“Yes,” Nicky said. “The affair with Pierre, our traitorous embezzler, was business. But this American, Marcel…someday, when I find him…it will be my very distinct pleasure to disembowel him while he’s conscious.”
Just as Marcel was about to reply, Napoleon perked up and growled. He was staring at the rise to the north, the hackles on his back standing on end. Marcel turned, seeing a dull glint on the hillside. It came and went.
Nicky massaged the dog’s neck. “What is it, Napi?”
***
Through the scope, Gage could see the dog staring in his direction, his posture indicating aggression. He watched the two men’s reaction, and he knew that the over-alert dog had gotten some sort of inclination that he was here. It couldn’t be his scent, could it? No, Gage decided, not over a distance as great as this. He had shifted slightly when the dog had turned, and then Gage realized that the sun was nearly out in full force, for the moment, as a break in the scattered clouds had appeared.
It was the lens of the scope.
The Walther’s scope was at least thirty years old. A fine scope by shooting standards, the lens had been manufactured prior to the arrival of technology that dampened the reflective properties of the glass. The new scopes didn’t reflect light; this one did. Gage tilted the rifle to the right, making certain the lens’s angle to the sun was too great to be reflective. But when he moved it, it created one more glint of light.
There! Marcel saw the light flash again, and this time Napoleon barked loudly. He stared at the hillside as Nicky resumed his game. Scanning to the left and right, Marcel focused on a location at the highest point of the knoll. Is there a dark shadow there in the blowing weeds? A shadow in the shape of a man?
He lit a cigarette and turned his attention back to the skeet field. Occasionally, though, his eyes would flick back to the hillside.
***
Metz, France
Captain Damien Ellis had decided to come back to Metz alone. Since he and Sorgi were running the investigation themselves, Sorgi was better off back in Frankfurt. He could do more good with the department’s resources at his fingertips than if they were both in the field with no backup and no intel.
“Okay, General Halpin, let’s see if you’re right,” Ellis whispered to the scenic city that spread out before him.
A temperate day, he rubbed a sheen of perspiration from his forehead as he stepped to the front of the Police de Metz station, staring into the anteroom where he had been so rudely treated just a week before. He was prepared for some give and take. In order to get whatever information he could about the men Hartline/Schoenfeld might have come to seek his revenge against, Ellis planned to take Officer Lloren back to the book store and clue him in to what he thought had likely happened. He was even considering relating the story of his first sighting of Gage in the hotel lobby, and how he felt the two incidents were related due to the mention of diaries. It was his only card, and he intended to play it.
Ellis stepped inside, knowing a senior detective like Lloren would probably be off duty on a Sunday. He hoped they would either call him in or give him his address.
“Afternoon, I’m trying to find Officer Lloren.”
“And who should I say is here?” asked the desk sergeant in good English, eyeing Ellis curiously.
“Captain Damien Ellis, U.S. Army CID. He’s working today?”
“Oui.” The man stood and disappeared down the hallway. Ellis waited for ten minutes before Lloren emerged from the back. He was definitely perturbed by Ellis’ presence.
“Inspector Ellis, what a surprise,” he said monotone. “I thought we were done with each other.”
Ellis gave him a pinched smile. “Yes, well, after I returned to my unit, I put some things together that may help you in the investigation of the missing shop owner, and I was hoping that—”
“The owner is not, and never was, missing. We have several reports of his boarding a ship in the Mediterranean last week, sailing off to God knows where. He was deeply in debt and had reason to flee.”
Ellis wrinkled his nose. “What do you mean reports? Hard evidence, or just testimony of people who can be bought off with a nickel-bag?”
Lloren exhaled impatiently. “Inspector Ellis, please excuse my mood, but I haven’t the time or the patience for this today, on my weekend. We have had an extremely unusual situation occur and all manpower is needed at the moment. We’re not a very big force, you know.” Without a smile or handshake, Lloren turned and opened the door.
Ellis was considering what he had just said and, before the door could close, he reached through and grabbed Lloren by the sleeve, somewhat roughly, spinning him around. “Wait a minute. Just wait. What is it that happened?”
Lloren tried to pull away, his nostrils flaring as he stared at Ellis.
“Sorry,” Ellis said softly. “Humor me, please.”
“A fire, Inspector Ellis, a fire. At first just a simple tragedy, but after the fire officials went in, it appears to have been a double homicide,” he answered, glancing down at his captive sleeve.
Ellis could barely breathe, his heart audibly thumping his eardrums. “Who were the victims?”
“Two men. Small-time criminals, Monsieur Ellis, just like in the U.S. We have them here, too.” He tried to leave again, but Ellis held firm.
“Just one more thing, Detective Lloren. Were these just simple criminals, or part of a criminal group or gang?” he asked, remembering what Kenny Mars had said about a French mafia.
Lloren’s eyes narrowed. “They were low-level members of an organized crime group, and both had lengthy records. These types are always tough to pin down, working in their own little world. It appears they may have gotten what was due to them, yes? Now, if you will?” The French policeman disentangled his arm and sauntered down the hall as Ellis held the door open. After a few seconds of thought, Ellis called out.
“What is the name of this organized crime group, Officer Lloren?”
“Glaives du Peuple: The People’s Sword,” he answered without turning, disappearing behind a row of file cabinets.
Ellis said the name to himself two times before stepping through the lobby and back onto the street. He walked to a roadside stand, ordering a Coke and a hunk of chocolate which he ate on one of Metz’s many benches overlooking a small park. Chewing slowly, he sat there, almost catatonic. His mind, however, was moving rapidly.
It was entirely possible that his suspect, Gage Hartline (as he still thought of him), had exacted his revenge and was now done and gone. Ellis munched the chocolate and stared at a fountain as he tried to think like a man seeking revenge. Lloren said they were small-timers and, if they were the ones who had come to Germany and killed Monika Brink, they would doubtfully have been acting on their own. Just to track someone like they did, especially someone who would likely be as savvy as Hartline, would take tremendous resources.
Ellis shoved the rest of the chocolate in his mouth and held down his speed dial.
“Hey, sir, you got something?” It was Sorgi.
Chewing for a moment, he was finally able to swallow the delicacy. “I have no idea how you spell this, but I want you to do some searches for a French crime group named Les Glaives du Peuple.” Ellis spelled it for him as best he could. “Find out all you can, as quickly as you can, and call me back.”
“Right-o, sir.”
He leaned back on the bench and swilled his Coke, relaxing a bit since the wheels were in motion. His mind wandered to Rose, and how she would have enjoyed this view. Experiencing France on a warmish late fall day, with the promise of a nice dinner and gentle cuddling on a comfortable bed. To hear her laughter and to feel her touch, the memories of her welled up inside Damien Ellis, causing tears to run down his face as he sat there feeling sorry for himself.
And then she would bop me over the head for getting mixed up in all this mess, he thought, laughing out loud and killing the sadness in a way that would have made Rose proud.
His
phone vibrated on his hip.
“Whatcha got?” he asked in a tone that told Sorgi not to chitchat.
“Took me a few minutes because of the spelling, but finally I was able to get their name through Google. They’re the second-largest group in France behind the Unione Corse, and it looks like they might be the more violent of the two.”
“High points, Jim,” Ellis said with his eyes closed, trying to summon patience.
“Okay. They mostly control eastern and northern France, all of Alsace, and some of Paris. Deal in sex trade, drugs, gambling, basically the whole spread of illicit activities you would expect.”
“Boss?”
Ellis heard Sorgi punching keys on the computer. “Uh, yeah. He’s rumored as Nicholas ‘Nicky’ Arnaud, forty-two years old. They’ve got his picture here with Gotti, Bracco and all the other mobsters of the world. He looks like a fat little lizard.” Sorgi hummed as he read the screen. “Says here that he is rumored to be responsible for over one thousand deaths, but remains so insulated that the cops can never pin anything on him.”
The cops can’t, Ellis thought, but a motivated special operations killer sure can. “Where’s he based out of, Jim?”
There was a long pause and more keystrokes. “Hang on. I need to pull up INTERPOL.”
“Do it,” Ellis said, and waited silently for ten minutes as he could hear the sounds of Sorgi typing and searching.
“Found it!” Sorgi finally yelled. “Arnaud lives in Paris part-time, but his main residence is in a place called Sur Marne, in Château-Thierry. Says he hunts on the surrounding grounds.”
Ellis was up and walking to his car. “Where is that?”
Sorgi tapped more keys on the computer. “Go like you’re heading to Paris and, halfway between where you are now and Paris, you’ll find Sur Marne as an area of a larger town called Château-Thierry. What’s going on, sir?”
Ellis was jogging. “I’ll call you back once I’m moving, but I think I may have something here.” He hung up the phone and ran as fast as he could.
***
While Nicky’s presence sickened him, Marcel had to admit that he was in his finest shooting form on this day. After having scored twenty-one on his first evolution, an excellent score for most anyone, he was now a perfect twenty-two for twenty-two in his second round. All that remained was a high and low shot from the eighth station, and if he were to go two for two on those, he would only need to hit one final low shot for a perfect score. Marcel stood behind Nicky, not uttering a sound, hoping beyond hope that Nicky would hit all three. Knowing Nicky, if he did, he would drink himself into a stupor and pass out early. Then Marcel could cancel the Paris trip, actually relax, and maybe even visit his occasional lady friend back in Metz.
Nicky was about to call for the clays when he stopped and turned. “Perfection, Marcel…it’s within reach.”
“Don’t talk about it,” Marcel chastised. Nicky had never scored a twenty-five and, like any sportsman close to a perfect score, the last thing he should do is discuss it at a critical time.
Nicky made a disapproving face at his advisor, pulled his ear protection back on and resumed his firing position. “Pull!”
The high throw spun the clay over Nicky’s head. He tracked it, nailing it dead center and sending fragments flying. Then from his right came the low throw. Marcel winced as Nicky took too long to pull the trigger, following the clay as it passed its zenith and began to fall back to earth at the edge of the shotgun’s range. Nicky fired. The clay didn’t shatter, but the very edge of it did break off as the highly scattered shot barely made contact.
Any contact resulting in breakage is considered a clean hit.
Marcel exhaled. One shot to go.
Nicky turned, smiling triumphantly. Marcel nodded, silently praying that this final shot would be a success. It was to be from the same station, eight, and a low shot. The same as the previous one Nicky had barely hit.
As he loaded two more rounds, Nicky turned, his face taut. “This is a low throw, Marcel.”
Marcel nodded. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Nicky took a deep breath and turned, shaking his body as if to loosen himself. He readied. “Pull!”
Marcel pressed the button, watching as the arm spun the clay into the sky. Just as Nicky acquired the clay and began to track it, Napoleon erupted into more loud barking, his eyes to the north of the field. Even with ear protection, the barking caused Nicky to tense and, in a panic, he took a shot at the clay, missing it as it as the disc spun into the distant grass untouched. It was not a perfect round, but Marcel was more than ready to allow a do-over considering the interruption.
Nicky whirled around, spittle erupting from his lips as he seethed with anger. The dog was still growling at the hill. Nicky yanked the shotgun back up into firing position.
“No!” Marcel yelled, dropping the remote and lunging for the barrel.
It was too late. Nicky pulled the trigger, expending the second shell and shooting the dog at a range of five meters, sending him tumbling backward as Marcel watched in horror.
***
Gage watched the entire scene. He cinched the rifle in tightly, preparing to put a bullet into Nicky Arnaud’s right eye. The man in the blue suit had lunged at Nicky, but the bastard had gotten off the shot and nailed the dog at nearly point-blank range. The crosshairs of the scope were on Nicky’s head before Gage adjusted them downward.
“How about a groin shot?” he mused in a whisper.
Confused at exactly what to do, Gage elevated the aim to Nicky’s midsection and prepared to fire. He would have to kill the other man as well...Gage hesitated, taking deep breaths. This isn’t the way, not from a distance.
He swallowed thickly, watching the commotion.
Pull the trigger, one side of his mind said. No! the other side yelled. Not yet.
The last time Gage’s intuition kicked in like this, two children had died.
Just as he began to put pressure on the trigger, he paused again, making himself rationalize.
An anonymous assassin’s bullet is too good for that sicko, Gage thought, rage assaulting his every fiber. A man needs to look that bastard in his eyes when they kill him. To pronounce judgment against him. To witness his pain and suffering, and to revel in it.
And I’m that man.
Gage took deep breaths, watching the man in the blue suit as he yelled. Twice more Gage pulled the rifle to his face. Twice more he laid it down.
“That bastard,” Gage muttered over and over.
Finger on the trigger, he resumed his surveillance.
***
Napoleon took the shot without a whimper. Gamely, he struggled back to a standing position, limping across the lawn and laying down in the high grass on the far side of the shooting area. He began to lick his bloody legs.
“Stupid fucking dog!” Nicky snarled as he ejected the spent cartridges and snapped the Beretta shut.
Marcel was incensed. After yelling at Nicky he was now simply drained, bent over with his hands on his knees. He gestured to the fatally wounded animal he so loved. “Nicky, at least put the dog out of his misery. He’s bleeding heavily.”
“No, and don’t you touch him either. Let that damned mongrel lay over there and feel my pain until he dies.” Nicky tossed the warm Beretta to Marcel and walked into the house.
Marcel turned to look at the dog that was his only real joy when he was at Nicky’s compound. He was quiet now, his chest heaving as he stretched his ravaged body into the high grass and awaited death. Marcel jerked his head back to the house, considering all the things Nicky had done in their time together. All of the killings, the sexual assaults, the beatings, the verbal abuse—the man was out of control.
He petted Napoleon, murmuring words of comfort to the dog.
As he walked back inside, Marcel wiped a rare tear from his left cheek.
***
Gage held the Walther on Nicky as he walked across the lawn and onto the porch. He applie
d several pounds of pressure as Nicky neared the door, but at the last second—perhaps his final chance at a clean shot at Nicky—he released his finger from the trigger and simply stared at the man, seething. He would wait.
Nicky Arnaud deserved to see his personal death coming. Needed to feel it. Needed to taste it.
Gage wanted to see the fear in that bastard’s eyes. He wanted to smell Nicky’s piss as he lost control of his body when he realized there was someone alive more ruthless than he.
Now Gage just had to get to him.
***
Twenty minutes later, while Nicky showered, Marcel retrieved a snub-nose .38 from Nicky’s unlocked gun cabinet. He walked outside, crossing the lawn to where Napoleon had lain. The sun was nearly down and he was afraid he wouldn’t find him, but he hadn’t moved. He was right where Marcel had last seen him.
His body a bloody mess, Napoleon lay panting raggedly in the grass, looking upward at Marcel with his one good eye. Marcel leaned down and patted the dog gently. He was too far gone to be helped. His skull, eye, chest, and left leg were shattered beyond repair. But even in his pain, the dog licked Marcel’s hand in gratitude for the final visit.
Choking back tears, Marcel patted him one final time. He stood upright, aimed the pistol at the dog’s head and put him out of his misery. Then he wiped his eyes and went back into the house.
And Gage Hartline, who was nearly ready to advance, watched the entire scene.
Chapter 13
The hill was steep between Gage’s vantage point and Nicky’s house. It reminded Gage of the terrain in California, a place he had trained many times. Dusty earth and high scrub brush. In the dark, any fall could result in a serious injury.
The house was surrounded by a stucco wall that was nearly eight feet high, topped by a single strand of concertina wire. He negotiated the rough slope, dodging rocks, and now stood at the base of the wall, staring upward, a sliver of moon aiding his vision. The clear night sky allowed the warm day to dissipate rapidly, making the night quite chilly. Puffs of breath erupted in front of his face while he determined the best way over the wall. As Gage did a mental walk-through of what he planned once the wall was negotiated, he didn’t think a motion detector should be a concern since the mobster owned a dog—or once did. After five hours of surveillance, Gage had seen no other people, no other animals, so it was a chance he would have to take.
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