“Icarus?” Munroe said, as the kitchen knife now returned to the young girl’s throat. “Thank you for meeting with me.”
Icarus offered no reply and only continued to sway from left to right while the knife stayed stationary against Stacy’s thin white neck. Munroe turned his attention towards the girl.
“Hi Stacy, how are you doing there, little one?”
Stacy opened her mouth, but before she could utter a word the knife pressed even tighter as Icarus began to speak.
“We’ve been playing.”
The killer’s voice was soft, with a strong Scottish accent, maybe Edinburgh. He released his hand from the girl’s shoulder and pointed to a makeshift den built from the sofa’s cushions. “Just to pass the time.”
The backlight from the television made it difficult to get a clear view of the man, and apart from the outline of long, scraggly hair hanging down the killer’s cheeks his face was clouded by shadows.
“I got here as soon as I could, Icarus. May I call you Icarus?” Munroe raised his palms slightly and moved out of the hallway so his whole body was visible, showing that he had nothing to hide. It was odd because the movement caused no reaction from the killer; he continued to sway left to right before giving a slow nod.
“OK, Icarus, is there anything you need? Food or drink?”
Icarus gently shook his head. “I have everything I need now that you’re here.”
To say there was an air of menace in his answer was a huge understatement, and sensing something was looming Munroe calmly turned his attention to the young girl, his priorities now taking charge.
“Hi Stacy, you OK there?”
Stacy gave a tearful nod.
“You’re very brave, Stacy, and I’m here to get everyone out safely.” Munroe looked up at the knife-wielding killer. “Both of you. So if you agree, then perhaps Stacy could play in the fort while we talk a little. I’d like to know what I can do for you.”
The repeated mentioning of the young girl’s name was deliberate on Munroe’s part. If Icarus could see her as a person and not just a bargaining chip then he might be less inclined to do something stupid. That was the theory, anyway, but given this man was an experienced killer with five, potentially more, gruesome murders under his belt, then it probably wouldn’t count for much.
Icarus looked down at Stacy and then he released his grip and pushed her in the direction of the makeshift den.
“Thank you,” Munroe said gratefully, and he motioned to the box of cushions. “Go on, Stacy, that’s a good girl.”
Stacy did as she was told and, her body rigid, stepped over to the den, pulled herself inside and sat down with crossed legs, her mouth quivering and her tear-strewn red eyes full of terror.
With the hostage now at a distance, Munroe turned his full attention to the silhouette of Icarus, who still had the kitchen knife held tightly in his hand, pointed in Munroe’s direction.
“It would be nice if I could see who I’m talking to.” He motioned to the light switch next to him, but the answer came with a swift shake of Icarus’s head.
“No, I don’t think I’ll be lighting up any silhouettes for the nice men with guns outside.” Icarus instead reached down to a white china table lamp lying on its side. He scooped it off the floor with his free hand and, with his knife still raised, placed it on the top of the sofa barricading the door. He then clicked the white switch on the cable and as the light illuminated the corner of the room Munroe got his first good look at the killer. “Like what you see, Superintendent?”
Icarus raised his head and then craned it in an arc, offering a clear view of his face. Best guess the man was in his late thirties, with a short stubble of black beard growth and lifeless black eyes. His straight dark brown hair, greasy, hung to his shoulders, and dark rings of fatigue were visible beneath his eyes. A jagged two-inch scratch mark ran down the man’s right cheek and a smudging of dried blood surrounded it. He lifted his hand to the wound and sniggered. “Mothers, heh, protective to the end.” Icarus’s eyes drooped and he gave a shrug. “Still, there are far more agonising things that can happen to a person, but I think you already know that, or you wouldn’t be here, would you?”
The killer’s direct reference to his previous victims was unnerving, because rarely did such men freely admit or allude to their crimes. Certainly not during a hostage situation like this. Sure, he had already appeared to acknowledge the name Icarus, but still.
“I’m not here to judge you, Icarus, I only want to get you and Stacy out of this situation safely. I don’t want to see you hurt any more than her. I’m sure you have good reasons for the mistakes you’ve made…”
Icarus ejected a condescending snort and smiled to reveal a perfect set of bright white teeth. “How very slimy of you, Superintendent, but I wasn’t referring to my history… I was referring to yours.”
Munroe was now looking confused. “My history?”
Icarus now continued with a smirk, evidently enjoying Munroe’s puzzled reaction. “The horrific death of your wife and,” he glanced down at Stacy before resuming his stare, “and young daughter.”
The atmosphere immediately changed as Munroe felt the warmth of anger building in his chest.
“Such a terrible fate, and to know your little Lucy died in such a cruel way.” Icarus’s lips pursed together condescendingly. “Just tragic… truly tragic.”
Munroe could feel his expression beginning to slip and his emotions becoming more evident with every passing moment, but he composed himself. He wasn’t about to allow this psychopath to goad him with his own misfortune.
“I’m impressed, Icarus, you know a lot about me. You have me at a disadvantage.”
Icarus’s face now lit up excitedly at his guest’s honest assessment. “Oh, I had you at a disadvantage the moment you set foot through the door, and as for knowing you… I’ve known about you for a long time, which makes things difficult.”
Munroe watched as Icarus’s knife began to shake awkwardly. His grip around the handle tightened and he reached up with his free hand and began to rub at his forehead as if attempting to dispel a sudden headache.
“Confliction is not in my nature, yet I feel it stabbing behind my eyeballs like hot needles. It hurts to resist, like a story already told and unable to be rewritten.”
Whatever mental issues Icarus had they were quickly unravelling into a spiralling descent and Munroe was now, very slowly, moving his right hand towards his trouser pocket and the switchblade hidden there. He was within inches of its tip when Icarus suddenly bolted upright and the shaking knife in his hand became rigid once again. His eyes widened and focused on Munroe before he casually took a single step forward and studied his face, his eyes squinting in curiosity.
“Yes,” the killer said, moving his head slowly from side to side in order to get a full look at Munroe’s features. “I see the similarities. They’re somewhat hidden, but they are there.”
Munroe’s controlled his breathing as he’d been trained to do, and gently rested his forefinger on the edge of his pocket. “What do you see?” he asked as Icarus straightened up and glared at him with both his eyebrows raised, his eyes becoming dull and emotionless.
“I see destiny, Ethan Munroe.” The killer’s head now lolled to one side and his body began to tense up. “Destiny… denied.”
The kitchen knife was thrust forward with such speed that Munroe’s hand was forced to retreat from his pocket and with open palms he slammed down hard against Icarus’s wrist, sending the blade to one side as the killer let out a deep growl. From the den Stacy shrieked in terror as Munroe locked his shoulders and slammed Icarus’s hand against the wall, but the collision did little to loosen the killer’s grip on the knife. For a second time Munroe slammed the knife against the wall, this time putting a hole in the plasterboard, sending white powder into the air. As he prepared for a third slam he felt Icarus’s knee jam forcefully into his groin and with a pained groan he instinctively fell to his knees.
With watering eyes he looked up to see the killer’s arms raised above him, the glinting kitchen knife already plunging down towards his chest. Munroe thrust both his hands upwards and latched on to the knife’s handle, bringing the blade to a full stop just inches from his face. Icarus applied all his weight from above, pushing down on the knife, the tip quivering wildly against the pressure.
“Run, Stacy,” Munroe gasped, but fear had the girl glued to the spot. She only wrapped her arms around her knees and curled up in a ball while in the kitchen the sound of heavy thuds against the back door echoed into the living room as the blue berets attempted their breach.
Munroe stared up at the killer’s eyes, which were now blazing with rage as they both pushed against one another, the knife still wavering in the middle. Suddenly the tension eased for a split second as Icarus shifted his weight backwards, preparing for one final downward push. It was at that moment that Munroe seized his chance. In a single move he twisted the killer’s wrist in on itself, revolved around the joint so the knife was facing just off to the right and with a spin of his shoulders rotated Icarus’s weakened grip hard to the left, feeling the wrist bone give way.
Icarus yelped in pain and instinctively dropped the knife and fell onto one knee as Munroe applied even more pressure to the near broken joints. After one final excruciatingly painful twist Munroe leapt to his feet and grasped his own right wrist. Icarus, his face full of agony, only managed to partially turn his face upwards before Munroe slammed his elbow in an arc-shaped blow across the killer’s jaw, sending him slamming into the plasterboard, knocking him out cold.
Munroe kicked the knife away just as the crashing sound of the kitchen door giving way could be heard, and then he leapt over to Stacy and grasped her tightly to his chest with one arm and raised the other high up in the air. “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!” he shouted as two of the blue berets ploughed into the living room. The first aimed at them and then scanned the room before shouting, “Suspect is down and secured.” Holding the muzzle of the SIG716 assault rifle at Icarus’s unconscious body, the second beret knelt on the killer’s back and handcuffed him from behind.
The entire entry had taken less than fifteen seconds by Munroe’s figuring, and as the officers continued to secure the area he stood up and allowed the girl to cling to him with both her arms and legs.
“It’s all over, Stacy. You’re safe now,” was all he said before getting a satisfied nod from the nearest blue beret and then, with the young girl still clamped around his waist, Munroe led her out of the back entrance whose door was lying splintered on the kitchen floor.
The air was like ice against his neck. He only now realised how hot he was, and as he made his way around to the front of the house he was greeted by a green and yellow suited paramedic who tried to softly prise the young girl from him. The attempt was in vain, her grip nothing short of vicelike. Munroe got down on one knee and looked down towards her face, still buried in his chest. “You did great, Stacy. You were very brave… now how about we get you back to your mummy?”
The mere mention of the girl’s mother had her immediately looking up at him through red eyes, and although clearly in shock she managed a nod.
“Now you go with the paramedic and she’ll take you to her right now, OK sweetheart?”
Without any further encouragement Stacy released her grip and with a trembling hand grasped the paramedic’s before being led away to an undoubtedly grateful mother.
Munroe stood back up and remained motionless until they were out of sight, and then leant back against the cold house wall and allowed himself a well-earned deep breath, giving the adrenalin in his veins a chance to subside. He looked down at the gash across his knuckles where he had collided with the plasterboard and rubbed at it. The wound felt numb but in twenty minutes it would be aching like hell and as he continued to catch his breath the thought of Stacy no longer occupied his mind. Only one thing did: Icarus, and his obsession with Munroe and his family.
Who the hell was this man?
His mind was swimming with questions when from the corner of his eye the shadow of a figure appeared in the side alleyway and he stood back up to see the face of someone he knew well.
“Ethan, are you all right?” Mike Regis, head of the Met’s hostage negotiations department, reached over and grabbed Munroe by the shoulders. In his forties, Regis was a small man whose five-foot-five height and tubby girth made him look far fatter than he actually was. With deep crow’s feet running from the corner of his eyes, a bald head and crooked teeth the man looked as dodgy as they came and anyone who was honest with themselves would cross to the other side of the street on seeing him. In truth he was one of the most decent and honest men Munroe knew; the saying ‘don’t judge a book by its cover’ was conceived precisely for people like Regis.
“I’m fine, Mike. Just a scraped knuckle. Did you have any idea this guy was the serial killer everyone’s been looking for?”
“The information was limited. I had no idea until I got here a few minutes ago. I swear.”
Regis looked down at the minor scratch, and then after a relieved sigh his expression turned to one of anger, although his tone was measured and calm, as always. The four horsemen of the apocalypse could have come riding over the horizon and Regis would still sound composed, as if sweet-talking his own mother. “Regardless, that was unbelievably foolish, Ethan.”
Munroe was already shaking his head. “I know you’re right, but there wasn’t much of an option left to me, and if I hadn’t gone in that little girl would be dead right now.”
Regis looked entirely unpersuaded by the argument and it was he who was now shaking his head. “Maybe so, but what you just did was totally irresponsible.”
“How much did you hear?” Munroe asked, still catching his breath.
“Everything. I arrived just as you were walking in the front door.”
“Then you heard what he said about Lucy?”
Regis may have been a hostage negotiator, trained to keep the truth to himself, but to his friends and co-workers he was an open book, and because of the man’s long pause Munroe was now eyeing him with suspicion. “What do you know, Mike?”
“Not now, Ethan,” Regis replied, looking hesitant. “There’ll be time for that later on.”
Oh, he definitely knew something, and Munroe moved closer to his boss with an unyielding stare.
“Time for what?”
A few awkward seconds passed as Regis mulled over whether to impart what he knew. As Munroe bore down on him with accusing eyes he finally relented, placing his hands on his hips.
“They did a check on the suspect’s car while I was on my way over and got an address. Officers are already on site.”
“What did they find?”
“Well, they’ve only just got there, but they did find something taped to the front door.”
Before Munroe could ask Regis pulled out his iPhone and began scrolling.
“One of the boys recognised it and sent it directly to me.” Regis passed over the mobile and Munroe felt his heart sink as he looked down at the screen and the picture on it. It was of a grey door with a black iron handle and silver letterbox and above them a photograph had been taped to the door. A photograph of Munroe’s dead wife and daughter with their arms around each other.
Munroe let his hand drop to his side. He felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him as Regis plucked the mobile from his palm and then switched it off. “Whatever this Icarus arsehole was up to, it would appear that he knew he’d be caught tonight.”
Munroe was already heading back into the house and Regis immediately grabbed his arm and held it securely.
“Not now, Ethan, that’s an order. He’ll be questioned when he gets back to the station and then we can go from there, but not here and certainly not now, given what just happened.”
Munroe genuinely considered pushing Regis to the ground and stampeding in, but Regis was right, now wasn’t the time. But it didn’t mean he was just going to slink off and go home. “OK, but I’m going to the address right now. You coming?”
Regis looked relieved and he let go of Munroe’s arm. “Do you know the kind of hoops we’re going to have to jump through in explaining your actions here tonight? The lack of procedure, putting your own life at risk and possibly others…”
Munroe pulled out his car keys and let them dangle from his fingers. “Is that a yes?”
Regis stared at the keys for a moment and then focused back on Munroe. “Of course it is, but we’ll take my car.”
Munroe was already heading back to the front of the house as Regis reluctantly followed. “Sure. But I’m driving.”