The Diaries - 01

by Chuck Driskell

  It was one of the few things Nicky ever did that anyone admired.

  He sipped his water as his predatory eyes swept the rolling hills. They were bathed in purple light as the cold half-moon shined down. The memories of his first killing were pleasing to him, like a cozy blanket that always provided just enough warmth without getting too hot. There had been other killings since then—many others—but none that lived so vividly in his mind. He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. There’s business at hand, and Marcel had been saying something, hadn’t he?

  “What did you say?” Nicky asked, blinking rapidly and focusing on his advisor.

  Marcel tried to hide his irritation. “This is important, Nicky. Do you need to sober up first?”

  Anger spiked in Nicky’s jumbled mind, but a rare rational thought outweighed the emotion. He did need a clear mind for important business. Rubbed his eyes. “I’m fine,” he lied to Marcel and himself. “Now, what was it you were saying?”

  Marcel heaved a breath, his narrow chest drooping as he exhaled heavily. “Please sit. I’ve got bad news.”

  When most people hear such a grave preamble, their face shows a combination of fear and dread. Most people. Nicky’s face, though, displayed something between amusement and anger. He was not a normal person. And he did not sit.

  “Out with it.”

  “Bruno called, just a few minutes ago. He said…” Marcel’s voice cracked before he paused to wet his mouth.

  Nicky leaned forward, his voice growing. “What, Marcel? What the hell did Bruno say?”

  “It’s your cousin, Nicky. It’s Leon. He’s dead.” The finality of such a statement crashed into the glass room like an enormous boulder.

  Nicky was stone-still for half a minute. Finally, he dropped back into the leather seat, absently reaching for the mineral water and knocking it over in the process. He spoke in a low voice. “How? What happened?”

  “Bruno and Leon were in Metz, working some sort of deal with a degenerate merchant. The merchant had made an arrangement with some German man, a lucrative arrangement, to pay his debt to us. A rare book, or something like that. Something went wrong at the meet and…well, the German killed Leon.”

  “How?”

  “He…he shot him in the face.”

  Nicky flinched at that, waiting a moment before finally speaking. “A German.” His voice had taken on the velvety undertone Marcel and everyone else close to Nicky knew well. Danger was in the air.

  “Yes, and a girl.”

  Nicky held his hand up as he often did when he wanted silence for thought. He moved hardly a muscle for minutes. He was perfectly still, only blinking occasionally. His breaths were audible, in through the nose, out through the mouth. At one point he nodded before resuming his thoughts. Finally, he stood and, with a primal scream, he lifted the leather chair and hoisted it through the window in a hail of broken glass.

  Leon was far more than Nicky’s cousin. He handled all of eastern France for the Glaives, and he was as close to a friend as anyone Nicky had ever had. And now he was dead, killed—shot in the face—by a fucking German?

  As the cold gushed through the shattered void, Nicky straightened his back and sucked in great quantities of the nighttime air, his arms open wide as if he were drawing energy from the frigid night. He swept his eyes over the land before turning to Marcel, his face stolid as he gestured with his hand.

  “Then let’s go to Metz.”

  Chapter 7

  Gage had no idea that Bruno had kept the killing quiet. He assumed something—the gunshots, Michel’s employee Gerard, a silent alarm—would have alerted the police and they would now be on the lookout for him and Monika. They would be wanted for questioning in a double murder and, by the way, also for assaulting a hotel desk clerk. If Gage were a normal person, without an alias, without his background as a deadly soldier, he might go to the police and tell them every single thing that had occurred. It would be cumbersome to fully explain; especially going back into Michel’s shop the way he did, doing so only because he cared for Michel’s welfare. Gage would argue that any normal man would do the same.

  But Gage was not a normal man.

  They would pick his story apart, pegging him for the cold-blooded murder of the short thug. They would circle him in the interrogation room, thumping the pages of his file, yelling, “But you’re a trained killer, Monsieur Hartline! You certainly knew what you were doing. You could have left well enough alone and simply called us after you heard that gunshot. But no, you had to go back and get revenge, to take a human life.”

  It wasn’t true; he did not go back for revenge. Did I? Further complicating matters was the fact that he wasn’t in the United States, or even Germany. In either of those countries, and probably the U.K. too, Gage could predict the police’s actions. Here in France, however, he had no idea what he was up against. And he also had no inkling who the two hoods were. They could be a part of a larger organization, one with tentacles that reached into the fabric of the police. There were too many unknowns; and because of the uncertainty, Gage desperately needed to get back into Germany.

  As they drove in the direction of the border, doing things the old-fashioned way, Gage held the map on his lap, touching their slowly moving location as he directed Monika eastward on the secondary roads. If the border was blocked—and with Metz being a border city, he was certain it would be—they would have to ditch the car and cross on foot, or by another method.

  “How much money do we still have?” he asked. “In cash.”

  “Why?”

  “We may have to bribe our way back to Germany.”

  She turned to him with a horrified face. “What are you talking about?”

  “We may have to pay someone off,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “My God, I didn’t sign up for this! I cannot go on the run because you killed someone. I haven’t done anything wrong!”

  Gage chewed his lower lip as he stared at her. She had every right to be upset. When he’d told her about Michel, it had taken five minutes of soothing to get her moving again. He wanted to defend himself by going into detail about the incredibly stupid stunt Michel had pulled, the catalyst for everything that had happened, but decided to table it until they were back in Germany.

  Still gnawing at his mind was the fact that the two hoods, in his estimation, weren’t garden-variety street toughs. Working as a team, one brains and one muscle, as well as carrying a piece like that gleaming Colt and having a backup ankle holster set them apart in Gage’s mind. The short one, with his proficient handling of the gun and his confident manner of speech, displayed a man well-versed in the businesses of theft and violence. Gage had seen mobsters, even worked with them, many times before. Germany, on one hand, was relatively crime-free when it came to organized crime. But France, like their distant cousins to the south, was known to be riddled with layers of organized crime syndicates. Some of them were rumored to be interwoven into the arms of the government. Gage’s mind went to Gerard, Michel’s employee and rare book buyer. He could point the police, or the remaining criminals, to Monika as Michel’s cousin. And from there it would be only a matter of hours before pursuers would be swarming over her every footprint.

  The diaries were far from Gage’s mind at this point. But his plastic background wasn’t. In his profession, it wasn’t wise to hang around for the local cops after a situation turned violent. And this time Gage was on his own, naked to the situation. He didn’t have a black vacuum of some government, or a huge corporation backing him up, telling him at every turn what he needed to do to escape. It was just Gage and this poor girl who had been saddled with him because she’d made the unfortunate mistake of spilling her drink on him and finding him somewhat interesting.

  And although it was Monika who had led him to Michel, he felt awful for dragging her into such a mess. His mind kept coming back to Gerard, the one loose end. He knew that Monika was Michel’s cousin. After the discovery of the bodies, they would locate
Gerard, and he would put everything together for them, spilling his guts. Gage gave it until sunrise before the authorities made the connection to Monika, and subsequently to Gage Hartline, American expatriate, of Frankfurt.

  A large blue sign announced the German border in thirteen kilometers. Gage instructed Monika to take the next right turn. There was one thing he could do, one marker he hated to call in, but he had no choice. It was his only play at this point, and they needed a very private phone booth.

  Gage needed to phone an old friend.

  Two tired-looking plainclothes policemen nosed around the back office and foyer as they questioned the front desk clerk and the only witness, Damien Ellis. They weren’t even bothering to take notes. Damien guessed their shift ended at midnight and they were ready to get home. To them it was just a simple assault, and who really cares if some hotel clerk gets whacked in the neck and is left with no visible injuries?

  The older detective spoke excellent English, looking at Ellis with heavy lids covering half of his eyes. “So, even though the clerk said they were German, you say the man and woman clearly spoke English?”

  Ellis nodded confidently. “That’s right. She started out by speaking German, but then he told her to put a diary under the seat, or something close to that. His accent was certainly American English. If pressed, I would say upper-Midwest because of the way he dragged out the vowel sounds.”

  The Frenchman glanced to his partner. Both men seemed amused by Ellis’s theory on the man’s intonation. The investigator glanced back at his notepad. “The diary?”

  “Diary or diaries—hard to tell. I found that odd, too,” Ellis answered. “Don’t know what he was talking about.”

  “Well, they didn’t steal anything from here. He could’ve been talking about anything. Most likely it was their code for drugs. These small-timers panic when someone sees them buying a bag. That shit makes you paranoid, oui?” the man chuckled, glancing at his partner again.

  Ellis, irritation growing, waved his hand to the clerk. “But our friend here said the man asked him about the security tape before he took him down with a single blow to the neck.” Calming himself, Ellis softened his face and continued. “I know you know this, but a neck strike like that—while done in the movies—is very difficult to pull off. A man has to hit someone in the exact perfect spot, just so,” he said, making a gesture with thumb and index finger to display the small margin. “Obviously it takes a highly-trained person to do it. The assailant then gagged the clerk to buy enough time to get the security tape and get away. Don’t you think he was a bit more professional than you’re giving him credit for? Perhaps you should check to see if there are other crimes in Metz the man could be connected with?”

  The detective eyed Ellis as he sipped from the paper cup of coffee. From his pocket, he produced a small radio, keying it and speaking rapid French. After listening to the reply, he nodded respectfully to Ellis. “If something else has happened, they will let us know. And Monsieur Ellis, I understand you are a detective and trying to be helpful. But you will also understand that each area has its own characteristics, and Metz is no different. It’s a wealthy town with many foreigners. They like to come here for the hot baths, the sexy clubs and the champagne. And yes, the drugs too. It’s my guess that what we have here is some American, or German, who panicked and tried to—”

  The radio interrupted the detective. He lifted it and listened before looking at his partner with a tight, knowing smile. He turned back to Ellis.

  “Nothing else tonight other than typical drunks and a wreck involving a bread truck.”

  Ellis arched his brows and nodded. Fine by him. He didn’t need to get involved in this. “Thanks, gentlemen.” He gave them his schedule for the remainder of his vacation, just in case they were to need him. The clerk walked from behind the counter, an ice pack on his neck as he began gesturing and speaking loudly to an older man who had just arrived. Ellis presumed him to be the hotel’s owner. Looking at the ice pack, and then to the camera in the corner of the atrium, Ellis felt his instinct saying something to him. There was something else at play here, everything inside him told him something bigger was going on, and it was right under his nose.

  But this isn’t your territory, Captain Ellis. And you’re on vacation.

  With a yawn and a rub of his eyes, Damien Ellis trudged up the stairs and went to sleep. There was fine wine to be had on the morrow.

  ***

  In the day of every type of portable communication device imaginable, it took Gage a full fifteen minutes to find a pay phone, now a dwindling anachronism of a time long past. He huddled in the graffiti-laden phone booth, stabbing the silver numbers of the large phone. He was using the prepaid phone card from his wallet, and a glance at his watch told him that it was just before 6 p.m. in Fayetteville, North Carolina. After going through three sequences of numbers, the familiar American ring told him that he had finally gotten through.

  “Hunter, here,” said the brusque voice on the other end of the line, probably fresh in from a late afternoon workout and watching the evening news.

  “Hello, sir. You know who this is by my voice? If so, don’t say.”

  There was a pause. “I know a lot of voices, son. Tell me something to shake my memory.”

  “We shared a rubber raft once. It had a hole in it that you had to plug with your thumb, and we beached on a dangerous strip of land that’s in the news a great deal, especially in the last decade.”

  “Damn,” Hunter muttered. “Thought you must be dead.”

  “Aren’t we all, sir?”

  An agreeable snort was heard before he said, “Okay son, what’s up?” Hunter’s tone was curt, quick. He most likely knew this wasn’t a social call, especially since he and Gage hadn’t spoken in several years, just before Gage left the United States.

  “Would anyone be listening?” Gage asked.

  “No, not that I could imagine. To anyone who might be interested I’m just a washed-up old relic who needs to hurry up and die.”

  “Sir, I need some help. Some quiet help.”

  Hunter paused for a very long time. “And what might that be?”

  “I’m in France, sir. Need to know if I have been pinged, or if there’s a search laid on, especially at the eastern border.”

  “Sonofabitch.” There was a shuffling and the sound of a drink being sipped. “Okay, a search just for you?”

  “They may not know any identity. So a search for me, or a general sweep on someone fitting my description.”

  “What went down?”

  “Think bad. Real bad. Justified in your eyes, and mine, but maybe not in the eyes of the civvies.”

  “You’re okay?”

  “Five by five, sir,” Gage answered, feeling no small amount of pride that Hunter cared enough to ask.

  Hunter took another sip, humming for a moment as he must have been thinking. “I’m pretty much out of the loop, son. Do you know what kind of damned favors I’ll have to call in for this?”

  “I wouldn’t ask unless it was dire.”

  “All right, I’ll make a few calls. Hell, might be interesting to see if I’ve got any juice left.”

  “Sir, this thing may not be fully hot yet, so if you could grab that intel for me at double-time, I can un-ass before they realize I’m gone.”

  “Call me back in half an hour,” answered Hunter. He clicked off without another word.

  Gage started the stopwatch on his Timex and stepped to the car, telling Monika to lean her seat back and rest if she could. He hid himself in a stand of evergreens, keeping a lookout for the police or anyone walking by. Gage created a blackness in his mind, securing their location and nothing else. There was no sign of any search, no distant sirens to be heard. He called Hunter back exactly thirty minutes later.

  “Sir?”

  “You’re all clear. There’s nothing at all. Nichts. Something about a team of bank-robbers down in Marseilles, but that’s it, a local search. I was pretty c
ertain that wasn’t you. My guy was completely confident that there’s nothing laid on, federal, state, or local. You should be good to go.”

  Gage let out a deep breath, though slightly puzzled. “Thank you, sir. I owe you.”

  “You don’t owe me a damned thing.”

  Gage was silent.

  Hunter cleared his throat. “How have you been handling the aftereffects?”

  “About as badly as anyone with a conscience can.”

  “We didn’t know, and you certainly didn’t know. There was no intel about those,” the colonel paused a long moment, “those two. And you, of all people, should be able to forgive yourself. You tried to cease the action.”

  “I know, sir. Thank you for your assistance.” Gage replaced the receiver to avoid going any farther. He allowed his head to lean against the cool Plexiglas, willing his mind to push back the thoughts of that nightmarish scene three years before.

  A minute later, the small Volkswagen’s tires squealed as Monika made a hard u-turn and accelerated toward the border.

  ***

  Tuesday, November 3

  It was 9:40 a.m. Gerard Micheaux was always early. Late people annoyed him to no end and, as his mother had always told him, being late was a sign of disrespect. The shop opened at 10 a.m., and Gerard liked to be ready to go when he unlocked the door, even though there hadn’t been many customers lately. Michel, perpetually hung over from booze or coke—whatever his budget allowed for—normally didn’t show his face until the middle of the afternoon. The small crush Gerard once had on him was now long gone. Michel wasn’t his type, not at all. Too ostentatious. Too unstable. But he paid well and, after the relationship Gerard had just come out of, mercy knew he needed the money.