The Fourth Rising (Peter Brandt Thrillers Book 3)

by Martin Roy Hill

“Sir,” he said. “It’s time. The ceremony is about to start.”

  “Thank you, Eric,” MacIntosh said. “We will be there momentarily.”

  Eric nodded curtly, glanced at me for a moment, then did an about face and left.

  “Oh,” I said. “Are we having a party?”

  MacIntosh frowned at my question.

  “Mr. Brandt, it’s April 20,” he said. “With all your research, you don’t know what day it is?”

  I thought it over and shook my head.

  “It’s Hitler’s birthday,” MacIntosh said. “We celebrate it each year. It gives the Werwölfe a sense of heritage. And they enjoy being able to strut around with their flags and such. It provides them a sense of…belonging. Hitler understood that need, which is why the party held such majestic rallies at Nuremberg.”

  I considered telling MacIntosh that sane people thought celebrating Hitler’s death was more appropriate, but then I remembered both Tygard and Glasgow claimed Der Führer didn’t die in the bunker after all. Instead I said, “I always thought the Nuremberg trials were pretty magnificent.”

  MacIntosh’s face reddened, but he spoke calmly. “A complete travesty of justice,” he said. He nodded toward Chase and said, “Bring him, Bill.”

  Chase produced a small pistol from his pocket, then pulled me to my feet. With his free hand gripping my right arm at the elbow, he led me down a hallway. We stopped at a door and waited for MacIntosh to catch up. Someone inside the closed room whimpered. MacIntosh came and opened the door. Chase pushed me through and they followed.

  “You wanted to see the bitch,” Chase said. “Well, there she is.”

  Jo sat tied to a wooden chair like the one I had been sitting in. She was naked, her arms twisted behind the backrest, her legs spread open and strapped to the chair’s legs. A position of utter humiliation and vulnerability. Her head drooped and sweat-soaked hair fell across her face. There was bruising on her arms, her chest, and her inner thighs. A fresh, deep burn the shape and size of a nickel marred her left breast.

  She raised her head. Her face was swollen and discolored. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth and from her nose. Her eyes were dark, bloodshot, and circled by makeup smeared by tears. She saw me, and muttered, “Oh, no, Peter. No.”

  Clark Sterling stood next to her. He wore an SS uniform minus the jacket, which he had draped over a nearby chair. He puffed on a lit cigar with grim gratification.

  I took the view in all at once and felt the anger rise in me like volcanic magma. They say the tiniest woman can perform superhuman feats of strength if she sees her child in danger. I believe it, because just then I felt the strength of a dozen Arnold Schwarzeneggers. My right arm jerked upward, breaking Chase’s grip. I pivoted into him, deflected his pistol with my left hand, and hammered my knee into his testicles as hard as I could. He doubled over and dropped the gun. Without thinking, I spun Chase around by his neck and threw him into MacIntosh. They both tumbled to the ground.

  Then I charged Sterling.

  I caught his throat in the crook of my right elbow, hitting him so hard and with such ferocity we both flew into the wall behind him. I heard his skull crack against the wall. The cigar flew from his lips. I held onto his neck with my right arm and used my left to leverage it tighter against his throat. All I could hear was his gurgling and the blood coursing through my veins. I never heard Jo’s shouted warning.

  Something hit me hard on the back of my right shoulder, right where the nerves are closest to the surface. I knew where the blow landed because I’d been hit there before and the results were the same. The right side of my body became paralyzed with pain. Stars popped out of nowhere and I dropped like a rock.

  For what seemed several minutes but was only seconds, I lay crippled on the floor. A boot crashed into my stomach. I braced for another blow, but I heard MacIntosh shout, “That’s enough!” I relaxed and tried to enjoy the light show.

  “Get her dressed and throw them both in the Hole,” MacIntosh said. “We’ll continue this after the ceremony.”

  ☼

  The Hole was a square pit dug a dozen feet into the earth between the headquarters building and the fence line. A concrete pad encircled the pit and anchored a hinged gate made of thick metal bars. Plywood planks prevented the sides from caving in, but the floor was raw dirt. A wooden ladder led into its depths, but the two Werewolves dragging us didn’t allow us the privilege of using it. Instead, they tossed us into the pit as if they were throwing out the garbage.

  Jo and I sprawled at the bottom of the Hole. The gate slammed shut and the skinheads padlocked it. I listened to the Werewolves’ footsteps subside before I sat up and pulled Jo close to me. She was sobbing. My first instinct was to ask if she was all right, but what I saw of her naked body already gave me that answer. I also didn’t have to ask what they had done to her. It was obvious Sterling had taken his revenge for Jo humiliating him in front of MacIntosh and Chase in the World-Wide offices.

  “I’m so sorry, Peter,” Jo muttered. “I’m so sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “For getting you into this,” she said. “For coming to you for help. I should have just walked away from everything after Frank died.”

  I helped her to her feet and held her close to me. Her clothing was damp from the moist earth, sweat, and blood. She flinched from the pain of me holding her too tight. I let her go and stepped back. My hand lifted her chin, and I kissed her softly on the lips. She flinched from that, too.

  “It’ll be okay,” I said, knowing full well it was a lie. “I left a message with Sanders that I was coming here to find you. He and Russo will be here with a SWAT team in no time.”

  I don’t know if she believed me. She just leaned against me like a little girl seeking the protection of a parent. Jo was not a little girl, and she was no coward. She was a strong, confident woman who was combat-tested on the battlefield. But no one, man nor woman, could endure what she had and not need comfort and protection. I let her lean on me as I stroked her hair.

  Outside the hole I heard the hubbub of the Werewolves forming in front of the big house. A public address system squealed and the voices died down. A man’s voice boomed out, welcoming the Werewolves. I sat Jo down in a corner of the pit, climbed the ladder, and tested the gate. It sat securely in place with little give. I climbed down and sat next to Jo as the speaker led the Werewolves in a rousing chorus of the Americanized Horst Wessel Song.

  Jo sniffed and asked, “What about Jack?”

  “Cindy’s looking after him.”

  Jo stiffened. I couldn’t see her face clearly in the dim light, but I felt the penetrating chill of her icy stare.

  “What? You left that trollop in charge of our cat?”

  I looked at her but said nothing. She stared back at me. Then we both laughed.

  The Werewolves were well into the Horst Wessel Song when we heard footsteps approaching. I motioned to Jo to stay seated, then stood and placed myself protectively in front of her. A shadow loomed over the bars, dark except for a flash of white at the face. It knelt at the pit and fumbled with the lock. A click, a scrape, and the shadow disappeared. The gate swung up. Uncertain if the man could see me in the shadows of the hole, I stepped onto the ladder and readied myself to pull the bastard in. The shadow returned, but just the head poked over the edge of the pit. Despite the murky light I recognized the face of MacIntosh’s young orderly. My legs tensed and my hands tightened on the sides of the ladder as I prepared to hurl myself at him.

  “Mr. Brandt,” the man said. “My name is Eric Nordem. I work for the man in the blue hat.”

  CHAPTER 39

  SOMETIMES IT TAKES SOMETHING to jog your memory. A sound will do it; sometimes a song. And sometimes it takes a two-by-four upside the head. Or Chase’s fist. Maybe that’s why I suddenly recognized Eric Nordem.

  “You’re the guy outside the restaurant,” I said. “You handed Tygard the newspaper with Crane’s file inside,” I said.


  “Tygard?” he said.

  “The man in the blue hat.”

  “You mean Epstein.”

  “Whatever,” I said. “You’re his mole in the League.”

  Nordem nodded.

  “If my plan works out,” he said, “in a few minutes all hell is going to break out. When it does, you and Mrs. Crane need to run toward the east fence.” Nordem pointed to his right. “That way. The man in the blue hat will wait for you there.”

  “What’s going to happen?” I said. “What plan?”

  “You’ll know it when you hear it.” Nordem reached into his pocket and removed something shiny. “Here’s your pistol. Please, don’t go shooting it off unless you absolutely need to.”

  I took the .25 and checked the magazine. It was full. I replaced the magazine and slipped the pistol into my pocket.

  “What about you?” I said.

  “With God’s blessing, I will meet you at the fence, too.”

  Nordem turned toward the big house. The singing had stopped and the man on the PA was introducing someone he called “Our Leader.”

  “MacIntosh will start his speech now,” he said. “I have to go back and launch my plan. I will lower the gate back over you, but here’s the lock. Remember, do nothing until the Werewolves howl.”

  “Howl?”

  Nordem nodded. He lowered the gate, leaned over the pit, and whispered, “Shalom.”

  Then he was gone.

  ☼

  I sat next to Jo. She hugged my arm.

  “Werewolves howl?” she said. “He’s making jokes at a time like this?”

  I shrugged.

  “Do you think he’s legit?”

  I took out the .25, jacked a round into the chamber, slipped the safety on, and put it back in my pocket.

  “You don’t give an enemy a loaded pistol—even a small one like mine,” I said. “And I know he works for Tygard. I saw him deliver Frank’s personnel file to him hidden in a newspaper.”

  The Werewolves started chanting, at first muffled and indistinct, then stronger, clearer, more forceful. “Seig Heil! Seig Heil!” The old Nazi salute, “To victory!”

  I got up, climbed the ladder, and pushed the gate up enough so I could peek over the edge of the pit. The gate was heavy, and I knew it would not be easy to lift it enough to climb out. But what I saw in the distance made me forget about that.

  Standing before the big house were hundreds of Werwölfe SS, each dressed in black, all standing in precise military formations, each formation the size of an infantry company—more than a hundred men. Some carried torches that cast an eerie flickering light across the ranks. Some carried flags bearing variations of the swastika and white supremacist icons. Before each company stood a single Wolverine, which I took to be the company commander. All of them stood with right arms raised and outstretched in the Nazi salute.

  MacIntosh stood on the balcony, illuminated by the spotlights. He wore his death head cap and held his right hand up in a casual return salute. He surveyed the formations, mouth turned down in judgment, and nodded with approval. The victory cheers subsided.

  MacIntosh stepped to the microphone, surveyed the crowd once more, and began his speech.

  “It is with a heavy heart,” he said, “that I must tell you of the loss of three of our own—our chief of security Frank Crane, and two of our Werwölfe SS.” MacIntosh let the news set in. “I can tell you, they died heroically in the service of the party. Security Chief Crane in particular, tortured and assassinated by the Jew spies of the Mossad.”

  Hisses and boos rose from the mob. MacIntosh let the jeers gain strength before raising his hands for quiet.

  “As much as it saddens our hearts, let us not forget they died bravely, fighting for a holy and consecrated cause. Because for our country there can be only two possibilities—either it remains the dominion of white Christian men as our Founders created it to be, or we lose our heritage to the mud blood of multiculturalism. We cannot allow the latter to occur. We are few, but we are a force. A well-organized group can conquer a strong enemy. If you stick close together and keep bringing in new believers, we will be victorious over the cowards who, in the name of political correctness, so willingly forfeit our birthright.”

  Applause and cheers rose from the ranks of Werewolves. MacIntosh planted his fists on his waist, puffed out his chest, and waited for the crowd to quiet. I climbed down the ladder and sat next to Jo.

  “Jesus,” I said, “the man really is a megalomaniac.”

  MacIntosh started speaking again, but I paid no attention. I held Jo and counted the minutes, waiting for Nordem to launch his plan, whatever it might be. Fifteen minutes passed, then MacIntosh paused to accept more applause. Before he could speak again, static wracked the PA speakers, then another voice came through.

  Mine.

  “And the Werewolves?” I was saying. “They’re not exactly subtle. How do they fit in with your political playacting?”

  Jo turned to me. “Peter?”

  I suddenly understood Nordem’s plan in all its brilliance.

  “Nordem must have MacIntosh’s office bugged,” I told Jo. “He recorded what MacIntosh told me about his plans for the Werewolves.”

  MacIntosh’s voice: “The Werwölfe do what they are told. They spread our gospel in the way they want to understand it. They recruit more followers. Occasionally, they performed distasteful but necessary tasks for us.”

  “Like murdering Jonathan Glasgow.”

  MacIntosh: “When needed, they take care of any political opposition. They are muscle. Obviously, in public we keep our distance from them for the sake of appearance.”

  Me: “Hired thugs—your own version of Hitler’s Brownshirts.”

  I told Jo to stay seated while I climbed the ladder, pushed up the gate, and peered over the edge of the pit.

  Me again: “What are they afraid of?”

  MacIntosh: “All of the above, of course. Individually they are frightened little boys. Together, they feel strong, invincible. Together they are Sturmabteilung—storm troops.”

  At the phrase “storm troops,” a handful of Werewolves cheered. Those of their comrades paying closer attention to MacIntosh’s words hushed them. On the balcony, MacIntosh—now joined by Chase and Sterling—frantically waved his hands, his shouted words lost in the louder words from the PA.

  Me: “And when the time comes, they’re expendable. Just like Hitler’s Brownshirts. Are you already planning your own Night of the Long Knives?”

  MacIntosh: “When no longer needed, they will be dispensed with. At least their leadership.”

  A hush fell over the Werewolves. I could see heads turning this way and that, seeking confirmation of what they were hearing.

  Me: “Dispensed with like Ernst Fromm?”

  MacIntosh: “And, like the Brownshirts who remained loyal to their leader Fromm, the Werewolves who choose to not to follow us will follow their own leaders—into the grave.”

  No longer in doubt about what they were hearing, the Werewolves shouted angry protestations that rivaled the intensity of their earlier chanting. Torches and flags bounded up and down. The recording of MacIntosh and me started up again, then cut off. Someone pulled the plug on the speakers.

  But it was too late.

  The Werewolves’ shouts deepened, angry and demanding. Someone in the crowd let go a burst of rifle fire toward the balcony. It went high and wide, but MacIntosh and the others scurried back into the big house. The Werewolves’ neat rows and columns dissolved into a mob and surged forward. More gunfire. More yelling. Torches thrown onto the balcony. Then the mob stormed the big house.

  “Time to go.” I reached out for Jo. “The wolves are howling.”

  I braced the gate against my shoulders and used my legs to lift it open. Jo shimmied up the ladder and scuttled out. I gave one more heave, then rolled over the edge of the pit, and let the gate drop back into place. I jumped to my feet, grabbed Jo’s hand, and ran toward the east fence.


  Behind us more gunfire. I turned to make sure it wasn’t aimed at us. It wasn’t. The shooting came from inside the big house. Windows flickered with the light of flames. Smoke began to pour from the same windows.

  Tygard stood just inside the fence line, waiting. He had cut a hole the size of a door in the chain-link webbing and urged us toward it. Jo and I were only feet from the hole when there was a crack and a scream. I heard Giggles twittering and Chuckles grunting. I turned. Eric Nordem lay on the ground in front of them, writhing and jerking with two electrodes stuck in his back.

  I pushed Jo toward Tygard. “Go! Go!”

  Jo called my name and started to turn around, but I pushed her again and Tygard took her by the arm. I turned and rushed back toward Nordem. Neither Giggles nor Chuckles saw me coming. Chuckles loaded another round in the stun gun and fired at Nordem.

  I dug in my pocket for my pistol. It stuck on something. I stopped and fumbled trying to get it free. Giggles finally saw me and alerted Chuckles. He grinned as he reloaded the stun gun and aimed it at me. I stared at him, still struggling to free the little automatic, wondering if I could dodge the electrodes when he fired.

  But he never fired.

  Chuckles’ face exploded in a mass of blood, brains, and bone. Giggles stared in disbelief, not understanding what happened. Then his head exploded.

  I knocked the electrodes off Nordem’s back and helped him to his feet. We stumbled toward the fence. I handed him off to Tygard and took another look at the big house. Werewolves lifted something over the side of the balcony. It was a body dressed in an SS uniform, tied to a rope by the feet. MacIntosh. They lowered two more figures from the balcony, both tied by the feet and both wearing SS black. Chase and Sterling. Werewolves outside the big house started using the bodies for target practice.

  I turned and slipped through the fence.

  CHAPTER 40

  TYGARD DROVE HIS LITTLE sedan away from the redoubt and none of us looked back. Nordem had the shotgun seat. Jo and I huddled in the back. A high-powered rifle equipped with a night-vision scope and suppressor lay between Tygard and Nordem. No one spoke for a while.