Either that or have a phenomenal flair for acting, which I do not.”
Surprisingly, Kessler didn’t look particularly annoyed, and he now began to smile. “I’m afraid you won’t have the time,” he said, watching Munroe pull the phone back from his ear after his second attempt and now noticing the ‘no service’ sign. “No service?” he muttered to himself as Kessler cleared his throat then tapped at a small scar on his forearm and the raised bulge underneath it. “It’s a tracker implant. You were playing for information, and I for time. Call it a draw – we both got what we wanted, only you won’t have time to tell your friends.”
“They’re blocking the signal,” Munroe muttered under his breath, and he leapt across the bed to the side drawer, jerked it open and pulled out the black SIG Sauer P320.
That’s when the explosions began.
Chapter 13
The door shattered inwards, sending smoke and wreckage hurtling across the room, just catching Munroe’s back leg as he flung himself down by the side of the bed for cover. From underneath he had a direct line of sight to what had been a door moments earlier, and he watched as two pairs of boots swiftly filed inside. At the sound of Kessler yelling one of them turned and disappeared into the bathroom as the other slowly approached the far side of the bed. One of the terrace windows had been taken out due to the blast, blown onto the street outside, and as the boots got closer Munroe lay on his back and aimed his gun upwards, but low enough not to be seen over the top of the bed.
He wasn’t taking any chances. He readied himself as the tip of a the M4 carbine passed into view, aiming at the window, followed by a man wearing the exact same outfit as the hit squad back at Kessler’s chateau. The moment his balaclava-covered face became visible Munroe pulled the trigger, sending a single 19mm Parabellum bullet slicing through the man’s chin and into his brain cavity, dropping him to floor. Munroe then turned his aim to the bathroom and from underneath the bed clipped the other armed goon in the ankle as he appeared to investigate. As the man fell to the floor in agony, Munroe saw the Kessler’s shoes skip past him and outside into the corridor beyond. With the attacker’s head now clearly in sight, Munroe sent a single bullet straight through the gunman’s forehead.
Munroe leapt up and seized the nearest assault rifle lying on the ground, whilst in the background he could hear Kessler barking orders to what must have been the rest of the team. His position in the small hotel bedroom was no place to make a last stand, so he turned to the wrecked window and unloaded a barrage of shots towards the hallway before leaping from the terrace and downwards to the street below.
Moments before the jump he had visualised the outlay he’d noted earlier when gazing out into the street and it proved accurate as he landed directly on top of the parked white 6 Series BMW below, crumpling the roof and sending him rolling off, down onto the tarmac street. If that wasn’t enough to piss off the BMW’s owner then what came next certainly would as the metallic thudding sound of bullets striking the hood and roof forced Munroe to hug the side of the driver’s door. One of the bullets connected with the nearest wing mirror, sending shattered glass to the ground, and Munroe seized the largest, closest piece and positioned it to get a good glance at the person unloading his magazine. The man above was dressed identically to the others, as expected, but it was obvious to Munroe he wasn’t committed to a simple spray and pray of the car below. He was delivering timed single shots to the BMW’s roof so as to keep Munroe pinned down until his brethren made it downstairs to greet him.
This was no time for a waiting game and Munroe eased the carbine upwards as far as he could without offering an easy shot of himself and began firing indiscriminately towards the terrace. None of the shots connected, but they weren’t meant to, and moments later he received the reply he had wanted. A barrage of bullets rained down on the car until they suddenly ceased. Munroe threw himself backwards onto the road and found himself staring up, as expected, to see his attacker changing his clip. A short volley of shots to the man’s chest sent him careening back into the hotel room, and although not a kill shot due to the body armour it gave Munroe the window he needed. Leaping to his feet he dashed for the nearest side road opposite. Upon turning the corner the deafening sound of gunfire erupted again, sending pieces of the brick wall exploding behind him.
Munroe dashed up the side street, rubbing the rifle’s frame with his shirt to rid any fingerprints, and then he clipped out the magazine and dumped the carbine in a green wheelie bin further up before turning onto the main street at the end. He hurried along it until the next road and took the first left whereupon he dropped the magazine over the wall of someone’s residence and began scanning the parked cars. He made it about halfway down the road before coming to an abrupt stop next to a dark silver 1986 Porsche 911.
“Perfect.” He slid off his coat and retrieved his handgun from his pocket. He then flopped the garment over the window with one hand and, holding the gun barrel, brought the butt of the gun down hard against the glass.
It only took one attempt to shatter the window and he opened the driver’s door and threw his coat inside before kicking at the plate underneath the steering wheel until it broke off. Modern cars with security safety chips were a near impossibility to hotwire without the right equipment, but with an old model like this it was as easy as depressing a millennial. A few crossed wires and the sleek hum of the 911’s engine purred into life, and Munroe pulled out and began steadily heading down the road towards a set of traffic lights. Dawn was already breaking, with most of the street lamps beginning to turn off, and by the time he reached the lights and came to a stop he was already jabbing the redial button on his mobile. This time the call clicked through and a single word was spoken.
“McCitrick.”
Munroe began to open his mouth when in front of him a tan Humvee screeched to a halt and he found himself staring directly into the eyes of Tobias Kessler, as behind him a man wearing a balaclava was already raising his carbine through the passenger side window.
Munro dropped the phone, slammed the 911 in reverse, ducked down and hit the accelerator as bullets tore into the windshield. Using only his side mirror he sailed back down the street, clipping a white van and leaving a silver stripe down its side before he reached th
e crossroads. He bobbed back up and flung the steering wheel to one side, sending the 911 into a half pirouette before slamming the car into gear and accelerating off at high speed.
As Munroe sped down the one-way street, just missing an early morning delivery van, more bullets began hitting the boot. One hit the back window and, although remaining intact, the whole piece of glass shattered, making it impossible for him to see behind.
Munroe glanced at his wing mirror to see the Humvee in hot pursuit, and as he unleashed the power of the 911 he was surprised to see it keeping up. The vehicle must have been kitted out and loaded to keep the pace, but as he jammed the gearstick into fourth he began to pull away at high speed.
Munroe stretched over and probed his hand down towards the passenger side between the seat and the door, that black hole space where everything from keys to phones ends up. He felt the edge of his iPhone, which he managed to pinch with his fingers and retrieve. Up ahead was a roundabout and the mobile now began ringing. It was McCitrick.
Munroe was within centimetres of tapping the accept button when a thunderous high-pitched roar erupted from his right side and he turned to see another Humvee careening across the roundabout within metres of him. Munroe yanked on the handbrake and turned into the skid, bringing him parallel with the oncoming jeep, but it wasn’t enough. The Humvee clipped his back fender and sent both spinning almost 360 degrees, locked together in a duet, the force of the impact sending his mobile flying. The crash smashed out the 911’s passenger window and even before the two vehicles came to a screeching halt in the centre of the roadway Munroe had already pulled his gun from between his thighs and unloaded two well-placed shots into the Humvee next to him. The driver was hit in the head, immediately followed by the front passenger, but as the 911 slipped back into first gear and tore away the men in the rear of the jeep began firing, sending a line of bullet holes down the side of the 911.