The Storm Protocol (2 page)

I stood there as the rain obliterated the documents in my hand. I had seen the name of the father, standing out in stark capital letters; mocking me. I felt nothing. I was numb. The lightning crackled and the thunder roared, and still I stood there; unmoving, unyielding.

I didn’t see the dark suited figure sidle up behind me, as agile, nimble and silent as a cat. I only felt the pressure of the barrel on the back of my neck, as the lightning lit up the body at my feet for one last time.

‘Guido says goodbye,’ he whispered in my ear
, as the thunder roared overhead, punctuated only by a single sharp crack.

10
th
April 2011 – One month before the Storm.

Death; the last sleep? No, it is the final awakening. – Sir Walter Scott.

I placed the steaming mug gently onto the kitchen table. I was always careful to centre it onto the white ring, a mark that had etched itself indelibly into the soft veneer of the cheap pine. I often idly contemplated cleaning it off and then always managed to find something better to do.

I was a creature of habit.

I took my first sip, and winced at the heat and the taste; forgot the sweetener again.

What an idiot.

As I pulled the sugar bowl over and stirred in a couple of spoonfuls, I turned my attention back to the job in hand. The shoe box had already been removed from the closet, a daily eight-fifteen obsession.

I emptied the contents gingerly and then carefully unfurled the soft cotton cloth that wrapped the items. The heavy material folded out and spread over the surface, but fell short of the edges; like a table cloth that was slightly too small.

I arranged the metallic objects, newly liberated from their daily slumber, creating uniform patterns on the table. It was always the same pattern; no deviations.

I surveyed the finished display, truly a work of art. A stunning triumph of design and functionality, each individual part crafted and machined to perfection. And yet; perfect as each individual piece was, it could not function individually. It could only contribute to the balanced and lethal whole.

I set to work with the cleaning solution and oils. I flipped the egg timer over; tapping it gently to make sure the sands of time started flowing.

Seated in my favourite chair, I proceeded to clean, oil, and assemble at the same slow and steady pace I always used. And just as the last grain of sand dropped into the lower vessel, I pulled the slide back with an abrupt metallic clunk.

Gently increasing the pressure on the trigger, I felt the slight buck in my hand and heard the satisfying click of the hammer. There was something primeval about a gun, something only men could relate to; a reflex buried deep in our primitive warrior subconscious.

My first daily ritual was over; a habit born out of two decades of paranoia. I held a lifelong superstitious belief that I was the architect of my own survival or destruction. I a
lways worked that way; it was one of the primary reasons I was the best at what I did. I left nothing to chance. I made my own luck; there was no lady present.

I engaged the safety and laid the weapon aside. Picking up the box of ammunition reverently, I selected nine rounds at random. As I looked at them, gli
nting in my hand, I went through my other morning routine.

Carefully inspecting each round for signs of warping, I checked for suspicious markings or scratches on the sides or bottom, laying them in specific piles; left for rejection and right for selection. As I rejected, I selected another from the box and repeated
, until I had nine items in a neat row to my right.

I scanned them visually, before hefting each one in my hand
, to check for overall balance and feel. You’d be surprised at what you could ascertain, just by hefting a bullet in your hand for a few seconds.

I had seen the effects first-hand at
a local firing range, once. Mr Ego behind me in the queue had scoffed and laughed at my superstition. As he’d loaded my rejected rounds, he’d winked to his girlfriend and his mates; he was going to make his point. And make it he did; bullet number three jammed, blowing his hand clean off. It had not been a pretty sight. So, the discarded ones are routinely disposed of; I won’t allow rejected ammunition back into circulation.

Once I’d finished, and only when I was completely satisfied with each individual item, I pressed each round carefully into the magazine. I only ever used nine bullets; even if the gun could take more, nine was my limit. It was my talisman
; I had no intention of ever changing it.

For me, it was always about the numbers. How many targets are there? How many shots to kill? How much will I get paid? But it went deeper than that.

I always regarded the numbers one through nine as pure; anything higher than nine was a combination of numbers and my superstition wouldn’t allow combinations. If I needed more than nine bullets, then the time had come to retire.

Once the magazine was fully loaded, I visually inspected it one last time, and then I laid it softly next to the gun. Like love and marriage, you couldn’t have one without the other.

I picked up the mug again and drained the bitter sweet liquid in a long final swallow. I snatched the two items from the table and slammed the magazine into the gun with a gratifying click. I eased the weapon into my shoulder holster, shrugging on my thousand-dollar linen suit jacket. It was specially tailored for me, so it would not show any embarrassing bulges. Guido and Ernesto had immaculate taste in clothes and expected the same of their employees.

I walked over to the CD player, repeating the same two albums over and over again. I smiled at the line that was playing as I approached; it was prophetic really.

I’m a book keeper’s son. I don’t want to shoot no one.

I clicked off the s
tereo. He had been a solicitor, not a book keeper.

I trotted briskly down the stairs and out
of the front door of my sleek brownstone, located in one of the better areas of Midtown; a fringe benefit of my job. I took the steps two at a time, replaying the orders from the previous night; going over in my head what I was expected to do today.

#

‘There is a pharmacy at 630 Lexington Avenue,’ said Guido softly.

He glanced at me and then muttered to himself under his breath in annoyance.

‘Hey Street,’ he shouted suddenly and with venom. ‘Are you listening to me?’

I jerked in surprise; irritated at myself for drifting off. My mind was somewhere completely different; certainly not in this room. It had been happening a lot recently. Too much for my line of work, and especially where the brothers were concerned. I was a detail oriented person; details were the difference between life and death.

Pay attention, this shit will get you killed.

‘Sorry b
oss,’ I said. ‘Long day, I guess. What were you saying?’

He coughed.

‘Do I have your full attention now? Good! Focus, for fuck’s sake.’

He exhaled in disgust.

‘Anyway, as I was saying, there is a pharmacy at 630 Lexington Avenue,’ he repeated.

‘There is a dude working the prescription counter, name of O’Reilly; John O’Reilly. One of your lot I think,’ he said
, directing the comment towards me with the beginnings of a smirk.

I nodded to indicate my understanding.

He had an Irish sounding surname. Big deal, he was probably Irish-American, so way more Irish than a real Paddy like me. But it did make it easier for me sometimes; if they were ethnic, it gave me an in.

‘He owes us a lot of money. We know people don’t carry that kind of cash around with them, and we know he doesn’t have it in any of his checking or savings accounts. We know his credit rating and circle of friends; we know his share portfolio and what assets he owns. In short, we know every godamn thing about him, so we also know that there is no wa
y on God’s green earth that he can pay us back.’

He smiled at the last statement.

‘So, normal persuasion job, then,’ I replied. ‘Lean on him a little, let him know the lie of the land?’

‘No, not this time,’ said Guido, surprising me. ‘Normally it would piss me right off. I would love to lean on this little fucker and show him he can’t fuck with the Manci
ni family. But in this case, lucky for the little SOB, his debt is the very thing that makes him useful to us.’

He stopped to compose himself; eyes closing briefly as he brought forth the memories.

‘He has racked up a huge gambling tab which he can’t pay. We were about to send some heat over to him; these suckers normally crumble like shortcake. But, before we could send anyone over, he made direct contact with us. It surprised the shit out of me, to be honest.’

Ernesto nodded curtly; silently corroborating the information.

‘So, we have temporarily sanctioned his ongoing debt, with the proviso that it does not get any bigger, and we are going to collect in a different way.’

Guido paused for breath and to assemble his thoughts. His hawk-like stare pierced the picture window as it framed the Manhattan skyline, the buildings shimmering in the late evening sunlight. His eyes moved constantly, darting left and right
, taking everything in, as though he was searching for prey. Nothing got past Guido.

‘So, lucky for him, he thinks he has something we would be interested in,’ he continued, ‘and much more importantly for him, we
know
we would be interested in it. Otherwise, the little cock-sucker would be in Bellevue by now.’

He grinned at me.

‘I
think
you might be able to persuade him to part with it. If it is as valuable as he thinks it is....’

He left the statement lying there and looked across at me quizzically. He was almost impossibly tanned, with a face unlined by life; miraculous for one of sixty two with his
type of lifestyle. Botox and UV lamps played a big part in Guido’s daily routine. But, his cobalt blue hawk-eyes were fierce in their intensity, set off against the dark eyebrows and framed under a sleek shock of slicked back silver hair. He was the archetypal mobster and even if he wasn’t, you would instinctively assume that he was seriously connected.

You didn’t fuck with Guido.

‘Any hints as to what I am supposed to ask him for?’ I asked, a tad shortly.

The brothers exchanged a quick glance. Ernesto’s eyes darted to me for a split second and then flitted away again as quickly.

I studied him as he gazed out of the same window. He was slightly taller than his brother at six feet even, with the same shock of silver hair. But his eyes were green, and his complexion was lighter and less tanned. He didn’t go in for the same cosmetic treatments, so consequently his face looked like well worn leather. His eyebrows were white, and the overall effect made him look softer and more serene than Guido. I only ever made that mistake once. I subconsciously rubbed the large circular scar on the back of my hand; I always learnt from my mistakes. But I did know one thing. The brothers were hiding something from me; I could always tell.

‘It’s a white ring binder,’ said Ernesto quietly.

His eyes snapped back to me and his stare never left mine, his demeanour suddenly deliberately threatening. I was equal to the challenge, holding his eyes and daring him to take it further. He nodded eventually and looked away.

‘Street, this means a lot to us,’ he said
, and I was surprised at the earnestness of his statement. ‘So please don’t fuck it up, for his sake and for yours.’

He didn’t elaborate and I didn’t expect him to.

‘So how do I recognise this binder?’ I asked. ‘How do I know he isn’t pawning me off with some old newspaper cuttings or baseball stats?’

Guido pointed to the picture behind his desk. The photographer was either brave or foolhardy, traits Guido loved and loathed in equal measure. The image revealed a tor
nado that had just touched down, literally carving a house in two. Guido’s favourite piece of the picture was the three cattle you could just make out in the top left of the wind funnel, swirling about, legs and tails flailing. He had a bit of a twisted sense of humour.

He glanced at me and saw the confusion on my face.

‘Storm,’ he said. ‘The word
Storm
will be on the cover and watermarked across every page.’

As I left, I failed to see the look that passed between the brothers. If I had, I would have known exactly what it meant.

#

John O’Reilly was nervous
, without knowing exactly why. He was always getting premonitions. It had been that way since his early teens, and he always obeyed his subconscious. But this was different; this wasn’t directional as much as a sense of foreboding.

‘What the fuck
am I supposed to do with these?’ asked the middle aged lady at the front of the queue, holding up a packet of laxatives that he had absently thrown into her prescription bag.

He muttered an apology under his breath. She looked long and hard at him for a few seconds, opened the package slightly to check the drugs she really wanted were inside,
and then snatched it off the counter with a flourish. As she stalked out of the door on a wave of self righteousness, he exhaled the breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding in a big stream.

He tried to catch Cathy’s eye, eventually having to resort to waving his arms like an idiot, while the Latino man at the front of the queue swore and muttered under his breath.