by A. W. Mykel
The remaining two agents accompanied Justin and Fanning into the building.
The group moved silently up the stairs. One man remained on the fifth floor, the other went ahead up to the seventh. They would stop Ten Braak from going up or down, should he get past Justin and Fanning.
Fanning opened up the case he had carried in with him. Justin watched him as he produced a sawed-off, double-barreled shotgun, loaded it, and strapped the flashlight to the top of it.
“I’m going in for him,” Fanning said.
Justin looked into the anxious gray eyes. There was no way he could convince him otherwise. He knew it. He just nodded.
They both knew that Ten Braak wouldn’t be taken alive. There was no need for it anymore. They knew where he was staying now.
The two men moved in slow silence down the hallway.
Justin would position himself in the hallway, to give Fanning as much cover as possible.
Fanning positioned himself in front of the door. His finger was on the trigger of the “Runt,” and the thumb of his left hand was on the switch to the flashlight.
Justin drew his Mauser and took a firing position.
They were ready.
Fanning’s knees were shaking. He couldn’t stop them. He felt like he wanted to puke. He could never remember being so nervous. But he knew it would all vanish the second he kicked the door in.
Fanning looked at Justin. Justin contracted his eustachian tubes, the BLEEP signaling the other agents that they were going in. He nodded to his friend. Fanning’s moment had come to repay the old debt.
Fanning looked back at the door and took a deep breath. In the same movement, he flicked on the flashlight and gave the door a straight, thrusting kick. It splintered open.
The spring snapped on the relay.
Fanning burst through the opening into the room, the beam from the flashlight directly on the bed.
It was empty.
He crouched low and swung the light quickly across the room. Justin’s Mauser was raised at the closed bathroom door.
The sweep second hand moved.
In an instant, Fanning realized that the only place Ten Braak could be was in the bathroom. He moved to the center of the room.
The timer hit zero.
The overhead lights went on, with all the lamps being simultaneously lit.
There was only the tiniest fraction of a second, but it was enough for Fanning to know that he had lost again.
The large bulbs in the fixture above him exploded downward, the lamps blowing inward at the same time. In that one instant he was enveloped in hell’s own incendiary fury.
Fanning became a mass of flame as the entire room exploded in at him.
The shock wave from the whoosh knocked Justin backward against the hallway wall.
For a moment Fanning just stood there, a silent, burning torch. He staggered a few steps forward, one arm waving, as if to bat the flames away. He moved in a short semicircle, then fell across the bed.
Justin watched the flaming figure as it moved stiffly forward before falling, then all was lost in the sea of flame.
“Leave the building immediately,” SENTINEL’s urgent voice commanded.
Justin stood in shocked disbelief. His partner, his friend. There were several muffled explosions; the shells and the implant.
“Leave at once,” came the repeated command.
Justin gained control of himself and ran for the stairs.
The three agents dashed madly down the flight of stairs and from the building.
Justin moved in a daze. It couldn’t be real. This wasn’t really happening. Ted was in there.
He turned in the street and looked up at the flames, as they began to consume the floor above and spread as though moving through a field of dry brush. He looked at the front door, almost waiting for Fanning to come racing out, but he was a part of that hell, beyond all help from the instant it had happened.
Justin vomited in the street.
“Leave the area, immediately,” came the command from SENTINEL.
But Justin was frozen.
“Leave the area, immediately,” SENTINEL repeated. He could be nothing less than useless until the shock of what had happened was past. SENTINEL knew this.
“You are to leave the city immediately,” the voice commanded. “Go to your home until further orders are given. Now. NOW,” SENTINEL commanded.
Still in his daze, Justin did as he was told, like an obedient child. He went to the car and got into it. Started the engine and pulled away, leaving it all behind him. Leaving Fanning in that hell.
The car pulled out onto Second Avenue and moved away from the scene. It turned and headed across town, then back uptown for the Lincoln Tunnel.
He never even looked in the rearview mirror at the beat-up Volkswagen that followed him at a distance.
Pilgrim had gone from hunter to hunted. There was another installment of hell yet to be delivered. And Otto Ten Braak was its postman.
THIRTY
We came to a period in Operation Raptor where our hopes had begun to droop severely. Things had not progressed well beyond the first stage of the plan. We had hoped to be at stage three by that point in time.
But Colorosa absolutely astounded us with his discovery and his resultant plan. He held our attention completely.
We found ourselves suddenly sitting on the brink of stage five. The hundred-year plan created by the Niederlage special branch could have been reduced to forty by Colorosa’s brilliant work. We were suddenly at the threshold of our ultimate success. But we would not rush blindly ahead again. After our mistakes in the past, patience was to be our steadfast rule.
Entry No. 59 from the partially
recovered Wolf Journal
What does a man think and feel when he watches a friend die? Especially when the man was one he had so greatly admired, who had served as his mentor, partner, and friend, and whom he had thought of as indestructible. And not only to watch him die—but to see him taken so easily, so brutally, and so quickly.
Ten Braak had handled them like dumb ants. It struck fear into Justin, the same fear Fanning had felt.
They had about as much chance of finding him now as a fart had in a windstorm. Ten Braak would never make the contact. He was gone. And Justin didn’t care. It was over for him. He was out of it.
Justin’s brain and stomach were twisting. He wanted to get home to his bed, to hide beneath the covers and let the wind-chimes carry him away to peace and safety and sleep. He needed their protection now more than ever before in his life.
But there were no windchimes. There was only the reality of what had happened. And the fear.
For the first time in his life, Justin realized why he never looked back. It was fear. Fear that someone or something was gaining on him. And he didn’t look back this time, either. If he had, he would have seen death behind him, coming for him, closing the distance between them.
It took about twenty minutes to reach the apartment complex. The Impala coasted into the parking lot behind his building. Justin shut it down and sat in the darkness.
He wondered how long Fanning had lived, how much primary pain he had felt before the nerves were destroyed. He wondered if Ted even knew what had happened.
Justin felt the need for a drink. A stiff one.
The door of the Impala opened, and the tall slender figure slid out. He walked around to the front of the building.
The dark eyes watched from the shadow, as Justin climbed the outside stairs to his second-floor corner apartment. The eyes observed that the apartments below and next to his were vacant. There would be no one to hear.
Justin entered the apartment, put on the lights, and walked across the spacious living room to the built-in bar. He took out a glass and a bottle of Scotch, filled the glass, and raised it to his lips. The glass went down again. He didn’t want the drink anymore.
What he really needed was a cup of piping hot tea and a hot shower. Then maybe a
week’s sleep. He went into the kitchen and put on the water.
A few moments later he was in the bedroom, removing his pit holster. He put the Mauser on the night table beside the bed and fingered one of the nipples on the large, yellow glass ashtray beside the weapon. It had been a gag gift from Barbara. It was his conversation piece. There were four sets of large breasts with big pink nipples at each of the corners. It was a clever piece of design, and he treasured it.
The steam kettle began to whistle. He went back to the kitchen, took out his large thermal cup, put a tea bag into it, and poured in the piping water.
After a sufficient number of dunks, he pressed the tea bag against a spoon and put in a touch of sugar. He turned out the lights in the kitchen and living room and went into the bedroom.
Ten Braak saw the lights go out, then raced to the back of the building. He looked up at Justin’s lighted bedroom windows.
There were two smaller windows, obviously to the bathrooms. The slight glow in one told him that it was off the bedroom. That light then went on.
The window was open slightly, and Ten Braak could hear the water in the tub go on. Then he saw the shadow appear back in the bedroom again.
Justin had placed the tea on the high dresser top next to the bathroom door. It was much too hot to drink and would still be piping when he finished his shower.
Ten Braak watched, as the shadow moved back into the bathroom. He heard the shower engage, as the drawing of the shower curtain threw a blue cast to the window. He could see the shadow in the shower.
Now was his chance.
With his surprising quickness, he went to the front of the building and up the stairs to Justin’s door. It took only seconds to pick the lock. He stepped in.
The sounds of the shower covered his own, as he closed the door and walked to the lighted bedroom.
He went in and quickly scanned the room for weapons. He spotted the Mauser.
Ten Braak went to it and removed it from the holster. He snapped out the magazine clip and pulled back the slide, ejecting the round in the chamber. He put it back in the holster.
What he had in mind was more his style. He pulled out a garrote.
This wasn’t an ordinary garrote with a piece of piano wire strung between two handles. It had a modification distinctive of the Ten Braak touch. One wire had a slip-lock mechanism attached to it that automatically engaged when contacted by the second wire. This allowed tightening of the loop and then release of the handles. The wire could pass only one way through the mechanism, unless it were released by a half turn and an outward pull of the tiny lock ring.
This modification gave him the freedom to attack a second person as the first strangled helplessly.
A proper pull on the handles would cut deeply into the throat of the victim and reduce the loop to a diameter of about two inches. Unconsciousness would follow within six seconds. Not having to maintain the pressure of the pull allowed him more control over the struggling body. And if the touch were desirable, a second pull of equal force could bring about decapitation. But this was seldom needed.
He moved to the closed bathroom door and turned the knob enough to push the door in ever so slightly. This would allow a quick push with the foot, to swing the door open as he moved in with the garrote. It would be over in less than fifteen seconds.
Ten Braak waited.
Several minutes later, the shower went off. He poised himself.
Justin dried quickly in the tub, then stepped out for a more thorough drying. The room was steam-filled and the mirror fogged over. He stood with his back to the door.
Perhaps it was instinct, that extra sense for survival, or just quick reaction to the cooler air rushing in as the door flew open, but he managed to get his left hand up as the wire loop came over his head.
In an instant, the garrote went tight. The wire crossed the palm of his hand, pulling it hard against his throat. His hand prevented the wire from biting deeply into his neck, but it cut sharply into the hand, as Ten Braak jerked and pulled him backward, in an attempt to gain leverage.
Justin’s first instinct was to resist the force by pulling away, but he overcame the urge and moved forcefully into his attacker to reduce the advantage. The leverage was reduced enough to prevent Ten Braak from making a second pull, keeping the garrote from its fatal duty.
Ten Braak began to drag Justin out of the confining bathroom to the bedroom, where he could get the necessary leverage to drive the wire through the hand and into the neck.
On his way through the doorway, Justin’s free right arm shot out sideways. His hand grasped the thermal mug and sent the scalding contents over his shoulder. The hot tea hit Ten Braak squarely in the eyes.
There was a muffled cry, and the grip loosened as his hands went instinctively to his face. At the same instant Justin let go a vicious backward kick that caught the attacker in the groin, knocking him over.
Justin turned to face the adversary. The sight of Ten Braak did not surprise him, nor did he feel fear. The fear was past him. The initial contact had already been made. The rest was automatic. It was survival.
With the agility of a tumbler, Ten Braak rolled through his fall and came up on his feet. In the next instant he was charging at Justin like a bull.
The tea and the kick would have been enough to stop any other man. But Ten Braak came.
Justin’s left hand had been effectively pinned to his throat. He knew he had to keep Ten Braak away from the handles. It would take legs.
Before Justin could deliver one of his kicks, Ten Braak was in on him. The stubby, steellike hands threw vicious, ravaging blows, which landed heavily and punishingly on Justin’s body. With his left hand pinned, Justin couldn’t stop them.
The hot tea had badly damaged Ten Braak’s eyes and burned his face. He couldn’t see the death spots, but made up for his lack of accuracy with the quantity and force of blows.
Justin managed to get a knee up, to get some working distance between them, but not before he felt the ribs on his left side crack from the savage blows. He thrust a straight arm at Ten Braak’s face, the heel of the palm striking squarely to the tip of the nose. It jarred him backward.
These men were skilled at killing and disabling with hands. They seldom threw fists, and never at the jaw. More fingers and hands get broken and wrists get sprained against hard jaws than knockout punches get thrown. A vicious upward palm-thrust to the jaw is far more damaging to the opponent. To the nose is even better; it is a disabling blow that can kill if delivered properly.
Justin had once more gained distance.
Ten Braak’s vision became even more obstructed from the nose blow. Both men were now gravely disadvantaged. Either one would have been easy prey, were the other not equally affected.
Ten Braak charged again.
Justin’s right leg shot upward in a vicious arc, hitting home. Ten Braak went down, but bounced up instantly.
His ability to absorb punishment was beyond Justin’s comprehension. He came again.
The right leg shot out again, glancing off the hard muscular shoulder.
A violent blow hit against Justin’s pinned forearm, nearly breaking it. It knocked Justin backward, again giving him needed distance.
He threw the left leg this time, whipping his free right arm to generate maximum force. It hit home again. Ten Braak was jarred.
Justin followed with another right, but Ten Braak caught it, after absorbing the force against his ribs. He held the leg tightly and moved backward, pulling Justin with him, Justin hopping to keep his balance.
Ten Braak threw a vicious forearm into Justin’s knee and kicked his supporting leg out from under him. Justin went down hard, with Ten Braak on top of him.
Ten Braak threw finger slashes at the eyes, but his inability to see once again saved Justin. The first blow hit his eyebrow, tearing a gash above his left eye. The second glanced harmlessly off his forehead.
The force of the missed blow brought Ten Braak forward
and low. Justin used the moment to score an eye strike of his own. His index finger went deeply into Ten Braak’s left eye. At the same moment, Justin kicked violently to get himself free. He scrambled up and dove for the Mauser.
He hit the night stand with enough force to topple it, sending the lamp crashing against the wall and the ashtray flying through the air.
The Mauser was useless. He threw it, hitting Ten Braak in the chest, but it had no effect.
Ten Braak came in again, throwing more ravaging body blows, coming up occasionally for an eye slash. He was hitting, but not the eyes.
Justin went down from the brutal force being delivered against him. He threw one more sweeping left kick, which cut the legs out from under Ten Braak. Justin scrambled painfully away.
There is only so much that the human body can take before it stops functioning. Justin was nearing that point. But so was Ten Braak.
Justin threw another vicious kick, which caught Ten Braak across the forehead. He went down with a different hardness than before and rolled to his stomach.
In an instant Justin was on him. His instincts told him to stay behind Ten Braak so he couldn’t be hit effectively from the ground.
Justin’s free hand flashed out again at the burned and peeling face, scoring the right eye. He drove it again and again.
Ten Braak no longer had eyes. But he would not die. He knew his only hope was in getting those handles. He had to get Justin off his back and in front of him. He raised his rump as though to buck him off.
But again Justin’s instincts took over. His sense of body position and balance was acutely developed. As soon as Ten Braak’s rump came up, Justin’s long legs shot around the waist and locked in a viselike figure four. He extended his upper body fully forward while arching his back. The leverage was incredible.
It forced Ten Braak’s chest and face hard against the floor. The crushing pressure on his waist forced him to urinate and move his bowels uncontrollably.