The Storm Protocol (3 page)

Cathy hurried over.

‘Listen Cathy,’ he said rapidly.

She put her head on one side as she listened.

‘I just got a call from the school,’ he continued, lying seamlessly. ‘One of the kids is being sent home, and Anne is out of town this week at a convention.’

He saw the light of concern in her eyes, and for a brief second, felt a tiny bit guilty at his little white lies. He remembered the words of the Mancini brothers and the guilt dissolved like an early morning mist on the beach.

She nodded her understanding, making the universal signal for
get out of here and do what you have to do
and took his place at the counter. She smiled brightly at the annoyed Latino customer, diffusing his anger immediately with her charm and poise.

He slipped down the corridor and out
onto the rear fire escape platform, which they also used as a makeshift smoking area. As the fire door closed behind him, he extricated the cigarette packet and lighter from the breast pocket of his smart white lab coat. It was crisply starched and ironed
every
day. Anne was as exacting in her standards as his mother had been. It was a pity the two of them never got to meet; they would have liked each other instinctively.

He shook a cigarette into his hand, marvelling at the perfection of shape, texture and colour. There was just something about cigarettes that made them so aesthetically appealing
to him. He slowly passed the sleek white cylinder under his nose, revelling in the sweet tobacco smell.

The harsh scraping of the flint animated the small lighter. As he held the blue and orange flame to the unfiltered end, he heard the faint crackle, a bushfire in miniature, as the cigarette flared into life. He always went through the same routine, delaying the surrender; that beautiful moment when the ni
cotine was dragged deep into his lungs.

As he exhaled the thin stream of smoke through his nose, he contemplated both the burning tip and his current predicament.

#

The fourth child had been their downfall. They had been marginally ahead
until that point; up one month and down another, but always just about even at year end. But this had been the tipping point for their perilously poised scales, delicately balanced for years, until a tiny increment in one direction had set off a chain reaction. Their household bills exponentially increased to the point that, even with their two salaries coming in, they could not cover all their outgoings.

In the middle of all this upheaval and chaos, he’d been invited to a mid week poker night at a local club with some old frat buddies. He never went out; never socialised with work or old friends, but the pressure was getting to him. It was Anne who
’d suggested it might be a good idea; release the valve on the pressure cooker for one night at least.

He went into the evening filled with trepidation. He hadn’t been out as a
single
man for years. He was not a big drinker or a big gambler, but the sense of freedom he’d felt was amazing. The release from the bounds of his closeted life made him feel like a million dollars. The more he drank, the more he wanted to drink, and his rising debt situation made him bold at the tables. At the end of the night, he’d ended up taking home the guts of three thousand dollars in winnings from a one hundred dollar stake, and the telephone numbers of two different women.

It
had paid off a lot of bills, and his earnest headshaking at the initial disapproval and anti gambling lecture had seemed to pay dividends in the bedroom, too.

For a while
, he left it alone; the tonic of that one visit seemed to be what they needed as a couple. Lady luck had visited and bestowed her gifts of plenty. But it couldn’t last and after a period of about three months, the bills started to increment with such renewed ferocity, that one night after work, he found his feet directing him past the Metro stop and back outside the self same casino club.

He should have realised; he was a stable middle aged professional man, the type who worked through his problems, not a reckless
, feckless idiot. But they seemed so nice. They remembered his name at the door; they even remembered the type of drink he liked. And the first few bets were on the house; that was the only hook they needed. From then on he was theirs. He was an addict.

He found his feet beginning to stray toward his new mistress
, more and more often; as dangerous and insidious as any femme fatale. The excuses over the pressures of work mounted and Anne bought them hook, line and sinker. She had no reason to doubt him; he was a genuinely hard worker.

For the first few weeks or so, he won and won big. It seemed like the sun was starting to rise, casting a warm glow over the slightly sick and guilty feeling he always carried into the club. But then, about a month into his newfound shadow life, the tide turned like a tsunami.

Rather than cut his losses, as most normal non addicts would do, he decided to wait it out; to play through the slump and win big again. But even here, the club were most obliging. They seemed to understand his needs and started him with a hefty line of credit. He was one of their most valued clients, they told him. It would be their pleasure to accommodate him. And accommodate him they did; over a six month period, he managed to rack up a debt to the tune of one hundred thousand big ones.

He’d been escorted into the manager’s office, high above the
gambling pit, with its line of security monitors, acres of mahogany, and plush leather chairs. His teeth had been chattering as he sat down. He knew what happened to people who accumulated large gambling debts; he may have been self deceiving, but he was not totally stupid.

Two older gentlemen sat in the corner and watched as the manager poured him a coffee. The manager’s smile never wavered, but it was clear that the words coming out of his mouth were not his own. John could see it in his eyes; could almost read what the manager really wanted to say, the ferocity of the delivery, the spittle flying out of his mouth like little bullets of water. But even
though there was plenty of intimation and lots of flowery language, it was made crystal clear to him that the debt had now reached a level where it was unsustainable. It was
imperative
(the manager’s word) that the debt be scaled down to a more manageable level. He was given a month.

As he walked out, numb to the core, the two older gentlemen smiled serenely at him and then at each other. It was like printing money for them; a guarantee of another hundred grand in the bank. John and all the other middle class pricks like him had no real fight in them. They would rather put their families out onto the street than risk losing a pinkie finger. P T Barnum had been right; there truly is one born every minute.

10
th
April 2011 – One month before the Storm.

The greatest enemy to human souls is the self-righteous spirit which makes men look to themselves for salvation. – Charles Spurgeon.

John watched the smoke rings, practised over many years, and allowed himself a small smile. A lifeline had been thrown to him soon after, and from a very unusual and unlikely source.

#

Glenn Collins was a self serving hypocrite, who ordinarily would not even have made it onto John’s tolerated acquaintances list. Unfortunately, he’d had absolutely no control or influence over who he’d got for a brother in law, despite plenty of subtle and not so subtle hints.

John despised the very ground that Glenn walked on, but Glenn would never have suspected it. John was always civil for the sake of Sandra, his sister, but even if he had been openly hostile, Glenn would not have noticed. He was the most self-absorbed person John had ever met. H
e only ever thought of himself, no exceptions. Even his wife and children were outsiders in Glenn’s world.

Tonight was different though. Even for a self important idiot like Glenn, he was acting really funny. Requestin
g a clandestine meeting in the lane at the back of John’s house; asking him not to tell Sandra (John’s sister, his own wife) that he was there. None of it made any sense. Glenn was always a bit eccentric, but this was different; this was bordering on paranoia. John had sensed something else this time; a small, barely vocalised hint of real fear.

John dropped the sparkling silver coins into the slot on the vending machine and extricated the evening paper; part of his home bound routine. He had a ten minute walk to his house from the Metro stop, and he liked to spend a few minutes reading the news.

He flipped the paper around to read the back page; like most American males, he headed straight for the sports section. After a brief and depressing perusal of scores, he flipped it back to the front page a few moments later. He froze for a couple of seconds, as if the gaze of medusa herself had fallen upon him. He stopped dead and read the article in detail, his mouth moving as he silently spelled out the words.

The two old dudes from the casino manager’s office were pictured outside a courthouse, smiling the same supercilious smiles he had personally witnessed less than a
week ago. In the article, their lawyer had outlined to the journalist why the prosecution’s case against them had failed. It hinged on a lack of physical evidence and also, critically, no witnesses had been persuaded to come forward.

He read on, swallowing hard with every new revelation. Drugs, prostitution, racketeering, gambling, you name it, they were in it. Fuck! He threw the paper away from him like it was alight; he could almost feel the information burning his fingers. He had known he was in deep, but this was Titanic deep.

Fuck, Fuck, Fuck.

The Mancini’s; how had he not recognised them?

The entrance to his laneway put paid to any additional rational thought on the matter. He would listen to whatever whine was in season for that week, and then get Glenn the hell out of the way. After that, a little research was in order, to see what kind of a shit storm he was really inside.

As he approached the house, he could see Glenn hiding behind the fence, looking more conspicuous and obvious than if he had been standing in front of it. Jesus, the man really was an insufferable idiot.
Anne, John’s wife, was bound to see him if he stayed there, and she would mention it to Sandra and then all Glenn’s attempts at subterfuge would be for nothing.

John gesticulated wildly for the cretin to step into the garage; clicking the automatic door opener that he always carried in his pocket as he did so.

He entered the garage, noticing Glenn was in a strangely subdued and silent mood. John sat heavily on the fender of his car next to Glenn, who wordlessly handed him a plain white folder.

‘What’s this?’ asked John, thrown for a second by the sudden change in focus.

‘A whole heap of fucking trouble for me,’ said Glenn softly, his normal bravado in temporary abeyance. ‘I was a bit distracted a couple of nights ago; problems between me and Sandra.’

He looked up at John and quickly flashed a humourless grin.

‘That’s not what this is about by the way,’ he said shortly. ‘Anyway, once a month we are instructed to clean the inner offices; the ones that are normally locked. I picked this up by mistake in one of the restricted areas.’

‘How the fuck did you manage that?’ asked John, forgetting his own worries for a second. ‘You can’t exactly mistake it for window cleaner,’ he
added sarcastically.

‘I wasn’t stealing it
, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ said Glenn, a little hurt. ‘I honestly thought it was a copy of our health and safety statement. I had a new employee starting that day, there are some additional steps for the restricted zones, and we use plain white binders. It was only when I got outside, that I noticed the different content.’

Glenn was a contract cleaner for the US government. But sometimes, in certain company, his role became embellished, to the point where it was not mops and brooms he was trained in. At these times
, there were normally a crowd of young girls and lots of alcohol involved.

‘It looks very medical and very confidential,’ he said furtively. ‘I had a brief look
, but didn’t want to probe too deep. And the name threw me for a second,’ he finished, a little lamely.

So now it’s starting to make sense
, thought John. Go over to see my brother in-law the pharmacist; the medical guy who will do my dirty work for me. See if I really am in trouble, or if I can go back to the lazy, sloppy way I normally conduct my business. If he can, John will save me, if only for Sandra’s sake.

‘I should hang you out to dry, you
fucking idiot,’ hissed John, and then his tone changed. ‘Why not just give it back and apologise?’

‘Either way, I’d say my contract is gone at the very minimum,’ said Glenn. ‘They’ll either spin it that I stole it on purpose, or they’ll say I was using untrained
, or worse, unregistered staff in a restricted facility.’

‘Which you were,’ said John sternly.

Glenn shrugged his shoulders dismissively.

‘Everyone in the cleaning business does it,’ he said. ‘It’s the only way you can keep the margins down and stay competitive.’

‘Why not just chuck it away and wing it?’ asked John. ‘Why bother finding out what it is?’

‘Two reasons,’ said Glenn. ‘One is natural curiosity. I’ve always been a bit of a nosey devil and if I’m going to potentially lose my livelihood, I’d like to at least know why.’

He looked at John straight then, and for the first time, John saw a brief glimpse of the old self important swagger.

‘But the second reason is pure greed,’ he said, with a glint of steel in his eye.

He tapped the word
Storm
on the front cover.

‘I have a hunch that it might turn out to be a very valuable commodity indeed.’

#

John examined the butt closely; he always smoked them as close to the filter as he could
, to get the last drop of satisfaction. Happy that the nicotine was all used up, he threw the filter to the floor and ground it under the sole of his boot. He was a cautious fellow and always mashed them into dust; you couldn’t be too careful with fire.

He turned and his heart jumped. A stranger was standing in the now open doorway, wearing an immaculately tailored suit; obviously very expensive. How the fuck had he managed to get there so silently? John tried to compose himself
, and some of his natural bravado returned.

‘This is a restricted area, staff only,’ he said formally.

The stranger just stared at him.

‘Can I help you?’ he asked weakly after a while, wilting under the unrelenting gaze.

‘For your sake, I really hope so,’ said the stranger, in a soft and slightly peculiar accent. ‘I have come to collect something that does not belong to either of us.’

John blinked at the slightly ambiguous statement
, and then his confusion cleared and the beginnings of a smile creased the corners of his mouth.

‘Ah
, the messenger,’ he said.

Without a word
, he brushed past the stranger, slipped through the doorway, and reappeared about a minute later with a plastic carrier bag. He handed it to the stranger, who wordlessly accepted it.

The stranger opened the bag and extracted the single item, a white ring binder with the word
Storm
written in small diagonal letters across the front. He flicked through the individual pages one by one, concentrating more on the watermark than the contents. Satisfied that he’d got what he came for, he dropped it back into the bag and looked up at John.

He was about to open his mouth
, when he saw a small kick of brick dust to his left. At almost the same instant, he heard a sound. It was so faint as to be almost unintelligible to a normal human, but it was as loud as an ambulance klaxon for him; silenced high velocity rifle fire.

#

The milliseconds ticked by in slow motion. I dropped the folder to the floor and spun John around so that his back was against my chest. Grabbing him around the neck, the 9mm sprouted from my hand as if by magic, as I pulled him backwards as fast as I could, heading for the sanctuary of the passageway. As I moved, I frantically scanned the rooftops, fire escapes and windows across the street. I could see a brief flicker of movement, a glint of sun on scope, and in that second, I felt John buck slightly in my hands.

I dragged him back through the doorway
, as far away from the street as I possibly could, just as a burst of machine gun fire splintered the door frame. I left him on the floor in the hallway; I could tell he was badly injured, but I had other things to take care of.

I could hear screams of panic inside the pharmacy
, so I decided to add to them. Running into the body of the shop, I fired off two rounds, the sound amplified hugely in the confined space.

‘Run, he’s got a gun,’
I shouted into the confusion, before turning back to the job in hand.

Carefully approaching
the back entrance again, I could see it was a fire door, and had been clicked open to stop the wind banging it closed. I drew myself up short and slid into place to the left of the opening, with my back against the inside wall. I needed to know what I was up against. My first job was to neutralise the cover, and that meant the rooftop.

I had some rough co-ordinates on him based on my first glimpse. I removed the small dental mirror from my pocket, the one that I always carried, and manoeuvred it around the door jamb, hoping the reflections would not give my position away. Sure enough, I could see the tripod on top of the wall, with a black shape moving slightly behind it.

With a sniper at such close range, you do have a chance, but only one. I made sure the safety was off and I had a round in the chamber; one is all I would be allowed if he was any good.

I knew he would have his sights trained on the centre of the door; common sense really. I closed my eyes and visualised the scene outside
, until I could literally see where he was. I counted to three, and then making myself as slim as possible, I threw myself through the door as far as I could in a sideways motion. I heard the muffled crack and felt the impact in the concrete of the floor beside me.

I rolled head over feet in combat style and was up in a second. I aimed; squeezed the trigger; crack. I saw the shape slump forward, knocking the tripod over the edge of the building parapet. One target neutralised.

I felt movement to my right, and instinctively threw myself backwards through the open doorway, as another burst of machine gun fire whistled over my head. As I fell, I could see the sparks and splinters of brick, as the bullets found their mark. I rolled sideways and was on my feet like a cat. I dived forward through the opening again and spun slowly in mid air, hands held out to the side. I kept low and started firing, as soon as I cleared the door jamb.

I saw the surprise on his face
, as he struggled to lower his aim. I felt the thud of each round, as they drove him backwards over the railings. As he plummeted to earth, his finger jammed on the trigger and I heard multiple crashes, as he took out windows on the way down. He screamed once and then there was a tremendous crunch. There was a small period of intense silence, punctuated almost immediately by a car alarm, and then suddenly, the air was filled with the screams and shouts of pedestrians and bystanders.

I knew there would be others, so I retreated and waited. They didn’t have their covering support now. The next couple of minutes would see if I was up against professionals or amateurs.

I moved back to the cover of the door, eyes scanning the horizon; nothing. As I settled back against the wall, I regulated my breathing to the extent that it was completely silent. I strained to block out the normal everyday noises; the screaming and panic on the street below was subsiding, and the pharmacy had been abandoned. And then I heard it; the imperceptible rise and fall of disguised breathing. Someone was approaching the door.