by Trevor Scott
There.
A man walked toward the car down the alley and stopped some thirty meters away to light a cigarette.
Miko flicked on his parking lights for a second.
The man lifted his chin, took in a deep drag on his cigarette, and came to the passenger door, opened it and started to get in.
“Put that cigarette out,” Miko said.
The man looked at his cigarette, which was barely touched, and then flung it into the dumpster before sitting down.
Glaring at his Brother in the Order, Miko shook his head. “What happened to your face, Jiri?”
Jiri Sikora let out a deep breath. His right eye was bruised, swollen, and black and blue. “That’s what I tried to tell you on the phone,” he said. “Someone came to the apartment this afternoon. Asked a lot of questions about the priests.”
“A cop?” Miko asked.
“Yeah, Miko. Must have been.”
Staring at the graffiti on the old brick walls, Miko said, “Look at that disrespect, Jiri. People who do things like that should be shot.”
“We have,” Jiri laughed. “Maybe we should kill a few anarchists.”
Miko shook his head. Even though Miko and Jiri had played hockey together in their youth as equals, both of them knew their place in The New Order—Miko one step higher. “We don’t kill anarchists, Jiri. They’re harmless and disorganized.”
“Right. Organized chaos. How would that work?”
Miko laughed, but his disposition changed with the explosion and fireball rising up from the dumpster. “Damn it, Jiri.”
Putting the car in gear, Miko spun the tires, pulling away from the burning dumpster.
“I’m sorry, Miko. Someone must have thrown something flammable in there.”
“Like a cigarette?” Miko came to the end of the alley and pulled out onto a street that would bring them out of the city along the train tracks. Then he slowed to the speed limit.
“Now,” Miko said, “continue with your little story. A man comes to your apartment and beats the shit out of you. For what?”
Sikora shifted nervously in his chair. “It was a woman.”
Miko laughed out loud. “You let a woman kick the shit out of you?” He shook his head. “Wait until our old hockey friends hear about this.”
“She was beautiful,” Sikora said, his eyes becoming brighter with the thought of her. “Who would have thought she was that strong, that quick? She grabbed my balls and wouldn’t let go. I’m still trying to recover.” He shifted in the car seat.
Miko couldn’t stop laughing. Finally he caught his breath and said, “Okay, let’s say this woman was like that television bitch, what’s her name? Xena?”
“Yeah, she was like that. Only she didn’t look like a woman in a man’s body. She was more like a super model. A brunette Heidi Klum. Big tits like that.”
“That’s worse,” Miko said. “You sure she didn’t give you a make-over?”
Jiri Sikora sat dejected.
“Hey, I’m kidding, Jiri. Jesus, have a sense of humor. So, this bitch who tried to take away your manhood. She was a cop?”
“I don’t know. If she was, she was like no other cop I’ve ever seen. She knew too much. She had skills. Like maybe the military would teach. She knew exactly which spots on my body to strike. First my throat. A knee to my face. Once I hit the floor, I got up part way and she took me down with a strike to the kidneys. She was good.”
Miko tried to visualize the strike against his Brother and he felt an erection starting to form. A woman like that. What he could do to a bitch like that.
“Where we going?” Sikora asked.
They had reached the outskirts of town and Miko was now entering the westbound autobahn toward Brno in the Czech Republic.
“What did you tell this woman?” Miko said.
“I told her nothing.”
Slipping a white radish from a plastic bag, Miko popped it into his mouth, crunched down, and said, “She believed you?”
Sikora hesitated a moment. Perhaps too long. “She must have,” he said. “Where are we going?”
Sure, change the subject, Miko thought, as he savored the tangy radish with his tongue. “We have to meet Grago in Prague,” he said. “If we hurry, we can make it there by midnight.”
Never strike the same city two nights in a row. That was their charter and mandate.
●
Having dropped Albrecht off at a gasthaus on the outskirts of Steyr, Jake had told him to stay there for a couple of days until he could sort out who wanted him dead, and why, and then Jake met Kurt back in Vienna.
The temperatures had dropped again and the rain was now coming down as a light snowfall. At least it wasn’t freezing rain.
Jake had met Kurt at a parking ramp off of Mariahilfer Strasse, a shop-lined lane that led to the Hofburg Palace region and the center of Vienna, with a McDonalds every couple of blocks and a Starbucks on a prominent corner. Yeah, Europe had definitely changed, Jake thought. Like Chicago with low, old buildings.
Jake parked his Golf in a ramp while Kurt waited in his Audi on the street. He changed shirts quickly and switched from the windbreaker to his normal leather jacket. Before leaving his car there, Jake felt along the front bumper of his car. Nothing. He went to the back of his car and checked that bumper. In a crotch between the bumper and the gas tank he found what he was looking for—the small GPS tracker attached to a magnetic box about the size of a cigarette pack. In a hurry now, Jake found a Mercedes a few cars down and attached the tracker in a similar spot on that car. Then he rushed out of the ramp to Kurt’s car.
“Everything all right?” Kurt asked as Jake got into the passenger side.
“Yeah, why?” Jake buckled up.
“Never mind. Let’s get going. You have Albrecht’s keys, right?”
Jake patted his pants pocket. “Yep.”
Kurt drove off toward the center of the city. The snow was not sticking to the road yet, but it did give the city a look of Christmas—the effect accentuated by small Christmas markets every few blocks, with kiosks of trinkets, rows of trees waiting to be selected and decorated, and booths serving hot gluwein.
Gustav Albrecht had told Jake about a storage facility The Teutonic Order maintained across the Donau Canal about six blocks from the Donau Bar, where Albrecht’s two men had died the night before. It seemed like a few days to Jake, though. With the light traffic, they got to the storage building, a brick structure that resembled a warehouse, just as darkness settled on the city.
Kurt parked the Audi a block away and shut down the engine and lights. And they waited, Kurt watching the mirrors and Jake watching the building in front of them.
“What do you think?” Kurt asked.
“Rough neighborhood. Not sure why Albrecht stores anything here.”
“I agree.”
“In his defense, Albrecht said the Order has owned the place since nineteen-ten,” Jake said. “Place could have lost some charm over time.”
“Should we give it a while? Or go right in?”
Jake slid out his 9mm and made sure there was a round chambered, then put it back into its holster. Reaching to his right ankle, he retrieved a subcompact HK automatic pistol in 9mm, snapping a round into the chamber.
“That’s new,” Kurt said.
“I’ve needed a back up more than I’d like to admit. You still blasting the shit outta stuff with your Navy Colt forty-five nineteen-eleven?”
Kurt pulled out a Glock 21 from inside his jacket and smiled.
“That the forty-cal version?” Jake asked him.
“Damn right. A little more knock-down than your nine-mil, but nothing like my old forty-five.”
“It’s not the size, Kurt. It’s how you use it.” Jake smiled. “Thought you knew that by now.”
“Fuckin’ dink. Let’s book, pal.” He reached into the glove box and retrieved a small flashlight. “Only have the one.”
Jake pulled a mini-mag light from his pocket
. “I’m good.”
They got out and made their way to the building. The snow had made the cobbled sidewalk wet, and they left tracks from their car to the front of the building. Only a dim light shone from above a thick wooden door. There was a blue sign next to the door with the number 25 on it. While Kurt swiveled his head to keep watch, Jake quickly opened the door and the two of them hurried out of the snow into a narrow passageway. A blinking blue light on a security panel accentuated a coordinated beeping.
“You didn’t tell me the place had a security system,” Kurt said, nervous now.
“Need to know basis,” Jake said, his fingers clicking in the code. The blinking light and beeping stopped. Jake turned to Kurt. “You understand that.”
They went through a door at the end of the corridor into a large warehouse lit by red ceiling lights. Their shoes squeaked on the cold cement floor.
Kurt shone his light at pallets stacked high. “What the hell is this stuff?”
Turning his light on, Jake saw stacks of boxes with “Baby Food” stenciled in German on each one. “What the hell you think the Order does these days. . .crusade to Prussia or the Middle East? Killing anyone who won’t convert to Christianity?”
“No. But I expected some kind of cool swords or something.”
“This way,” Jake said, pointing his light toward a metal door with no markings. There was an inner wall of brick, a room within a room, that looked like a vault. Jake used a second key to open that door, and then with some difficulty swung that door open. “God, it weighs a ton.”
Checking for a light switch, Jake found one, but the lights were not bright. They seemed to run off of batteries. There was a desk on one side and the other side was completely covered with file cabinets floor to ceiling, some eight feet high. The ceiling was also cement. Jake expected it to be damp in there, but it wasn’t. Must have had humidity control, he guessed. Jake went behind the desk and found what Albrecht had told him to get—a leather zippered pouch that resembled a day planner. He opened the zipper, looked inside briefly to make sure it was what he wanted, and, satisfied, zipped it shut.
“That’s what we came for?”
Jake came around the desk. “That’s it. Albrecht received it in the mail from the Order priest from Bratislava. A day later the man was found dead.”
Suddenly, the building alarm sounded. A sharp wailing alternating buzz that would wake anyone within a kilometer radius.
“Shit.” Jake pulled his gun, shoved the leather day planner into his leather jacket at his belly, and zipped it inside.
“We gotta get the hell outta here,” Kurt whispered loudly.
Just as they stepped out of the inner cement block office, overhead lights came on, revealing armed men in black jumpsuits taking up positions alongside pallets, their automatic Steyrs aimed directly at Jake and Kurt.
The two of them froze, red dots dancing across their chests.
“Crap,” Kurt said.
“Hands in the air,” came a voice in German from the corridor entrance.
When neither moved, the voice came harsher. Finally, Jake and Kurt raised their hands and two men entered the warehouse, their 9mm Glocks leading the way.
Jake was about to say something when he recognized the two cops in street clothes. They must have recognized him also, since they lowered their weapons to their sides. But the red dots remained.
“Franz,” Jake said. “Could you have your boys lower their weapons? Hate to have someone’s finger slip.”
The Kriminal Hauptkommisar, Franz Martini, shook his head. “Jesus Christ. Jake Adams. I thought I left you in Innsbruck.”
“You know this guy?” Kurt asked.
“We’ve met,” Jake said.
Franz holstered his Glock and said, “Yeah, we’ve met. Jake was trying to get himself killed when he first moved to Innsbruck. He turned my quiet streets into a personal shooting gallery.” Martini had a slight smile on his face, but under that was consternation.
“Love the goatee,” Jake said.
Now Jack Donicht came up behind Jake and patted him for weapons, retrieving his CZ-75 and then his back-up weapon from his right ankle. He handed the guns to Martini and then went to work on Kurt, finding his .40 caliber and a diving knife on his leg. Donicht held onto those and backed up next to his boss.
“A knife?” Jake whispered to Kurt.
“Have you tried the knives at these local restaurants?” Kurt asked. “Couldn’t cut cream cheese.”
“Who’s your friend, Jake?” Franz asked, his head flicking at Kurt.
“A local businessman.”
The Vienna cop laughed. “A heavily armed one. You know it’s illegal to carry a gun in Austria, mister. . .”
“Kurt Lamar. I was robbed last month at gun-point. If the criminals have them.” He shrugged and let the words hang there.
Franz Martini waved his hand at his men with the automatic weapons and the red dots disappeared.
Jake lowered his arms and then Kurt reluctantly did the same.
Martini whispered something to Donicht and the assistant came back to Kurt to pat him down again, this time pulling his wallet from his back pocket and his passport from inside his jacket. Donicht brought them to his boss, who flipped through them, his eyes tracing the facts and occasionally glancing up to view Kurt’s face.
“Says here you are the president of a company called Badger Computers,” Franz said. “What is Badger?”
Kurt shrugged and flicked his hands. “It’s an animal in America. It’s kind of the symbol for my home state, Wisconsin.”
“I see. But why are you in Vienna?”
“We set up high-speed wireless networks,” Kurt said. “Hotspots. So people can compute at coffee shops, restaurants.”
“I see,” Franz said again. “So then tonight you and your friend, Jake, decide to set up a hotspot in this warehouse?” The Vienna cop was confused but not enough to buy Kurt’s story.
Answering for Kurt, Jake said, “We were out for dinner and I asked Kurt if we could stop by here to pick up something for a friend.” Jake pulled out the keys Albrecht had given him and jingled them in front of the cop.
“Gustav Albrecht gave you his keys? Why?”
Crap. How much should he tell this guy? Jake shifted his eyes toward the main entrance. “And the security code. I notice you and your men bypassed both. I hope you have an order to do so. As I’m sure you know, The Teutonic Order has many ties in this country. It wouldn’t look too great if the press found out you had bashed in the door. . . .”
“My orders are none of your concern, Jake,” Franz said, his voice raised and then lowering with his name. The Vienna cop turned to his men and waved his arm for them to depart, which they did in a hurry. Once the men were gone, all but Franz and his assistant Jack Donicht, Franz stepped closer to Jake and said, “You’re working for Albrecht, the Grand Master, whose men we found murdered last night at the Donau Bar, along with the bartender. You were there, I’m sure. We have your nine millimeter casings and now the gun to compare them to. Plus slugs taken from the wall. Must I put my people through all of that testing?”
Kurt’s eyes strained toward Jake as if he wasn’t sure what this was all about. Nice acting, Jake thought.
All right. “Yeah, I was there,” Jake finally said. “Almost got my fucking head blown off. I had just agreed to work for Albrecht. He was concerned someone was trying to attack the Order. Seconds later I believed him. The bartender came out of the back room with a shotgun and took out the two men at the bar. I got a few rounds off, but I’m sure I didn’t hit the bartender.”
Martini shook his head. “We know that. The bartender’s throat was slit from ear to ear.” That got Martini thinking, his eyes narrowing. “What did the bartender look like?”
“Six feet tall. Two hundred pounds or ninety kilos. Short hair, dyed platinum blond. High brow ridges. Bulging eyes. I’d guess about forty. Pock-marked face. Strong jaw.”
Martini let out a br
eath, shaking his head. “The bartender was no more than five-six and a hundred kilos. Fifty-two. Black hair. Pendulous face. So the bartender was killed first. Someone must have found out about the meeting in advance. Who knew about the meeting? I’ll need to talk with Herr Albrecht.”
“That’s probably a good idea,” Jake said. “I don’t know who he told. He called me and asked me to meet him there.”
“That didn’t sound strange to you?”
“In my business nothing sounds strange.” Jake sure as hell didn’t want to mention the call he had gotten from the Austrian federal president just after he had said no the first time to Albrecht. After all, Jake worked in Austria at the pleasure of the government. He knew his work visa could fade away in a heart-beat if he pissed off the president.
“We’ll need to talk with Herr Albrecht,” Martini repeated.
“I would,” Jake said.
The Vienna cop glanced at his assistant and then back to Jake. “We can’t seem to find him.”
“Yeah, that’s right. After he gave me the keys he mentioned something about going to a place his family owns in Kitzbuhel. Wanted to do some skiing.”
“That must be it,” Martini said.
There was silence for a moment and Jake was hoping like hell Martini would not ask again why they were there. Truthfully, though, it was none of Martini’s business, and they all knew it.
“Are we through here?” Jake asked.
“I think so.”
“But sir,” Donicht said.
Martini cast a brutal eye at his assistant, shutting him up. “Go ahead,” Franz said, his head shifting toward the door.
“My weapons,” Jake said. “I do have a permit for them, as I’m sure you know.”
It looked like Martini’s head was about to explode, and Donicht’s face was as red as those dots had been bouncing about their chests. Reluctantly, Martini handed Jake his guns. “But your friend here does not have a permit,” Franz said. “I could bring him in for that.”