Hunter's Rain

by Julian Jay Savarin

  “Let’s see if we can get sound.” He began tapping at his keyboard.

  “We don’t eavesdrop on the citizens,” the other cautioned. “Unless we’re told to.”

  “If it is a citizen, I’ll stop.”

  “Of course you will.”

  “Look. Just let me do this.”

  The operator worked at the pulse, trying for audio. After a while, he succeeded, and Jackson’s voice came though very clearly.

  “Yes,” they heard.

  “See?” the operator crowed. “So much for the ‘citizen’.”

  “Notice anything?” the other asked slyly.

  “What? What’s to notice?”

  “Listen.”

  “No,” they heard. Then, “Yes. No. Yes. No. No…”

  It went on like that, then ended abruptly.

  They stared at each other “What the hell was that about?” the operator asked rhetorically.

  “Oh I’m out there. I really know.”

  “Comedian.”

  Müller found where Jackson had parked his car, and left the Porsche next to it. Then he and Carey Bloomfield set off to meet with Jackson. They took all the Berettas with them, including the one under the rear seat, leaving Lavaliere’s envelope in its place.

  As they walked on, the first spots of rain began to fall.

  “Look as if we’re going to get wet,” Müller said.

  “Last time I checked,” she said, “I didn’t melt in rain.”

  Hagen and his team of four – kitten out with headphones, mikes, and an assortment of weapons - were already in the forest, and homing in on an area that his briefing had given as a strong possibilty. Earlier monitoring of Jackson’s first call had also confirmed it.

  Hagen had psyched-up his team. “Remember, that this man is a highly trained soldier. Whatever you think you know, he knows better. Whatever the tricks you believe you have learned in combat, he knows them all. However good you think you are with weapons, he beats your hands down. Take no chances. Our orders are to bring him in. If he resists…”

  Hagen, a tall thin man with a hard face and sunken cheeks, had deliberately let his words hang. His eyes were like those of a marine predator; cold, and merciless, and harbouring years of grievance.

  Today, he had decided, was payback time.

  Pröll and Elland were also in the forest, and were being directed by the monitoring unit. The rain had perceptibly increased in intensity.

  “Shit!” Pröll swore. “I’m going to get my suit wet!”

  Elland laughed silently.

  Mary-Ann was also in the forest, and though like Pröll and Elland she was being directed by the monitoring unit, she was working independently.

  She had been flown to Stuttgart on an apparent business trip, and had hired a car at the airport under one of her many, solidly documented aliases. She had worn a dark wig, a soft hat pulled down over her head, sunglasses, and business suit.

  The hair was again bright blonde under the hat. The sunglasses were gone, as was the business suit. She now wore jeans, and a denim jacket. A silenced automatic was in a shoulder holster. On her feet, were combat boots. A big knife was strapped to her leg, beneath the jeans.

  The rain began to spatter her hat. She ignored it.

  Pappenheim was wondering about the continuing silence from Kaltendorf.

  “Not like him at all,” he said to himself. “He’s up to something.”

  Having earlier and satisfyingly hauled Reimer over the coals for the debacle with Mary-Ann the previous evening, he was now looking for a distraction.

  It came in the guise of a phone call.

  He had finished a cigarette and was in the process of lighting another, when the phone rang. He completed lighting the cigarette, before picking it up.

  “Fully lit, are we?” the voice said in greeting.

  “How well you know me.”

  There was a faint chuckle. “And how many of the sticks for the day so far?”

  “You didn’t call to enquire about my addiction, and it’s none of your business.”

  “Pappi, Pappi. Give it up. I did.”

  “One thing worse to a smoker, than a non-smoker; and that’s a smoker who has become a non-smoker.”

  “We are on form this unfine hour.”

  “If you’re talking about the deluge out there, brighten my day.”

  “Phone calls were tracked. Vengeful husband to kidnappers’ hideout. Would you like the location?”

  Pappenheim came alive. “Would I!”

  The contact passed on precise details of the house where Elisabeth Jackson was being held. It was over 200 kilometres from where she had been taken.

  “I think an assault team would be in order,” the caller suggested.

  “You think correctly;” Pappenheim said. “Thanks!”

  “Nice to do business with you.”

  The conversation was over.

  Pappenheim made some rapid phone calls to people he knew, using himself and Müller as the responsible authorities. Within fifteen minutes, the local force closest to where the kidnappers’ house was located and which was capable of doing so, had despatched an assault team.

  It would take them half an hour to get there. They went in without sirens.

  Pappenheim decided to call Müller.

  “And where are you?” he asked when Müller had answered.

  “Home ground.”

  “Quicker than I expected. But good you’re back. I have good news.”

  “And I have news to put hairs on your hairs.”

  “Now that, is interesting. The kind that should wait?”

  “Most, most definitely.”

  “It sounds a doozy, as an Ami cop of my acquaintance likes saying from time to time. I’ll curb my impatience till your return.”

  “It is worth it; Pappi. Pure gold.”

  “Successful foray, then.”

  “Most successful.”

  “Well, I’d better try and see if I can give you something in return. We have found the house, and an assault team is on the way.”

  “That, Pappi, is excellent news. Particularly now. How?”

  “One of my carrier pigeons. Tell you about that later too.”

  “Excellent,” Müller repeated.

  “You said ‘particularly now’.”

  “I did. We’re on our way to meet with the man in question. I have spoken with him, and he’s given us instructions. This will make his day.”

  “Then everyone will be happy.”

  “Let us not tempt fate.”

  “Let’s not,” Pappenheim agreed. “Besides, there’s always the GW. He’s never happy.”

  “Great news,” Müller said to Carey Bloomfield under the tree where they had taken shelter, when Pappenheim’s call had come. “They’ve found the house where Mrs. Jackson is being held. An assault team is on the way.”

  Her eyes lit up. “Fantastic. This is great. God. I’m so glad for him. He can go home before this whole thing wrecks his career forever. Maybe we can get him away before any of those assholes turn up; and I include Hagen.”

  “Then let’s keep getting soaked.”

  The rain was now a downpour. Blinking against it, they continued on their way.

  In the monitoring unit, the operator was twitchy.

  “Something’s happening out there,” he said. “I know it. I can feel it.“

  The others looked at him, not quite pityingly, but with some exasperation.

  Stubbornly, he kept his eyes on his monitor. Then a pulse appeared.

  “Yes!” he said with glee. “He’s making another call.”

  But only the pulse had appeared. There was no second pulse to connect to.

  The operator contacted Pröll, Elland, and Mary-Ann, and gave them new directions.

  Mary-Ann was loping her way through the forest, avoiding roads, farms and isolated buildings, and flitting between the trees with ghostly unreality. She was a wraith; an ethereal being. In the sheeting, po
unding rain, she seemed to belong there.

  There was something in her eyes. They were alive with fire, and her lips red as if she had fed on blood.

  She was on the hunt.

  But it was Jackson who had first blood.

  Pröll had split with Elland, planning to come at Jackson in a pincer movement. They had been homed onto his phone signal. Pröll could not know he was being zeroed onto a phone that was tied to a tree. The first thing he knew about Jackson’s presence, was a hard arm about his neck, and a hand bending his gun arm back far enough to break it if he struggled.

  “Move the wrong way, asshole,” he heard in his ear, “and you lose your arm just before you lose your windpipe. You won’t be able to scream with the pain of it.”

  Pröll remained very still; just before he lost consciousness.

  Jackson lowered the body carefully. He took the gun, then did a quick search. No ID. No credit card. But plenty of cash. He ignored the money and found something far more interesting: a small dagger-like knife, exactly like the type Josh had described.

  “If you’re one of the kidnappers,” Jackson said to the unconscious Pröll, “you’re in shitstreet.”

  He quickly tied Pröll to a tree, and put a thin wire about the killer’s neck. It was then secured to his bonds in such a way that if Pröll tried to free himself, he would end up sawing through his own throat.

  Jackson left Pröll’s phone on, then went into hiding to wait.

  The water from the rainfall, streaming down the tree, eventually made Pröll wake up. He was very professional and immediately understood the predicament he as in.

  He remained perfectly still.

  Elland was beginning to worry. He had heard nothing from Pröll for some time. Both were supposed to keep their phones on.

  “Pröll!” he whispered. “Where the hell are you? Pröll!”

  The monitoring unit was still giving him instructions.

  “I can’t find Pröll!” he said to them.

  “Pröll is still active. Now do your job!”

  Elland came to same point as Pröll, and stopped to gape in the rain, when he saw partner in killing. Pröll seemed to be desperately trying to say something.

  Elland stood there too long.

  “You have two choices,” he heard a voice behind him say. “Both bad. Drop your weapon!”

  Elland was fast. Very fast. And he knew it. He also knew he was not going to surrender. He whirled, gun hunting with deadly precision.

  Unfortunately, his target was not where he thought it would be. A crushing, painful blow to the right knee told his how badly he had miscalculated. His scream of pain came almost at the same time as the bark of the big Sig Sauer automatic pistol.

  “I did warn you,” Jackson said.

  “My knee! My knee!” Elland yelled in English, his accent not German at all.. “You smashed my knee, you bastard!”

  Even in the noise of the rain, both the sound of the shot, and the yelling, seemed to echo through the forest. Every droplet of water was an amplifier.

  Müller and Carey Bloomfield heard it; as did Hagen and his team; as did Mary-Ann.

  “It came from over there,” Carey Bloomfield said.

  She pointed to the edge of a lake that could just be seen through the trees, and the rain.

  “It’s started,” Müller said with regret.

  Hagen raised a hand when he heard.

  The for men with him stopped, listening.

  “Alright,” he said in a low voice. “We’re very close. Fan out. You know the drill.”

  The men nodded, and melted into the trees.

  Mary-Ann paused briefly in her fleeting rush, head slowly turning, a predator scenting prey.

  Eyes on fire, she smiled, and rushed on.

  Müller and Carey Bloomfield came to a screen of trees, through which they could see the still-yelling Elland.

  “You stay here,” he told her. We don’t know who else is out there, apart from Hagen and his crew. Watch my back.”

  Without drawing any of his own guns, he went to where Elland lay screaming.

  He walked up to the wounded man, and looked down, then up at the trussed Pröll, and back to Elland.

  “You’re in a bad state.”

  “Is that all you’ve fucking got to say? I hurt, damn it!”

  “Müller, Polizeihauptkommissar. I don’t think you want to swear at me.”

  Müller glanced up at Pröll, then again down at Elland, and saw something in their eyes that told him both men knew of him.

  Though he had nothing to go on, he decided to throw in a guess. “How’s the yachting.?”

  Both men could not help reacting. The trussed-up Pröll twitched, and Elland actually paused in his yelling.

  “Gentlemen,” Müller said, thinking of Max Gatto and his team, “I know some people who would love to meet you. And that’s only the beginning.”

  Then Elland was yelling again.

  “I think I should shut him up,” a voice said.

  “Be my guest, Colonel,” Müller said.

  There as a thumping sound, and Elland stopped yelling.

  Müller turned round and saw Jackson, in combat trousers, boots and a green vest, standing next to Elland’s now quiet form.

  “You did not kill him, I hope.”

  “Just a knockout punch. Good to see you, Mr Müller.”

  “Good to see you, Colonel, and glad you’ve killed no one.”

  “It could have been worse. That’s for sure.” Jackson held out a hand.

  They shook hands in the pouring rain.

  “Now that you’re here,” Jackson went on, “as the ranking man on this turf, I suppose I’d better hand over to you.”

  “It would be the wisest thing. Especially when you hear my news.”

  Jackson looked at him steadily. “News?”

  “We have located the house where they are holding your wife. An assault team should be there just about now.”

  Jackson turned his head up to the rain and shut his eyes. “Thank God. Thank God. Thank you, Mr. Müller.” Jackson looked down again. “I’m sorry I roped you in; but it was the only option I felt I had, given the circumstances.”

  “The circumstances, Colonel, are far more complex than you would believe. We were manipulated, you and I.”

  “I don’t quite follow.”

  “It’s a very long and complicated story, Colonel. Perhaps one day, we will talk about it over a drink. But right now, we must get you out of here, and back to your family.”

  “How pally!” a hard voice said.

  Hagen, looking triumphant, telescopic-stock M16 with 9mm suppressor held ready across his chest, strode into the small clearing. He looked at Pröll, stepped over Elland, and came to stand directly in front of Jackson. He ignored Müller.

  “Colonel Jackson, I have orders to take you back. Your condition on delivery is immaterial.”

  Jackson looked coldly back at Hagen. “Enjoyed that speech, Phil?”

  “Lieutenant-Colonel Hagen, sir! Are you coming quietly, sir ?”

  “Colonel Hagen,” Müller said.

  Hagen turned cold eyes upon Müller. The fastened briefly upon his ponytailed hair, and his earring. “And who are you?”

  “Someone who can arrestyou for carrying an assault weapon on German territory without permission. And call your men out of the woods.”

  Hagen stared at Müller as if he could not believe his ears. “What? You? Arrest me? You’re a cop? Your rank?”

  “Hauptkommissar.”

  “Well, Hauptkommissar…”

  “Müller”

  “Well, Hauptkommissar Müller, let’s get a few things straight. I am under the orders of my superiors to take this man…”

  “Colonel Jackson, Hagen. His name and rank. Or do your orders allow insubordination as well?”

  “Now look here, you…”

  “No. You look here.” Before Hagen quite knew what was happening, Müller drew the Beretta and jabbed it har
d against Hagen’s chest.

  “I’ll be…” Jackson said, staring at Müller.

  “Now, Colonel Hagen,” Müller said coldly. “I am arresting your for violation of the prohibited firearms…”

  The little clearing was suddenly crowded as Hagen’s men came out of the screen of trees.

  Jackson looked at them. “I don’t know about you, gentlemen. But I, for one, would not like to be held responsible for the shooting of a German police officer. I would suggest you all put your guns down.”

  “You will obey my orders!” Hagen snarled to his men.

  Müller’s gun was still against Hagen’s chest. He looked at the soldiers. “Whatever orders you were given, they have been overtaken by events. Colonel Jackson is returning with me. I would advise you to become no part of a diplomatic incident.”

  “I have my orders!” Hagen roared above the rain.

  Müller looked at the soldiers. “None of you look stupid,” he said. “I am escorting Colonel Jackson home. Objections?”

  The soldiers lowered their weapons.

  “No!” Hagen bellowed, and despite having Müller’s gun against his chest, still tried to bring up his weapon to bear upon Jackson. The years of resentment and envy, had caused Hagen to lose all control.

  A crunching sound forced Hagen’s mouth wide open. Blood spurted out of it.

  “Jesus, Müller!” Jackson cried, “Did you do that?”

  “No!” Müller was already diving to the muddy ground.

  Jackson followed suit, rolling for cover. The soldiers scattered.

  “Then who the hell?” Jackson hissed, looking to where Hagen, having fallen was crawling around, the blood still pouring out of his mouth.

  A second shot crashed into Hagen head. He stopped moving.