by Brian Drake
The trooper hauled out a pistol but Stiletto already had a bead. He fired a burst that created a bouquet of red roses which blossomed across the trooper’s chest. He fell out of the bridge and landed hard on the deck.
Stiletto raced up the ladder to the helm and took control. He panted as he steered for land. A cramp developed in his stomach; he bent a little.
How to proceed now? He could go back to Elisa with righteous indignation, but if Plotkin had convinced Zolac, he truly had no standing. He had to report what he’d learned and see what General Ike wanted next. But he needed time as well, a delay in the discovery of the bodies.
“WHERE ARE you?” General Ike said.
“Found a pay phone at a shopping center, sir.”
“What happened?”
Stiletto told him about the mission so far and the murder attempt.
“The boat?”
“I berthed it but eventually somebody will discover it’s in the wrong place. I hid the bodies but it won’t take long to find them. I’m wearing Plotkin’s coat and shoes—they’re just a hair too big but I’ll manage.”
“All right. Monte Carlo is now a dead end. We’ll take it from here. I’m sending a jet. Stay in the air until you hear from me. If Zolac is convinced you’re a spy, he’ll move fast once he learns about Plotkin. If we move fast, we can raid Zolac’s mansion in Austria before his men destroy anything.”
“I hope,” Stiletto said.
ZOLAC STOOD on his balcony, leaning against the rail, his view less occupied by the ocean and more by the activity of guests in the courtyard below. He found no irony in making money of the people he planned to one day rule. They were financing their own betterment.
Footsteps behind him. He turned. Elisa Yanovna stood in the balcony doorway, her face a conflict of worry and unemotional Russian discipline.
“Well?” he said.
“The soundproofing in the hallway muffled the shooting, and we managed to get the body and blood cleaned up, but—”
“What?”
“We found the boat.”
“And? Don’t waste my time, Elisa.”
“Plotkin’s body was there, along with one of our men.”
“Stiletto?”
“No sign.”
Zolac wished for a drink. A cool breeze brushed against his face. Waves crashed in the distance. What usually brought solace had no effect on his racing pulse this time. The NWRF was very close to its goal; the Delta Nine purchase proceeding on schedule. This complication he didn’t need.
“Plotkin convinced me, Elisa. I ordered him to take Stiletto out on the boat.”
“I understand.” Her voice was tight. Zolac noted the old Russian discipline coming back, replacing the worried look.
“I suppose Stiletto is long gone now,” he said.
“We can search for him. He can’t go far without his passport. He’s wearing Plotkin’s coat.”
“If he is what he claims to be, he’ll have plenty of contacts who can provide for his immediate needs.”
“And if he’s a spy?”
“Somebody will come and get him. Probably from the consulate in Marseille. Regardless, he’s gone. There is no sense in chasing after him.”
Elisa nodded.
The suite door opened and two men entered, both NWRF soldiers dressed in black suits. Zolac waved them over when he saw the urgent looks on their faces.
“What now?” he said.
One of them spoke. “Your home in Austria, sir. It’s been raided by U.S. commandos. The firefight is on-going. We need to get you out of here.”
“Now I really need a drink,” Zolac said. To Elisa, “Get what you need and join us downstairs. Seems Plotkin was right after all.”
Elisa pushed by the two soldiers and left the suite.
Zolac turned to take one last look at the ocean.
MILLER SAT against the wall of the shed.
The solitude didn’t bother him. Not having anything to watch or read certainly wore him down, but he let his thoughts keep him occupied. Lisbeth. What to do with her. If they reunited, maybe seeking asylum in the U.S. and making a deal with the C.I.A. wasn’t a bad idea.
When the door opened, Miller frowned as Karl Staar entered holding a bottle of beer and a paper cup.
“Greetings,” Staar said. He sat near Miller, poured some beer into the cup, and passed the cup to Miller. “My own concoction. I’d give you the bottle but you’d probably break it over my head.”
Miller accepted the cup without comment. He took a drink. “Very good. Little too hoppy for me, though.”
“Isn’t it? Call it a work-in-progress. Anyway I trust the accommodations are. . .what is that smell?”
Miller gestured to the bucket.
Staar laughed. “Of course.”
“You were saying?”
“If all goes well you won’t be here much longer.”
“When do you plan to make your move?”
“Soon. I like the idea of the C.I.A. running scared.”
“So I’ve heard.” Miller drank some more beer.
Staar swallowed most of what remained in the bottle. “I expect they’ll deliver.” He burped.
“If not?”
“You’re certainly in no mood to join us, and if we let you go you’ll do some shooting, so I don’t see any option other than to put you down.”
“I’m not amused.”
“Better hope the Americans have some millions they can spare from food stamp programs.” He laughed again and rose. “Enjoy the beer.”
Miller set the cup aside.
Staar let himself out.
Miller jumped up and looked through the gaps in the window by the door. Staar had not arrived by Jeep; he was walking back to the center of the camp.
The three guards at the shed resumed their chit-chat with weapons slung.
MILLER FOUND an opportunity at dinner.
The Jeep rumbled to a stop outside the shed. Miller watched through the covered window. It was Lisbeth again. Unarmed. She exchanged words with the guards. One opened the door for her.
She entered. Miller met her near the door. She called out, “Step back,” and the guard who opened the door took a step inside, slipping his SMG from shoulder to hands.
Miller indeed stepped back. Lisbeth took one hand off the tray to lift the front of her shirt and revealed the Beretta 93-R. He snatched the gun with his right hand and smacked Lisbeth with his left. She screamed and fell, the food tray clanging on the ground, the contents of the tray spilling across the floor. The 93-R chambered nine-millimeter ammunition and fired single shots or three-round bursts. A true machine pistol. The guard brought up his SMG as Miller fired one of those bursts. As the last round left the barrel, recoil kicked the muzzle up, but the guard went down and out onto the dirt. Miller moved forward, another burst splitting open the chest of the second guard. The third took cover on the passenger side of the Jeep, but the extra second he took to fumble his SMG into firing position gave Miller the edge and a third burst from the 93-R shredded the guard’s face and blasted off the top of his head.
Nine rounds gone from the machine pistol’s 20-round magazine. He stuffed the hot gun in his belt and helped himself to a dead guard’s SMG, spare ammo, and a radio. If the shooting had raised an alarm, he saw no sign. He put the Jeep in gear and roared off.
The camp had to have a perimeter. A fence. Something he could clear and have free range in the unknown forest beyond. He’d find it. And get away.
With the enemy hot on his tail.
MILLER STEERED along the rutted ground, an incline taking him higher. There were no other structures this far out, only open space filled here and there by trees and boulders. They must have kept him at the outer-most edge of the camp. Far enough from the main business of the camp but close enough to reach quickly.
The Jeep jolted over the rough terrain. He kept going straight. The incline didn’t get steeper. To run in circles elsewhere would only make him an easy target.
Miller watched the bouncing image in the rearview mirror but still saw no sign of pursuit.
PAUL RAEDER jumped out of another Jeep before the driver stopped.
Raeder, Staar’s second-in-command, had the driver and two other gunners with him. He ran to the shed, noted the dead shooters, and inside found Lisbeth face down, unconscious, with a large bruise on her face. No visible gunshot wounds. He rolled her over. She moaned.
Raeder stood and spoke into his radio.
“Raeder to Staar.”
“Report.”
“He took out the guards and knocked out Lisbeth. He has a Jeep and he’s armed. We need everybody.”
Staar acknowledged and sounded the general alarm.
MILLER HEARD the alarm over the stolen radio.
He held it to his ear and listened to Staar’s orders. They were going to spread out in all directions but Raeder came back on and said his team was going to follow the tracks from the stolen Jeep.
Miller placed the radio back on the passenger seat. The Jeep continued bouncing up the incline and Miller stepped on the gas as a glimmer of chain-link showed ahead. Behind a cluster of trees, there it was. The fence surrounding the camp. But it was only half a fence. The posts holding the chain-link together sat atop a short brick wall. He couldn’t crash through and keep the Jeep, but there were other ways to get away.
Follow the tracks all you want, I’m already gone.
Miller stopped the Jeep against the brick, grabbed his weapons and radio, climbed onto the hood and leapt over the chain-link. He tucked and rolled as he landed, sprang to his feet and broke into a sprint. The incline became a little steeper, but he was free.
He was in the open, lots of brush and scattered forest debris; he needed the cover of the trees about 20 yards ahead. He ran faster, breathing hard, his right side starting to cramp. His shoeless feet also hurt each time they landed on the ground, but he had to press on, find shelter. Somewhere.
Staar’s voice on the radio, “Chopper’s taking off. If you catch sight of Miller, call the chopper.”
Miller reached the trees, weaved around and jumped fallen trunks, and found cover behind a large tree with another fallen trunk. He lay flat and gasped and wheezed as his breathing returned to normal.
He cleared debris from his feet, noticing the small cuts left behind. The odds were falling against him. If his feet became torn up, he’d have limited movement. Not what he needed if he wanted to win the fight.
The Beretta 93-R was secured in his belt; the stolen SMG a familiar Smith & Wesson Model 76, battered and scratched. He hoped the old gun would hold up.
He looked over the trunk and saw no sign of Raeder’s team. Considering how long it had taken him, they were still making their way to the fence.
Miller struggled to his feet, wincing, and started moving as fast as he could to put more distance between him and the pursuers. When the pain in his feet became too much he stopped, breathing hard, and stood looking around to consider options.
The radio crackled, “We found the Jeep.” Raeder’s voice. “He jumped over the fence.”
Somebody else said, “He could be anywhere.”
Staar: “He’s on foot with no shoes, he’s not going fast.”
Or anywhere.
He couldn’t be recaptured. He would rather die fighting than cooped up. But it hurt to move.
The chopper flew overhead. He looked up through the trees but didn’t see it. The rotor noise was close, though. Too close.
If he left the cover of the trees he’d be seen.
Better to hunker down and fight. Miller reversed course and ran back to the trunk with the fallen tree in front. The best place for a fight. The helicopter passed overhead again. He spotted it this time, but held his fire.
Raeder’s voice: “We’re over the fence and splitting up. Where are the rest of you?”
Two new voices responded that they were right behind Raeder. Miller propped his head up to scan through the trees. His kingdom for grenades! The nine-millimeter S&W SMG wasn’t the greatest weapon to have against the firepower he’d be facing.
Voices up ahead. Two figures entered the tree line. Two troopers, neither of them Paul Raeder.
Staar’s voice: “Remember, we need him alive.”
Silence on the radio.
The helicopter passed overhead once again.
“Somebody respond.”
Miller tightened his grip on the SMG.
Staar: “If Miller isn’t taken alive I will kill the person who shoots him. Team leaders acknowledge.”
Miller turned down the radio’s volume as the requested responses filtered back.
The two troopers spread out a little, scanning left and right, but Miller wanted them closer. One of them was the same size as him; if he could take the man’s shoes, he’d have a better chance to run.
The troopers stepped closer.
Miller fired a burst of rounds, stitching one of the troopers stomach-to-chest. The other fired for effect and turned to run; Miller rose, shouldering the SMG, and loosed rounds into the trooper’s back. The trooper hit the ground face first.
Over the radio: “Who’s shooting? Everybody check in.”
Miller, grunting, moved as fast as he could to the first trooper, ignoring the radio chatter. The first trooper’s shoes were too small. Miller ran to the other. Almost a match. About one size too big. Better than the other way around.
Miller ran back to cover, brushed off his feet again and laced up.
“Wolfgang? Peter? Check in, where are you?”
Raeder: “Everybody move into the trees northeast of the base.”
No more time. He started running but with Staar’s troops converging he needed to get clear.
Or. . .
Miller cut right. Back toward the camp. With troops in the field, Staar might be alone or only with a small number of troops and none of them expected him to return.
He weaved through the forest, dropping for cover when a trio of Staar’s men came stomping by. He did not engage. No sense bringing more attention his way.
The troops continued on, instructions continuing to crackle on the radio. Miller turned his up a little to listen. The troops were talking back and forth, the chopper crew contributing as well, on the status of the search.
Miller stayed in place a little longer. No other troops marched by. He stood up and resumed. His feet still hurt but the shoes made it better despite being larger than he’d have liked.
The ground began to slope downward so Miller slowed, stopping against a tree to listen and scan. No movement anywhere. He no longer heard the helicopter.
Presently he left the tree line and reached the perimeter fence.
KARL STAAR paced the floor in the camp command center.
The building was one large open area with a couple of back rooms; in the main room, Staar monitored communications on a set of radio equipment which rested on a table. Computer workstations, currently empty, filled more of the space.
Staar was not alone. Lisbeth sat in a chair with a wet cloth over her left eye.
The NWRF boss did not interrupt the radio chatter. The men had their orders. But he had to control his anger at their lack of progress. If he had to tell Zolac of the escape, there’d be hell to pay.
As he paced he kept his eyes off Lisbeth.
A burst of gunfire crackled from one of the back rooms. A door slammed inward. Staar froze, stunned, and reached for his gun too late. Miller emerged from the hallway and covered him with the smoking muzzle of his stolen weapon.
“Put it down, Karl.”
“Got yourself a big gun, eh?” Staar placed his pistol on a table.
Lisbeth rose from her chair and moved closer to Staar.
“Bring the helicopter back,” Miller said. “Tell them you want to join the search.”
“Do you even know where you are?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“Miller, let’s work this out.”
&n
bsp; “There’s nothing to talk about. You’ve stated you’re going to kill me so what else can I do? Call the chopper.”
“No.”
Miller pointed the gun at Lisbeth. “You do it or I’ll kill you.”
Lisbeth’s face turned white.
Staar laughed. “Am I not worth killing?”
“You don’t care.”
“I promise I’m not suicidal,” Staar said, “but I do recognize your need for me.”
“I’m about out of patience. I’ll kill you both and take my chances on the road.”
Miller raised the SMG.
Lisbeth screamed.
Pain exploded in Miller’s head and a flash of white light filled his vision; he collapsed, screaming, rolling over to see Raeder and another trooper. Raeder, holding his weapon in reverse, Miller’s blood smeared on the butt stock, kept his eyes on Miller.
“Doubling back was the only thing that made sense,” Raeder said.
“Shut him up,” Staar said.
Raeder kicked the S&W SMG away and bashed Miller over the head again. Miller went limp, unconscious.
Raeder retrieved the Beretta 93-R and returned the gun to Lisbeth.
“I believe this is yours.”
She took the gun. Raeder looked at her without blinking.
“Get him back to the shed,” Staar ordered. He radioed for the rest of his force, and the chopper, to return.
Chapter Nine
STILETTO SAT aboard the C.I.A. jet with his arms folded, legs crossed, eyes fixed out the window. There was blue sky and green land below, but his mind didn’t truly register the view. His sketchbook lay on the table in front of him but he couldn’t focus. He hadn’t necessarily done anything wrong in Monte Carlo, but the outcome was not what he had wanted. He had to do better next round. His “what-if” scenarios hadn’t included Plotkin ignoring Elisa and convincing Zolac to get rid of him. He also couldn’t conceive of the consequences should he fail to stop the NWRF from putting its hands on the Delta Nine. He had to make sure that never happened. If he failed, he’d feel responsible. That was a weight he didn’t want.