Munroe crunched the last piece of ice in his mouth and placed the empty glass down on the bar counter before calling over to the barman and tapping its rim. “Another glass of ice, please.”
The white-shirted barman nodded and bent down, scooping another plastic shovel of ice cubes and lightly dumping them into Munroe’s glass.
“Would you like a drink with that?”
It was the second time the bartender had asked the question, and Munroe just smiled and shook his head. He had been here for over half an hour and the fact he was only ordering free ice really seemed to bother the young Frenchman. He probably thought his patron was just another cheapskate, and Munroe now called him back over. “Give me an orange juice then.”
The order received a polite smile and a within moments a slim-jim full of orange juice was pushed towards him on a single red napkin.
“Cheers,” Munroe said, passing over a five-euro note. “Keep the change.”
The barman pointed to the menu hanging above the bar’s drinks rack. “It’s six euros.”
“In that case, here’s a ten and I’ll take the change.”
The lost tip did little to dampen the barman’s demeanour and he opened the till and placed a few coins down on the bar counter as Munroe turned his attention back to the flat screen mounted on the wall opposite. The news channels were full of the terrorist attack on Parliament and it was only now, six hours later, that an accurate picture of what had happened was emerging.
After getting clear of Bordeaux, Munroe had headed to the city of Nantes and its international airport. Far enough away to be clear of any more Daedalus entanglements, and close enough to make a quick exit out of the country. But en route he’d received a call from McCitrick. The conversation had been a morbid one, to say the least. Though they didn’t yet know the full list of casualties, there was a high expectation that the Prime Minister and most of the cabinet had been killed in the blast. The news had hit Munroe like a blow to the face, and his initial reaction was to curse himself for not being able to report the threat sooner. But when he heard about the communications blackout preceding the attack it dampened some of the guilt he had felt. To pull off something like that was incredibly impressive, and he couldn’t help but slightly admire the operation. To get an explosive device into the Houses of Parliament and also cut communications, stopping a response, was unheard of given the levels of protection. At first glance the Houses of Parliament were easy access and open to the public, but the reality was far from it. Bomb blast windows, scanning tech, mail checks and numerous layers of security made it one of the most secure locations in the country.
But not today.
The situation was still being assessed by MI5 and the intelligence services at GCHQ, but given they already knew Daedalus was involved, the ‘who’ was taking ‘a back seat’, as McCitrick had put it. The DS5 head had rerouted Munroe to Brest Bretagne international airport, located just off the tip of France’s most north-westerly coastline, and told him only that they were sending him transport and to sit tight in the Concorde lounge. They would find him.
The change in destination had added an extra three hours on to his trip, and on arrival Munroe had done what anyone awaiting pickup would do. Find the nearest bar, dig in and watch the news.
“We’ve just received official confirmation that the Prime Minister was killed in today’s attack. He was taken to the Royal London Hospital where, despite resuscitation attempts, he was pronounced dead.” The BBC correspondent looked conflicted between the terrible news he was reporting and the thrill of such a huge story. “The Civil Contingencies Committee, COBRA, has convened an emergency session over the past five hours and as of now we can report the death toll at one hundred and forty. Of the twenty-three cabinet ministers, sixteen were among the dead, including the Prime Minister, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, the Secretary of State and the Foreign Secretary, who succumbed to his injuries less than an hour ago.” His last sentence trailed off as the shock of what he was saying sank in, but he regained his composure moments later. “It is a truly dark day for the realm, and one that will be burnt into the minds of the British people and the United Kingdom for many years to come. Security at airports and other potential targets across the country is being tightened and we are awaiting a message from the government within the hour. Meanwhile, messages of support have been flooding in from world leaders across the globe…”
Munroe turned away from the TV and slid another ice cube into his mouth, crunching down on it as he instead watched the bustling passengers making their way back and forth. It was busy, and as he scanned the concourse someone caught his eye. A blonde woman in a grey turtleneck jumper with the sleeves rolled up was staring over at him. She immediately broke eye contact upon seeing him glancing at her, and moved off behind one of the round white support pillars and out of sight.
Munroe slowly swivelled off his bar stool and knelt down to retie his shoelace and surveyed the other passengers. Quickly he caught sight of a balding man in a green sleeveless aertex jumper and washed jeans, who was looking over at him from his magazine before his eyes darted back to the page.
He was being watched.
Munroe finished with his shoelace. He could see, using his peripheral vision, that the man hadn’t moved, which he took as an indication he hadn’t noticed him noticing them. He stood back up and popped one final ice cube in his mouth before nodding to the barman, who appeared relieved to see him go, and then he made his way nonchalantly out of the bar and up the concourse with all the other passengers. A few metres along he deliberately bumped into a man wearing an open shirt, white boat shoes and a pair of Mambo shorts. He turned around and apologised, just managing to catch a glimpse of the blonde woman and the bald guy again before he resumed his stroll up the concourse.
They were definitely following him, but Munroe continued to walk at a casual speed. Could they be McCitrick’s? Unlikely, because why not just approach him? He was waiting for someone, after all. Daedalus? But how could that be? He hadn’t been followed on the drive up, he was certain of that, and there was no way they could know he was here at the airport. Unless they were watching all the airports, which seemed a tough ask given the number of them in western France.
Munroe was already considering his next move when up ahead he saw a sign for the restrooms, and an image of Kessler sitting tied up on the toilet seat holding up his forearm smugly flickered through his mind.
Could he have been so careless?
Munroe’s body had received multiple knocks and bruises during his escape from the hotel back in Bordeaux, and he’d not questioned any of the aches and pains he was feeling, but with this sudden realisation he began to subtly rub at the most tender parts of his body. He slid his hand down to his thigh and glided his palm across the bruise on his right thigh.
Nothing.
He moved his attention to the ache in his left shoulder and neck, but still nothing. Finally he slipped his hand across his stomach before coming to a stop on his right side, just above the hip. Now he felt it. A puncture mark, and something very small beneath the skin.
Cheeky bastard. Kessler, the sneaky little shit, had tagged him with a tracker. He must have done it back at the chateau, when he was out cold.
Suddenly things began to make sense. That’s how they’d found him so quickly after he’d ‘borrowed’ the 911. At the time he’d thought it was blind luck, everyone gets lucky sometimes, but luck had nothing to do with it, and these two goons following him had now tracked him here!
The line that his special forces training had taught him ran through his mind, and he berated himself for not following it. ‘There are no coincidences.’
Munroe made his way to the restroom sign and then headed inside without looking back to check if his pursuers were still following. He didn’t need to. A public restroom, away from the hordes of other passengers, would be a perfect place for them to take him, and he was happy to oblige.
The restroom was large, with multiple cubicles along one side standing on a blue and white mosaic tile floor, and two large mirrors on the opposite side above the washbasins. He was about to check each stall when his mobile rang and he answered immediately in a hushed voice.
“Munroe.”
“Ethan, your ride’s waiting,” McCitrick answered bluntly.
“Whereabouts? I’m at gate twelve, on the concourse.”
“Go to gate fifteen. There’s a familiar face. And pull the lead out, Ethan. You’re on a tight schedule.”
“That could be tough, I’ve picked up a tail. Two of them, actually.”
There was a pause, and when McCitrick came back on he sounded as unconcerned as ever in that monotone voice of his. “Where are you exactly?”
“I’m in the restroom. Let me take care of this and I’ll head to gate fifteen.”
Munroe heard the restroom door swing open behind the privacy partition and he turned off the mobile, slipped it in his pocket and began washing his hands at the nearest basin just as the bald-headed man who’d been following him appeared.
His pursuer didn’t skip a beat and made his way over to the washbasin a few down from Munroe, where he also began washing his hands.
Munroe looked over and smiled politely and the courtesy was returned, but as Munroe turned off the tap and began walking towards the hand dryer the bald man was already reaching into his pocket. Before he had a chance to retrieve anything, Munroe grabbed the man’s wandering arm by the wrist and with his other hand slammed the front of his head against the washbasin, leaving a dark bloody smudge from the impact. The man pushed back up but Munroe focused on his wrist and he jerked it upwards to reveal a thin, hardened plastic spike with a wooden handle, no doubt designed to pass through the metal detectors at customs undetected.
“Christ, what is it with you people and ice picks?” was all Munroe managed to say as the bald man swung around and kneed him right in the groin. Thankfully he missed both of them, but the blow sent him down on one knee as the bald man now swivelled his wrist around and pulled away from Munroe’s grip. The ice pick was now forced downwards as Munroe grabbed his wrist again and held, pushing against the wavering sharp end above him.
The bald man slammed a couple of kicks into Munroe’s side in an attempt to weaken him, as the blonde-haired woman he had seen earlier now piled in through the bathroom door, and ran at his back with an identical plastic ice pick to the one that the bald man was using. Munroe glanced back and then in one swift motion he swivelled the bald man’s hand with all his weight, sending him to the floor on his back. Still battling for control of the plastic ice pick he jumped from his kneeling position up onto one leg and with his other drove his boot into the chest of the woman, sending her flying backwards to the far wall.
It was a bad impact, her head slamming against the cement, and then she collapsed to the floor, leaving a bloody smear as her weapon rolled out of her hand and across the tiles.
Munroe now turned his attention to the bald man. He slammed the sole of his boot directly downwards into the man’s groin, causing him to yelp in pain and drop the makeshift ice pick to the floor. Munroe yanked him to his feet and flung him against the basin, and as the man fell back towards him he landed a solid punch to the face, sending him crumpling to the floor.
Behind him the bathroom door flung open again and Munroe grabbed the plastic ice pick and turned to see a woman holding a black 9mm Glock directly at him. He froze.
Captain Jaqueline Sloan stared at him, eyes wide at the scene, and then she lowered her gun and turned to the collapsed blonde woman on the floor next to her, checking for a pulse.
“Dead.” She stood up and gave Munroe her full attention as she blew a loose strand of red hair from her face. The two simply gave each other a friendly nod before Munroe grabbed the bald man under the arms and began dragging him towards the nearest cubicle. “Give me a hand, would you,” Munroe asked, motioning his head towards the dead blonde.
Jax said nothing but did likewise, dragging the woman’s body towards one of the cubicles before propping it up against the toilet. She then closed the door and joined Munroe as he perched the bald man on the toilet seat and began checking his pockets.
“Nothing,” he said, and Jax, noting the man was still breathing, looked over at the plastic ice pick in Munroe’s hand.
“What are you going to do?” She asked as Munroe looked at the man and then back at Jax. “Your mess, your call.”
Munroe considered it for a moment before shaking his head. He wiped down the plastic ice pick using the front of the unconscious man’s jacket and then tossed it into a silver waste bin next to the wall. “We’ll leave him here. Let’s go.”
Munroe pulled the cubicle door closed and was about to follow when he called out after her. He’d almost forgotten. “Do you have anything sharp on you?”
Jax didn’t even question the request and she pulled out a small pocket knife, which she unfolded and passed over to him.
Munroe pulled up his shirt and made a nick just above his hip. “This is how they found me,” he said, wincing in discomfort as he picked at the small puncture wound, retrieving a little capsule no more than half a centimetre long and as thin as a pencil lead. “It’s a tracker.”
Jax looked at him in puzzlement as Munroe placed it on the basin counter and pulled out his iPhone.
“Long story. I’ll bring you up to speed once we get out.” He snapped off a few pictures of the tracker before dropping it down the plughole and washing the drops of blood away with the tap.
Jax only raised an eyebrow. “Amateurs,” was all she said and headed to the bathroom’s exit. Munroe couldn’t tell if she meant him or the people who had put it in, but he swiftly followed her outside as she made her way along the concourse.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” Munroe said, actually glad to see her.
“Yeah, well I wasn’t expecting that. You’re lucky McCitrick called me or who knows what would have happened.”
“Don’t you worry yourself. I was doing just fine without you.”
Jax looked unconvinced. “You mean like getting that tracker inserted into your body without realising it?”
“Didn’t quite happen like that.”
“No, never usually does.”
Within a couple of minutes they were at gate fifteen and Munroe followed as Jax bypassed the reception area and, with no one batting an eyelid, they headed through into the connecting tunnel and then out of a service door leading down onto the central tarmac.
They were met by two Royal Marines dressed in fully military attire, minus the weapons, and with a nod from Jax they were escorted towards a grey Merlin Mk 2 helicopter whose rotors were already beginning to rotate.
“I could have taken a flight back to the UK, you know,” Munroe said loudly as the roar of the helicopter engine increased, the downforce pushing against them.
“That would be pointless,” Jax shouted as she climbed on board, then waited for Munroe and the soldiers to join her. As he sat down opposite, the door was slid shut behind him.
“And why would that be?”
“Because we’re not going back to the UK.”