by Trevor Scott
Jake turned his head just as a single shot ripped through Carlson's chest, sending him flailing backwards into the Rhine with a tremendous splash. The dark river swallowed him. The briefcase suddenly rose to the surface and floated downstream.
Starting to rise, Jake was forced back down with a flurry of rounds cutting up a tree next to him.
Jake returned fire. Three times.
More bullets flew toward Jake.
Jake fired again and ducked back down.
More shots at Jake.
He waited now, hearing footfalls through the trees. Jake pulled up and fired three times at the figure.
Silence.
Jake swapped out a new clip. After a short while, he got up and crept toward the area he shot last, his gun leading the way. Freezing rain beat down on him, making him shiver. He cleared the bushes away and glanced down toward the ground. Gunter was on his back in the wet grass, a bullet hole in his forehead.
Polizei were everywhere, along with EMTs checking bodies in the woods and strapping them to stretchers, hauling them down from Bundenbach's office.
Jake had made his way to the front of the building, and was sitting on a retaining wall in the entranceway when two men in white pulled a gurney toward him.
Strapped down and patched up was Herb. He had the two men stop next to Jake.
"You gonna live, Herb?" Jake asked.
"I have to. I'm too close to retirement."
Just then two of the uniformed Polizei hauled Herr Bundenbach out of the elevator, his hands cuffed behind his back. He looked defeated and dejected as they whisked him past Jake and Herb.
Jake turned back toward Herb. "You take it easy."
With that, the EMTs pushed the gurney out into the driving rain.
A moment later, Jake went out into the freezing downpour and got behind the wheel of his car. He looked into his mirror at his tired eyes and hoped the airplane would have a terrible movie.
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CHAPTER 38
PORTLAND, OREGON
Jake sat in the informal area of Milt Swenson's office.
Milt came in and sat down on the sofa. "How was your flight?"
"Pretty normal. Screaming kids. Obnoxious assholes trying to strike up conversations." Jake smiled.
Milt seemed uneasy, shifting from legs crossed to open and then crossed again.
"What's the matter, Milt?"
"I had no idea Steve was involved. You have to believe me."
"Why shouldn't I? You had nothing to gain by knowing what he was up to."
Milt shifted again. "The Senate Armed Services Committee comes here tomorrow. I plan on pitching our Joint Strike Fighter proposal at that time."
Jake didn't say a thing.
"I'm really satisfied with your results," Milt said. "I mean, you could have just let Steve sell my company out to the Germans and the Hungarians. You took the extra step for me. I appreciate it."
Jake didn't know what to say. Had he really done anything out of the ordinary? After all, he was hired to do a job. Reputation was important for future cases. Without references, how could he expect to continue in this business. No. He had done what needed to be done. Sure he could have sold out his principles. Given in to greed. But looking in the mirror each morning would have been far too difficult.
"I got lucky. Had some good help, also."
"Luck? I doubt it. You seem to have a penchant for being in the right place at the right time. I call that experience."
Jake wondered where the praise was leading.
"Jake, I could use you here at Teredata," Milt said.
Jake shifted in his chair. "I don't think so. You've compensated me nicely. I've made more in the last month than in six months with the agency. That's the good part. But I've found that I like working for myself. I know I'll always have a boss. But at least I can choose who that boss is."
"You've saved us a lot of money, Jake. If the Germans had picked up on our chip design, the European market would have been flooded with our technology. And we wouldn't have made a dime off all our research expenses. Besides that, we wouldn't have a chance in hell of getting the Joint Strike Fighter contract."
Jake got up from the chair and went to the window overlooking the city. It was a bright, sunny day. The Willamette River sparkled from the direct sun and the reflection off the tall, mirrored skyline.
"Not only did you save us money," Milt continued. "But you're going to make us a lot of money."
Jake studied the river. "How?"
"That transputer theory you talked about. Our engineers feel they can make it work with the right information."
Jake still didn't turn to Milt.
"We need a few things that would take us years to come up with on our own," Milt pleaded.
"I can't help you with that. I have only a limited knowledge of the theory," Jake said.
"True. But the Germans have it. You could get it from them."
Jake turned toward Milt. "What do you want from me? I've just been shot at how many times trying to keep your information from reaching the Germans and Hungarians? And now you want me to go back there and get the transputer information? I don't think so."
"You're the only one who can do this for me, Jake."
Jake turned back toward the window and the river. Beneath the surface flows swift water, Jake thought. Uncertain eddies. Whirlpools. People were no different. Bundenbach had his agenda. Lebovitz had his. Even Milt now.
Jake turned back toward Milt. "Bundenbach is in no position to deal," Jake explained. "He'll be wrapped up in a legal battle for quite a while. Besides, I wouldn't trust him."
Wait a minute. With Bundenbach severely hampered, Teredata could exploit his markets. Come on line with the fastest transputer at a far lower cost than any other super computer. More importantly, the personal transputer would revolutionize the industry. Exactly what Bundenbach was trying to do. Exactly what Lebovitz was trying to do. So, how was Milt any different from the Germans or Hungarians? Shit! Did Milt know what Steve Carlson was up to? Did he actually set up the entire scheme? Or did he just now come up with the idea now that the opportunity presented itself?
"You're thinking it over, Jake?"
"I'll give you one last bit of information and then I'm out of here," Jake said, perniciously. "Lebovitz."
"Lebovitz? What about Lebovitz?"
"Do you know him?"
"No."
"He's the Hungarian Carlson was dealing with indirectly," Jake said.
"What about him?"
"He has most of the transputer information. I'm sure you can work with him. But I won't help you. Lebovitz can supply cheap, skilled labor and the transputer technology. You'll need to provide your chips, engineers, and a little capital and marketing strategy."
"But Jake, I need you to make the deal."
Jake walked slowly toward the door. "Find someone else, Milt. I have a date."
Jake left and closed the door behind him. A part of him wanted to help. He knew Lebovitz. Knew it would be easy to pick up some cash at Milt's expense. But what about the price? The men who had died had paid a price. Who could pay that price without a conscience? And what price would Jake have to pay? Conscience wasn't cheap.
As the elevator closed him in and he drifted toward the ground floor, he reached to the inside pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out an airline ticket. He studied the open ticket to Rome carefully, smiled, and then placed it back in his pocket. He felt his temple where the bullet had grazed him, shook his head, took in a deep breath and let it out slowly.
Jake left the building and climbed into a cab waiting for him.
The cab driver turned to Jake for a destination.
Jake looked at the man and smiled. "The airport."
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TREVOR SCOTT
Trevor Scott is the author of the international thrillers Fatal Network, Extreme Faction, The Dolomite Solution, Hypershot, and the mystery, Strong Conviction. He was a weapons expert working the flight deck of aircraft carriers in the Navy, and was a captain in the Air Force, where he was stationed in Germany for three years in a tactical missile unit. He holds a bachelor's in English from the University of Minnesota, and a master's in creative writing from Northern Michigan University. He currently resides in Oregon with his wife and two sons.
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