The Storm Protocol (41 page)

Black Swan laughed.

‘You’ve got that right,’ he said.

The stranger changed tack.

‘Well, I can only think of one other, and he’s certainly very interested.’

‘How interested?’ asked Blac
k Swan, his eyes narrowing.

‘Now that would be telling wouldn’t it?
Suffice to say that negotiations have reached an advanced level.’

‘So
, let’s just say hypothetically that I
was
interested in muscling into this little scheme,’ said Black Swan. ‘And I’m not saying I am,’ he added hastily.

No point in divulging his cards; he always tried
to maintain the upper hand in any negotiations.

‘W
hat sort of up-front investment figure are we talking about?’

‘You tell me, you've read the file,’ said the stranger. ‘What do you think
something like that would be worth?’

‘One million,’ said Eoin, sitting back.

The stranger gave a small chuckle.

‘You’re not
taking this very seriously are you?’

‘It’s tough to estimate based on this ethereal material you’ve given me
,’ said Eoin, tapping the file. ‘That was an opening guess. Let’s say double that to two million.’

The stranger faced him, and stared at him.

‘Not even close,’ he stated implacably.

‘Ah come on,
give me a break, I’m thinking on my feet here,’ said Eoin.

‘This is a business investment opportunity to completely control the drugs trade in this country
,’ responded the stranger impassively. ‘We’re not talking about small change here.’

‘Five million,’ said Eoin.

The stranger paused.

‘
Certainly much warmer,’ he said, ‘but you’re still south of the real figure.’

‘Okay, seven million,’ said Eoin. ‘
That’s about all I would put in as an initial investment.’

The stranger looked at him for a minute or so
.

‘That’s about what I calculate has gone in so far.’

‘So, who are we talking about?’ asked Eoin, although he feared he already knew the answer.

‘I
didn’t figure you for a stupid man,’ said the stranger. ‘I think you know exactly who I’m talking about.’

‘If they
're already dealing with who I think they’re dealing with,’ said Eoin. ‘They will need to be very careful. How can I put this tactfully? He’s not a nice person to conduct business with.’

‘Don’t worry about David,’ said the stranger, confirming Eoin’s worst fears. ‘
The Mancini’s believe they can easily handle him.’

‘So
, how can I guarantee a piece of this action?’ Eoin asked.

‘You can’t,’ said the stranger. ‘The Lord
giveth and the Lord taketh away, or at least the Mancini’s do.’

‘So
, what’s in it for you? Why are you telling me all of this?’

‘
Let’s just say that in a previous life, I did not see eye to eye with Guido and Ernesto Mancini, and I always try to help destabilise any of their business ventures.’

‘
What makes you think I’ll help you?’ asked Eoin.

‘Nothing,’ said the stranger. ‘I’m merely alerting you to the fact that your closest rival has a massive advantage over you. How you choose to handle that information is your business.’

I need to warn you up front,’ said Eoin, dabbing his lips with a napkin. ‘I don't take rejection well.’

‘I don’t care what you do or don’t do,’ said the stranger calmly.
‘As I said, use the information as you will.’

‘You’re a cool customer, aren’t you?’ s
tated Eoin.

‘I can afford to be,’ said the stranger.

He didn't elaborate any further.

‘I'll be in touch,’ he said, getting up from the table. ‘Oh
, and by the way, I lied before about your men. I picked out every one of them. So don’t even bother thinking about getting me followed. If I have to lose one of them, it will just piss me off and you don't want that.’

Black Swan took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He took another deeper breath and counted to ten slowly. He knew a lot was at stake. He also knew that one way or another, he was getting a piece of it
. The stranger was right, he had the information and now he was going to use it.

He opened his l
aptop and booted it up. He opened the GPS tracking program and saw the dot, as it tracked away from the Eastern Tandoori and moved slowly up the length of Patrick Street. There was more than one way to follow someone. He started laughing and found he couldn’t stop, prompting startled and bemused glances from the waiters and other diners.

21
st
May 2011 – Eleven days after the Storm.

Be content to act, and leave the talking to others. – Baltasar Gracian.

I didn’t ordinarily do torture. Not through any moral or religious obligation, but over the years, I’d found it to be messy and counter-productive, and aside from that, I had never yet managed to get anything useful from it.

In my line of work, it was better to kill them quickly, cleanly and be done with it; minimum mess with minimum fuss. This time was different though; this time I was going to get some answers.

Was it torture? Maybe torture would be too strong a word. Direct and forceful interrogation; I would be direct and forceful. This bastard was going to talk.

We had driven a short way out of town
, until I'd seen what I wanted; a derelict and abandoned farm with a barn.

We left him locked in the boot
, while we scouted around the small farmyard. In the barn, there were two loose boxes that had originally been used for horses; perfect for what I needed.

I popped the boot, anticipating what he was going to do. It was just too quiet and we had been driving for too long. As the lid sprung open on its hinges, he dived out, only to meet the butt of the gun coming down. He was consistent if nothi
ng else, and slipped to the ground in a crumpled heap.

We dragged him into the barn, and using the four tow ropes we had purchased on the way, we secured his ankles and his wr
ists to the two upright posts that stood either side of the entrance to one of the loose boxes. I took a step back and regarded my handiwork.

‘He looks like that Da Vinci image you always see,’ said Roussel. ‘The one with the arm
s and legs straddled; can't for the life of me remember what it's called.’

‘I know the one you mean,’ I acknowledged.

‘Vitruvian Man,’ said Dale softly.

Trust him to know.

I picked up the old metal bucket that I’d spotted standing in the corner and walked outside. Like in most farms, there was a rainwater butt to collect run-off from the roof. I slid the lid off and immersed the bucket in the icy water. I carried the full container back into the shed, slopping the liquid messily on the ground as I walked.

I lifted it awkwardly and threw it full force into the face of the slumped figure. He twitched as though I'd electrocuted him, and I smacked him on the cheeks a couple of times
, until his head lolled upright and his eyes opened.

‘Time to wake up,’ I said, slapping him
twice more for good measure.

You could see the marks of the individual fingers on his cheek.

As consciousness returned, so too did awareness. I saw the realisation and understanding flit like shadows across his face. He took in the whitewashed stone walls and the bleak exterior landscape. He briefly thrashed about against his restraints, as if he were testing them for strength, and then almost immediately gave up. There was something fatalistic about his demeanour. He knew he wasn't going anywhere, except maybe to hell.

‘So, let’s get the pleasantries out of the way first,’ I said. ‘This....’

I indicated Roussel.

‘....is Charles Roussel, a detective with
the Louisiana CID. He wants some answers.’

I punched
the captive suddenly and without warning, straight to the stomach. He doubled up, or at least as far as his restraints would allow, almost retching as the air was expelled forcibly from his lungs. We waited for his laboured breathing to return to normal.

‘This....’

I indicated Dale.

‘....is Special Agent Dale Foster of the DEA. He too would like some answers, and me....’

‘I know who you are,’ he responded hoarsely, bracing himself for another impact.

‘I am Thomas O'Neill,’ I said
, ignoring him. ‘I also want answers, and that's where you come in.’

At first I thought he was about to beg. His head was down as if in prayer
, but then I heard the tell-tale sound of phlegm being hawked. The gobbet of spit landed neatly on the toe of my boot. He had spirit, I’d give him that.

‘That was nice,’ I stated
, wiping the tip of my foot with the other.

This time the ball of spit hit me full in the face. I made a big deal of cleaning it off, taking the time to theatrically remove it with my handkerchief.

‘That wasn't very nice at all, was it?’ I asked. ‘Your parents obviously didn't educate you in the social niceties.’

I stood up close and then swung my elbow into the side of his face. It was not a powerful blow; it was not meant to break or crack anything, it was more a statement of intent.

He shook his head dazedly, and worked his lower jaw a couple of times. I’m sure he would have rubbed it, if his hands were free.

‘So, where was I?’ I said slowly. ‘Oh yes, answers; who sent you?’

‘No one,’ he replied.

‘How did you know where to find me?’ I asked
.

‘We picked you at random,’ he said.

I nodded and rubbed my chin.

‘Hmm, interesting,’ I said.

I motioned at the holdall and then Roussel. He looked at me blankly.

‘The bag, bring it over,’ I responded
, exasperatedly.

Roussel moved surprisingly quickly for a big man, and as he handed the holdall over, I saw the captive
’s eyes widen slightly.

‘Yes, it’s a gun,’ I said, as I extracted it from the bag.

I saw his eyes widen still further.

‘And a silencer,’ I
added pleasantly, as I screwed the shiny silver cylinder onto the end.

‘So
, this is how it’s going to play out now,’ I said, waving the gun gently in the air. ‘I’m going to ask the same questions again, and this time you're going to give me the answer I want, do you understand?’

He nodded, but to his credit
I couldn't see a trace of fear; bravado yes, but not fear. Not yet anyway.

‘Who sent you?’ I asked.

He looked at me malevolently.

‘I have no master,’ he said.

There was an unmistakable
phut
sound from the muzzle of the silencer, and a splinter came off the right-hand post, just above his ankle. I saw him jump slightly, but he recovered quickly.

‘You missed,’ he s
tated flatly.

‘How did you know where to find me?’ I asked.

‘We picked you at random, I told you that already,’ he answered sullenly.

This time, the
phut
was accompanied by a thud, as the bullet embedded in the left-hand post, this time to the left of his knee.

‘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 w
ill 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.