The Storm Protocol

by Iain Cosgrove

  ‘Guido and Ernesto Mancini, Antonio their bodyguard, and another guy that I’ve met before whose name escapes me,’ I said a little mysteriously.

  I didn’t want to expose the CIA angle yet.

  ‘They make up the gathering.’

  ‘You’re full of surprises,’ said James.

  I could feel the irony dripping off the sentence.

  ‘I’ll be quick,’ I said, ‘because I have a feeling this is all going to kick off very soon. The Mancini’s, McCabe and Collins met here in the car park, and then continued their conversation inside.’

  I neglected to tell them that they’d also swapped documents of some kind, and both Collins and Antonio had attaché cases with them.

  ‘Black Swan and his men stormed the building. In the ensuing confusion, Roussel, Foster and I managed to take them by surprise.’

  ‘Roussel and Foster are here too?’ asked James.

  I nodded.

  ‘But that guy Keegan was somehow able to distract me briefly, and then managed to get a shot off.’

  ‘So, it’s a bit of a stand-off now then?’

  ‘And they don’t know you’re here, which might play to our advantage. So, here’s what I need you guys to do, and you’re going to have to trust me on this,’ I whispered urgently to James.

  I continued on, holding up my hand to silence his protestations.

  ‘You need to move out into the extreme flanks of the building. DS Fitzpatrick, you go out left, James you go out right.’

  I checked that I was still wearing my Bluetooth headset.

  ‘Attract the attention of Roussel and Foster. They will be the only ones with automatic weapons. DS Fitzpatrick, you’ll need to show your man your warrant card; they won’t shoot first.’

  I looked at them to make sure they were listening intently.

  ‘Now this is very important. Make sure you manoeuvre them out through the side doors of the building. The rest of the men are all in the main body of the factory, and as such, don’t have direct line of sight to the outer walls. This may work to our advantage, as you should be able to exit unnoticed. Get the guys to send me a text when you’re outside and then I can make a run out through the front; the way you came in. In the meantime, as you move into position, I’ll put down a bit of covering fire; try and divert the attention away from you. Hopefully they'll start killing each other and save us the trouble.’

  The two guys nodded.

  ‘So, you understand what it is you’re doing?’ I asked, one more time.

  They nodded again.

  ‘Ok, off you go, keep to the shadows and good luck.’

  They shook hands sombrely with me and then scurried out into the dark recesses along either side of the building. I counted silently to five and then pointed my weapon upwards and fired three rounds in quick succession, deliberately placing all the focus on myself. I was making it up as I went along, but the first part of the plan was in motion; time to start the second phase.

  I got to my feet, shuffling around a concrete pillar to peer out into the main body of the production floor, when a movement caught my attention. I managed to silently adjust my position and shift to the side of the pillar, just as Ben Collins and David McCabe went creeping past me on the other side. They kept as silent as they could, and by the look of it, they’d managed to evade detection.

  I waited for them to get to the end of the corridor and out through the doors. To my surprise, they turned to the left, instead of heading straight out. I was expecting discretion not valour.

  I followed a discreet distance behind, moving surreptitiously into the reception area and saw one of their retreating backs disappearing up the stairwell.

  I moved up the steps as quickly and carefully as my leg would allow, reaching the small office at the end of the corridor, just as a beep sounded in my headset. One team had made it out of the building safely. As if on cue, I got a second beep. I put my hand on the door handle and pushed it open.

  They were huddled together at a large meeting room table. They looked up in surprise as I hobbled into the room. Their gaze drifted from the weapon I held outstretched in my hand, and then back to the documents they were carefully laying out on the large flat surface.

  ‘Move away from the table,’ I said quietly. ‘And keep your hands where I can see them.’

  They did as they were asked, and surprisingly, the overriding emotion, especially on the face of McCabe, seemed to be one of relief. I kept my eye on them as best I could as I started throwing the documents back into the open attaché case. I clicked it shut and tucked it under my arm.

  ‘It's been nice doing business with you, gentleman,’ I said, backing out.

  I stopped short of the door as I felt something cold and metallic on the back of my neck; an eerie echo of thirteen days earlier.

  ‘We meet again, Mr O'Neill,’ said the voice.

  I knew immediately who it was.

  ‘David, Ben, my quarrel is not with you. Get out before I change my mind.’

  They didn't need asking twice. They scurried out like rats from the sinking ship.

  ‘Turn around,’ he ordered.

  I shuffled slowly around, as fast as my leg would let me, until I was facing him. The anger and hatred burned as brightly as ever.

  ‘Okay, so I don’t get to gloat the way I wanted to,’ he said, ‘but at least you'll know who sent you to meet your maker.’

  Time seemed to slow down. I could sense his finger building the pressure on the trigger. At about the same time, I could sense his realisation that he had made a basic error; he was standing slightly too close.

  I flicked up my left hand to deflect the gun; the bullet impacted into the solid stone masonry of the wall. At the same time, my right arm swung in towards his head, the bottom edge of my hand connecting to a point on his neck an inch or so below the skull. His legs buckled from under him, his eyes rolled into his head, and he fell to the floor.

  When he came to, I had moved slightly away from him; the distance he should have been standing.

  ‘I’ve got no quarrel with you,’ I said, as he got up slowly. ‘Let’s call it quits and you can walk away.’

  ‘I can’t call it quits,’ he said, rubbing his neck thoughtfully, ‘so you need to do it now, or I’ll never stop coming for you.’

  ‘Don’t push me,’ I warned.

  ‘Do it,’ he screamed. ‘Do it!’

  He leapt at me as I’d known he would. I re-adjusted my stance, and the butt of the gun connected with his temple with a dull thud. He dropped to the floor, out cold again.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered, ‘but I can't have another pointless death on my conscience.’

  I took one last look around the room and then headed back through the doorway. I didn't see the shooter; rather I heard the bullet thud into the frame of the doorway. I pulled back instinctively, as a volley of shots ripped through the cheap plasterboard partition.

  There was no way I could shelter in this room, even if I could lock the door, which I couldn't. My eyes scanned the room, coming to a cold and calculating decision. I hobbled towards the window, ignoring the bullets as they flew through the studwork to impact on the far masonry wall. I ducked instinctively as I heard a large crash, then raised my weapon and fired twice. The window exploded outwards in a million fragments.

  I lifted my leg awkwardly over the sill, ripping my trousers on the jagged edges of glass. I saw a shadow darkening the doorway and didn't hesitate. As I launched myself out, I tried to land on my good leg, but I hadn't factored in the slope of the roof. I hit with the wounded leg first, which buckled under me, and I spun helplessly towards the edge.

  Luckily or unluckily, there were skylights dotted across the surface. I rolled straight into one. The impact on my spine was bone juddering, and forceful enough to knock the wind out of me. I wasted no time; unclipping the Perspex covering as I fought to regain my breath.

  Seeing the stack of cardboard boxes underneath the window, I threw
the attaché case into the hole and dived headfirst after it through the open skylight, just as a volley of bullets shattered the hinged plastic cover above me. I was exceptionally lucky; the boxes were half empty and took the major force of the impact. I rolled and landed heavily on the concrete; it was becoming a bit of a painful habit. I got up stiffly, rubbed my aching back, and shuffled toward the exit. As I walked, it became apparent that I was not alone, not by a long shot.

  I felt their eyes on me first, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up as I felt their weapons on me too. I hobbled into the open area in the middle of the floor. The open skylight was acting as a weird spotlight on me, as I grabbed onto the edge of the builders skip for support.

  I waited for them to form a circle, like the old Wild West and then the one called Pavel moved forward from the shadowy circle to face me.

  ‘You’re pretty good,’ he said.

  His accent was so thick I could barely understand what he was saying.

  ‘But not good enough, I think; time for you to die.’

  He was slow and he was arrogant, two things that had always pissed me off. It also gave my subconscious an impossibly long time to register the enormous propane tank at one end of the production floor. I flicked up my weapon and fired a single shot.

  ‘Missed,’ he said, with a crooked smile.

  ‘I don't think so,’ I replied.

  The explosion, when it came, was more of a whoosh. It started as a tiny dot and then the rapidly intensifying fireball seemed to grow and expand, consuming everything in its path. One or two men screamed as the roof seemed to peel off. The flames came roaring towards us, like the fingers of Satan, straight from hell.

  I rolled into the skip and pulled the sheet of plywood across my body, milliseconds before the fiery tidal wave hit. I heard the anguished screams cut off abruptly, as the fireball continued its relentless journey. I could feel the heat on the plywood above me, and could feel the flesh of my fingers burning. I had to endure the agony to keep my shield in place.

  Then, just as suddenly as it had started, it was gone. I relaxed and my brain must have hit the kill switch, as the next thing I remember was a shouted here he is and the plywood was roughly cast aside. Both Roussel and Dale towered over me.

  ‘Is he alive?’ asked Dale anxiously, as the paramedics started work.

  ‘Of course I’m bloody alive,’ I said sourly, before dissolving into a coughing fit.

  The two of them laughed with relief and it was kind of touching for me to realise how concerned they were.

  ‘Fucking hell, Street,’ croaked Dale, who rarely swore. ‘You’ve destroyed any chance we have of getting any of the documentation back.’

  I looked around. I could see what he meant. The roof was gone and everywhere was still smouldering.

  ‘Isn't it better this way,’ I said. ‘Gone up in a puff of smoke?’

  ‘We really needed those documents,’ he said a little sadly, ‘if only to save our careers.’

  ‘Roll me over to one side,’ I said to the paramedic.

  ‘Why; are you hurt?’

  ‘Just fucking do it, will you!’ I shouted crossly.

  They gently rolled me to one side, and there, lying beneath me, nestled in the builder’s rubble, was the battered attaché case.

  ‘I just couldn't help myself,’ I said weakly.

  I started laughing, and was still laughing when the morphine went in and the pain dulled to a throb and then to nothing.

  Chapter 59 – Anticlimax

  28th May 2011 – Eighteen days after the Storm.

  Suspense is worse than disappointment. – Robert Burns.

  I walked through the large stone gates with a mixture of trepidation and excitement. I had basically pretended that the funeral hadn’t happened; simple as that. There were a lot of conversations that I needed to have with her; topics that a son should have discussed with his mother, all those years ago.

  All the communications normally shared were in our case lost in our fractious and tempestuous relationship, not helped by her early onset Alzheimer’s. Back then, I’d revelled in the discord and chaos it brought. Now, twenty plus years later, all I felt was a gnawing chasm of guilt, widening year by year.

  It was simple really; isn’t it always? We had just never completely gelled as mother and son in those later years; never aligned on any of those really important levels. We’d never had one of those eureka moments; one of those shared laughter, I know what the other person is thinking before they do, moments. We were always slightly out of tune, like a grainy TV picture, or a crackly radio station, sometimes crystal clear in our understanding and then suddenly adrift in a shower of static. But at the crux of it all was one simple thing; my stubbornness and single mindedness.

  I could always see how hard she was trying, but it was like a game and I couldn’t help myself. I think deep down I had convinced myself that if she loved me, really loved me, then she would never give up. So the harder she tried, the more difficult I would become. I would let her get so far; she would think we were making progress, and then, wham, I’d let fly with all the teenage histrionics I could muster. She was dead before I realised what a complete and utter bastard I’d been, our relationship a wasteland of wrong turns and infinite, unfulfilled possibilities.

  So here I was, pathetically trying to find redemption; hoping against hope that a headstone could dispense forgiveness, but knowing deep down that it could not.

  The realisation that redemption was beyond reach did not make me sad; it made me angry.

  ‘This is not how it was supposed to be,’ I screamed silently at the headstone. ‘You were supposed to give me contentment and closure in answers, not confusion and turmoil in questions.’

  I felt a lump in my throat as I approached the cold granite monument to my squandered opportunities.

  And then I stopped.

  There were fresh flowers on the grave.

  I looked at the carefully manicured mound, and my thoughts anchored back to those spiteful words uttered by Black Swan.

  ‘That slut of a mother,’ he’d said.

  God forgive me, but I couldn't purge my mind of those hurtful images. My mother with another man, my mother with other kids; the thoughts competed with each other for space.

  I wandered aimlessly for a couple of minutes, eventually sinking onto a bench. I hadn't even brought any flowers myself. What the hell was I doing? What was I trying to prove? What was I looking for?

  I had to accept there were things about my mother I would probably never know.

  I heard the sound of whistling. It was the old crooner classic, fly me to the moon; I recognised the refrain. A tall athletic young man was holding a green canvas bag full of gardening tools. I watched open mouthed as he placed the bag next to my mother's plot, and started laying out his tools methodically, like a surgeon in an operating theatre.

  He caught my eye. If he was aware of the fact I was staring at him, he didn't give it away, acknowledging my gaze with a slight smile, before turning to his work with a rapt concentration.

  I walked slowly towards him, my mind racing, trying to calculate the infinite possibilities. He glanced up again as I approached, his initial greeting turning to puzzlement and indecision as he wilted under the intensity of my examination.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he asked hesitantly.

  I was just about to answer, when I heard a familiar voice behind me.

  ‘Adam, where are you, I told you to slow down?’

  He looked up with a guilty smile, but didn’t answer.

  ‘Didn’t I ask you to wait for me?’ she asked, in a light-heartedly admonishing tone.

  She was about to continue, but as I turned, she stopped. My heart was racing, but she looked at me calmly.

  ‘Hello Thomas,’ she said slowly. ‘We meet again. I thought you were long gone.’

  It was not an apology, merely a statement of fact.

  ‘But where are my manners?’ she said. ‘Let me
introduce you to my son, Adam.’

  The young man coloured and brushed his hands on his jumper, before taking my hand and shaking it firmly.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said.

  ‘Thomas O'Neill,’ I responded dazedly, as if by way of explanation.

  ‘Ah, the New Yorker,’ he said, his face clearing.

  There was an awkward silence.

  ‘Adam, can you cope on your own for a while?’ asked Kathleen. ‘I fancy a quick stroll with an old friend.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Take your time, I’ll be waiting.’

  I offered her my arm which she linked as we headed off on a slow circuit of the cemetery. I said nothing, content for her to speak when she was ready.

  ‘I hope you don't mind?’ she asked at last.

  ‘I’m quite touched actually,’ I replied.

  She looked at me and smiled her famous sardonic smile.

  ‘I didn't do it for you,’ she said. ‘Mrs O was always very good to me. The funeral was just very....’

  She searched for the word.

  ‘....cold. It seemed a shame for her to be laid to rest without someone to look after her.’

  I ignored the intentionally barbed words.

  ‘You don't come just for....’

  ‘No, I have other reasons for being here,’ she said, without elaborating.

  ‘Well, thank you anyway,’ I said.

  ‘You’re welcome. I’m surprised to see you here, in fact,’ she said. ‘Confronting your emotions, asking for forgiveness maybe? Surely that’s too messy and irrational for Thomas O’Neill. You prefer the clean break, don’t you?’

  Same old Kathleen, forthright as ever with no punches pulled. There were very few people who would speak to me like that, even less who I would let do it with impunity.

  ‘Starting an initial dialogue,’ I replied honestly. ‘We’ll see where it goes.’

  ‘So, you’re staying?’ she asked.

  ‘I'm not sure,’ I replied. ‘It depends on a couple of things, but if I do leave, it’s not because I'm running away. I’m not prepared to do that any longer.’

  ‘I believe you.’