by Trevor Scott
Now his phone buzzed in his pocket and he ignored it. When it started buzzing a second time, he pulled it out and looked at the caller. Sergei. It had to be something pretty important for him to call this number without routing it properly. He flipped it open and listened to his man in Frankfurt, a smile forming on his face as he heard the news. He thanked Sergei and shoved the phone back into his pocket.
“Well?” Viktor asked. “Must have been good news.”
“We’ve got Adams. He just used his Visa.”
His boss gave him a quizzical glance. “Are you sure? That doesn’t sound like Jake Adams. He has to know someone will be monitoring those.”
“Even the best screw up sooner or later.”
The boss shrugged. “Redirect your men.”
He did just that, hoping like hell they would kill Adams soon. He needed to give Vogler, the Berlin Polizei officer, another body or two to keep him busy.
6
Jake had toured the Austrian countryside with his bike, unsure what to do, until he started to get tired, his knee aching, and his brain not far behind. So he backtracked slightly down a switchback mountain to a gasthaus with a view of St. Anton below. After a beer at the restaurant bar on the first floor, he decided on a direction he wanted to take. He checked into a room on the first floor, paid deliberately with a Visa in his name, and settled in for a quick nap, his bike wheeled into the room.
He guessed it would take someone a while to figure out where he was staying. At least with Franz on his side he wouldn’t have the Austrian Polizei coming around. But someone would be tracking his financial accounts—at least those he wanted them to track.
He’d chosen this gasthaus for a number of reasons. It wasn’t just isolated; only a couple other people were staying there. Also the rooms were accessed like an American motel from the outside. If someone came for him, he could control the collateral damage.
When darkness came, he left the light on in his room, the shades slightly drawn, and the little television on loud enough to hear it outside.
Now, dressed in black from head to foot, one pistol under his left arm and covered with a wind breaker and another clipped to his belt on his right hip, also covered, Jake stepped out into the parking lot and took a position in the trees twenty meters from his room.
People came and went as he watched from the forest. Mostly older people coming for the meals or the beer. Locals, Jake guessed. It wasn’t a young person hang-out. They’d be down at the trendy bars in St. Anton.
Getting cold now, Jake wrapped his arms around his body. He questioned his wisdom now. Looking at his room, he could be inside there wrapped in the warmth of the down feather bed. Or he could be in the bar enjoying another beer himself. Yet, that would be foolish now, after using his Visa. He’d told the older couple who owned the gasthaus that a couple of old friends might be showing up for a visit and to go ahead and give them his room number. Jake assured them the others wouldn’t be staying long and hoped they wouldn’t make too much noise. No reason to put the couple in danger by holding back information.
By ten in the evening most of the restaurant customers had left. Only a few older beer drinkers remained behind. Jake had seen them arrive in two small cars an hour ago. They’d probably stay until midnight when the bar closed.
Just when Jake didn’t think he could remain outside any longer, his body so cold from the mountain air, a new Audi A4 angled up the crooked road and slowly pulled into the parking lot, taking a spot a short distance from the two other cars. It looked like two men inside. Could have just been a couple more beer drinkers. But Jake didn’t think so. They hesitated too long before getting out, and then when they did step out of the Audi, they seemed to shift something under their coats, like someone does with a gun under their jacket. One of the two men spent a little too much time noticing the other two cars also. No, these two were looking for him.
Jake stretched his body, trying not to make any noise but wanting to make sure his muscles were ready to react to anything. He didn’t have to wait long. Five minutes after the men went into the restaurant, they returned outside and made a direct approach toward his room. Suddenly, a thought came to Jake. What if these were Polizei? Crap.
He drew his Beretta and held his position as the two men stepped slowly in front of his room, glancing through the open shades as they pulled their own guns. As the two men went to his door, Jake prepared to move. He stepped out lightly, his dark body still blending in with the trees.
One man kicked in the door and then the two men ran inside.
As Jake ran across the parking lot, gun flashes lit the room, but the sound was silenced to slight pops. He stopped counting at ten.
Now alongside the door frame, Jake held his position as he listened to the men inside. What language? It wasn’t Russian. Perhaps West Slavic. Serbian? Regardless, they were pissed. Jake understood that in just about any language.
The two men started for the door and Jake swung in, his gun aimed at one and then the other.
The next seconds were confusing. The man on the right started to raise his silenced gun at Jake, who shot twice. The first shot hit the man in the chest and the second round hit the man in the nose, dropping him immediately. As the second man reacted by raising his gun, Jake dropped to the ground and shot the man in the knee and the right arm, making his gun release from his hand.
Jake rushed into the room and kicked the gun away from the man, who was now sitting on the floor. Then Jake shut the door and closed the curtains all the way.
The man was in great pain. Jake could relate. After all the pain and surgery he had gone through for his own left knee, he felt somewhat guilty inflicting that kind of pain on this man. But, the alternative would have been worse. There were holes in the bed, which Jake had stuffed with another blanket and towels. Holes on the wall. Probably holes in the bathroom.
“Let’s see some identification,” Jake said in German.
The man scowled at Jake but didn’t move.
Jake ordered the man to do the same in Russian. Nothing. What the hell language did this guy speak?
“Give me your damn wallet,” Jake finally said in English.
The man’s eyes showed some sign of intelligence. He understood. The universal language. Pissed off American.
He didn’t have time for this. The owners would have heard Jake’s four shots and called the Polizei. Jake thrust his right foot at the man, striking him in the face. The man immediately slumped to the ground. Then Jake found the man’s wallet and passport. Serb. Next Jake retrieved the dead man’s identification and shoved them into his backpack. He needed to move fast.
Since the injured man was still out cold, Jake pulled the car keys from his pocket and then tied the man’s hands behind his back with a lamp cord. It took him less than a minute to get the car and park it in front of his room, the engine left running as Jake dragged the man from the room and hoisted him into the passenger seat. Thirty seconds more and Jake had his backpack in the back seat and had tied the man’s body into an upright position with the seat belt and more electrical cord. Moments later and Jake was behind the wheel and driving slowly out of the parking lot.
Jake knew that the Polizei would have to drive up the mountain from St. Anton, some 15 kilometers by road, so he went in the other direction, toward Germany. He could be near the border in ten minutes. As he got higher on the mountain, he saw the blue and white lights from a couple Polizei cars making their way up the mountain road to the gasthaus. Jake guessed they would first go to the room and find out what happened. By then he would be long gone.
The man next to him started to stir, so Jake swung a backfist, hitting the man in the face and knocking him out again. Blood rolled down the man’s face, down his right arm and down his right leg. Jake would have to stop across the border before this guy went into shock. He needed some information.
The border between Austria and Germany sat on the top of 2500 meter mountains here, with no way to cross.
The road ahead would come to a small town and Jake would have to go left or right. Left and Jake would skirt the border and eventually be able to continue north and cross the unguarded frontier into Germany. Go to the right and Jake would head toward Garmisch-Partenkichen, Germany, or he would be able to backtrack toward Innsbruck before crossing into Germany. He went to the right.
A half hour later, convinced he wasn’t being followed, Jake pulled down a deserted country road and stopped. The man to his right had been semi-conscious a few times during the night and woke with swirling eyes now. Jake got out and rounded the car, opening the front passenger door and stooping down to the Serb still strapped into his chair. His dark eyes shifted toward Jake, unknowing.
“All right,” Jake said, “we’ve determined already that you speak English. Now you’re gonna tell me who hired you.”
The man licked dried blood above his lip but didn’t say a word.
Jake shook his head. “This can go many different ways. But in the end you’ll either die from shock or loss of blood, or you can die. . .in a different manner. Best case scenario? You tell me what I need to know and I drive you to the hospital in Innsbruck.”
The man sniffed. “You’re dead already. You just can’t see it.”
“Good. You can speak. I thought you might be dumb and stupid. Now. . .how do you want this to go?”
Still no answer. Great. Why in the hell do they all take the hard way? Jake pushed in the cigarette lighter and waited. The man’s eyes looked at the lighter and then to Jake, who yawned.
The lighter popped and Jake took it out and shoved it immediately into the man’s neck, bringing a loud scream and the man stretching his body against the restraints. The smell of burnt hair and flesh tweaked Jake’s nostrils. It was the one smell he really hated.
“This is just the beginning,” Jake said. “We can stay here all night until the battery runs out.” He shoved the lighter back into its slot and waited for it to pop again. “But once I start using this on your dick you’ll tell me what I need to know. I’ll guarantee it.”
When the lighter popped, the man jumped but still didn’t answer. Jake looked at the wound on the man’s forearm, where Jake’s bullet had struck the bone, leaving a nasty mess. With one swift motion, Jake grasped the lighter and shoved it into the wound that was seeping blood. The pain brought another scream from the man, instant sweat from his face, and then the guy passed out. Damn it. The pain was what Jake wanted, but he had pretty much cauterized the arm wound. He returned the lighter to its slot and thought of another method. Maybe his pocket knife would be enough. He pulled it out, unfolded the three-inch blade, and checked for sharpness. Not up to his normal standards. Good. That would work better.
Jake slapped the man a couple of times to wake him. When he finally responded, his eyes cast a dark glare on Jake, who waved the knife close to the Serb’s eyes. Most men feared a few things from torture. First, that they would do something to his dick or nuts. Another great fear is that someone would screw with the eyes. Nobody wanted to go blind.
“Now, my friend, I’m sure you can see the gravity of your situation. I can poke one eye out, you scream and still don’t tell me what I want to know, and then I take your second eye. From there I can go to your cock and balls, taking one at a time. Now, I think you must have read somewhere that I will do what I’m telling you. Then I’ll leave you up here with no clothes, bleeding to death and no reason to really live anyway. That’s the hard way. And what does it really matter if you tell me the name of your boss?”
“He’ll kill me.”
“There we go,” Jake said, “we’ve narrowed the field to only half of the world’s population. We know it’s a man. Continue.” Jake ran the knife along the bottom of the guy’s right eye.
The Serb let out a labored breath. “I don’t know his name.”
Shaking his head, Jake sliced the man just below the eye, bringing instant blood and pain as the man pulled his head away from the knife.
“Now, that was a lie and you know it,” Jake chided.
This time the man said through clenched teeth, “Gunter Schecht.”
Jake couldn’t believe what he had just heard. “Gunter Schecht,” he repeated. “That’s impossible.” Impossible because Jake had shot the man, putting a bullet in his forehead many years ago in Berlin, Germany. “What did he look like?”
“I never saw him,” the Serb said. “The word got out about a bounty on you, so we made it known we were available. I’m sure we’re not the only ones. A million Euros is a lot of money.”
Not if you’re dead. “How did you get in on the action?”
“A website.” He gave Jake the web address. “From there they call you. I have no idea how they found my number. I didn’t give it to them. But they found me.”
“There are better ways to make money,” Jake assured him. “Trying to kill me is not one of them.”
“I see that now.”
Jake unlashed the guy and pulled him from the car, shoving him into the ditch, where he fell into low ferns and immediately grasped his shot knee.
“Now what?” the Serb asked.
“If I let you go I’m guessing you’ll just come after me again. Am I right?”
The man hunched his shoulders. “My knee must get fixed. Just like yours.”
So the man did know something about Jake. “And then what?” Jake pressed. He aimed his .40 cal auto at the man’s chest.
“That’s a lot of money.”
“At least you’re honest,” Jake said. “So why shouldn’t I just shoot you right here?”
“You should. I would. But then they will keep sending men after you until you’re dead. You can’t get away from fate.”
Okay, honesty could go too far. What the hell should he do? It’s not like he could just shoot an unarmed man. The guy had made a bad choice taking this assignment, but he had no way of knowing that. Jake backed up to the car, opened the driver’s door, and reached under the seat, collecting the Serb’s silenced gun. Then Jake threw the gun a few feet away from the man.
The Serb’s eyes shifted toward the gun.
“Pick it up,” Jake ordered.
“You’ll shoot me before I have a chance.”
“Maybe. But you’ll get more of a chance than you gave me back at the gasthaus.”
“You weren’t in the room.”
“You didn’t know that.”
Jake could see the calculations running through the Serb’s mind. Reach for the gun, roll to the side, raise the gun, and fire. As the man did just what Jake thought he would, Jake stepped quickly to his right, narrowed his profile and heard one puff just as he fired three times. The man crashed to the grass. Jake stepped carefully toward the man, his gun ready to fire again. But it wasn’t necessary. Two bullets had struck the man’s chest, and the third had hit the center of the man’s neck, snapping his spine. The man was dead before he hit the grass.
Feelings were mixed with Jake. He should have hated the man, but he didn’t. He was just doing what he had to do to make a buck. Money was a strange motivator. Sure it was needed to live, yet in his case it had done just the opposite. He thought about what the Serb had told him. Gunter Schecht. Made Jake think. Someone was trying to use disinformation against him. Mess with his mind, knowing Jake had killed the guy years ago. But that wasn’t a well-known fact. Only a few people in the intelligence community knew that Jake had killed Gunter. Unless someone had bought that information and was using it to frame someone else, knowing Jake would know only a few knew he had killed the German.
Picking up the man’s gun, never knowing when he might need a good silenced pistol, Jake saw that the Serb had fired the last bullet before the slide had stuck back. Still, he had given the man some chance. Jake could live with that.
He got into the Audi and drove toward Germany. If someone wanted him to think about Gunter, there was no better place to go. Jake knew he could be walking into a trap, but at least he also knew that was a possib
ility. The mouse trap only worked when the mouse was hungry.
7
Near St. Anton, Austria
Franz Martini had gotten word of another shooting in the gasthaus outside of the ski resort town and immediately drove to that location. He still had a number of contacts in the Innsbruck Polizei office who would continue to feed him information.
He pulled into the parking lot of the gasthaus and parked behind a line of Polizei cars that blocked off the site of the shooting. Getting out, he looked up to the sky at all the stars. Not a cloud. That would drop the temps to near freezing.
As he approached the room, he noticed Hermann Jung standing outside talking on his cell phone. He didn’t look happy to see Franz.
Starting to make his way into the room, Franz was stopped by a strong hand smacking his chest, followed by the shorter man stepping in front of Franz.
“Wait a minute, Franz,” Hermann said, flipping his phone shut. “You’re not authorized to be here.”
Franz looked down at the man’s hand as if to say ‘remove it or lose it.’ Hermann Jung reluctantly took his hand back.
“Do you need to go through remedial training on the chain of command,” Franz said. “I could arrange that.” He kept a stern eye on his replacement.
“With all due respect, you are on medical leave, Herr Martini.”
Franz flipped open his identification and pointed at his credentials, his badge. “Until they pull this from my dying hand, I still outrank you, Herr Jung. Now, unless you want to go back to picking up drunk drivers on the autobahn, you’ll step aside.”