by Chris Lowry
Then she peered through the scope, tracking the edge of the slope in the distance.
A figure topped the slope and whisked down in a spray of snow. It was followed by another skier, both in bright pastel colors that were requirements in the back country. It would be easier to pick out a body against the snowy white backdrop in case there was an accident.
Maddie tracked the first skier in his powder blue jacket. She noted the pattern he was cutting, a four count breath as he held a line, one, two three, four, turn and then again.
She confirmed the count with two more twists in the snow, then counted down with him as she watched through the scope. Her finger tightened on the trigger.
The skier turned and she pulled. Poof.
He sprawled in the snow and kept sliding.
She sent another shot through the bobbing head as it bounced across the snow pack.
Maddie rolled away from the ridge and grabbed her pack. She sprinted back down the trail, disassembling the rifle as she ran and tossing parts into the woods off the path.
She skidded to a halt just before the break in the trees around the pool and seductively swaggered toward the pool.
“Did you miss me?” she smiled at Brill.
Her fingers unzipped her jacket and let it fall. They moved to her shirt and pants as she left a trail of clothes to the rocks and slid in beside him.
“Excruciatingly,” he sighed as he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Brill crawled out of the hiker's tent and stretched. The sun had yet to crest the mountain behind them, but light filtered through the shallow valley next to the steaming springs.
“Coffee,” said Maddie as she stood next to him and wrapped her arms around his waist.
“I packed a French Press,” he answered. “Put on a kettle while I pack our gear.”
They broke camp as they boiled water and made two steaming cups of coffee which they sipped while sunlight dripped over the ridge and washed through the trees.
“Did you enjoy yourself?” she asked.
He reached for her hand.
“We should take more trips like this,” she continued.
“Plan it,” he winked.
They rinsed out the cups, packed up and hiked down the trail.
A mile later he stopped and raised a hand.
“What?”
He raised a finger to his nose, and drew her off the trail.
Footsteps marched up the steep trail toward them. Three Austrian soldiers slogged up the trail, rifles held in their hands.
“It's just soldiers,” she said and stepped back on the trail.
The three men stopped. They didn't raise their rifles, but tension lined their faces. The leader of the group was Hans, the man on point. His face was young, barely out of his teens and he licked his lips in a nervous habit.
“Papieres, bitte,” he asked.
Maddie reached into her pocket and pulled out her passport while nodding to Brill.
“They want our papers.”
Brill handed his documents over.
“What are you doing here?” Hans continued in German.
“We found the hot spring and spent the night,” she answered flawlessly.
She cuddled her arm through Brill's and pulled him close. He watched the exchange with alert eyes.
“It is not permitted to sleep the night.”
“Who said we slept,” she answered.
The two young soldiers behind Hans snorted and giggled.
“Have you seen any others?” asked Hans as he handed their papers back.
“We haven't.”
Hans studied Brill for a moment and something made the hairs on his neck stand up.
“Do you speak German?” he asked.
Brill shook his head. Hans watched them both for a moment, but they looked like a young couple in love out for a hike.
“No more nights here,” he warned.
Maddie flashed a brilliant smile.
“Thank you,” she said.
She led Brill further down the trail. The soldier's continued the climb up.
“What was that about?” Brill asked, glancing over his shoulder to watch the three young men disappear over the ridge.
“I have no idea,” she shrugged.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Tourists descend on every part of Paris like schools of piranha in a feeding frenzy. The West Bank held a special place in their hearts with echoes of Hemingway and Fitzgerald sounding in the shadows. Artists followed, young people hoping some of the magic in the atmosphere would somehow leech through their skin. They competed with tourists for space in the small cafe's and sidewalk bistros during the day and evening.
Morning was the best time for locals or the few Parisian visitors in the know. Before the buses vomited visitors onto the cobblestone streets, before the hotels stopped serving warm croissants and giant mugs of au lait.
Brill sat on one side of a small table and stared at the outline of Notre Dame. Foster was across from him, a delicate cup near his hand.
“Are you going to tell her?” he asked.
He studied Brill carefully.
“Would you?”
Foster smiled and took a sip, careful not to spill any coffee onto his white pinpoint cotton shirt.
“I'm not the man to ask son. I'm working on wife number three.”
“Do any of them know?”
“As far as the world knows, I manage investments.”
Foster waved one finger over for the waiter to bring a refill.
“Not bad work, if you can get it.”
“She might not understand. It's not like I'm saving the world.”
Foster nodded.
The thing about working with a man in this line of work for more than a year, you get to know them.
When he found Brill in Africa, the boy was a stone. He had all of the skills, he had the requisite brutality, and he had killed before, many times. It was in his eyes.
Foster was the sculptor, taking tool to rock and chipping away everything that was unnecessary to make a work of art.
No, they didn't save the world in the usual fashion. There were no capes, no treaties, no daring heroics into burning buildings. He couldn't even lie to himself about what they did.
They killed people for money. He tried to steer them toward killing the right people, but a moral compass could point in any direction for enough cash. He didn't even bother to try and fool himself with any other platitude.
“No, we don't save the world,” he sighed.
The two men smiled at each other across the table and said at the same time.
“Pays great though.”
Brill perked up and Foster felt his pulse quicken. The man sitting across from him was a predator and scented prey. He pulled a few Euro's out of his pocket and set them on the table.
“My treat,” he said as he stood.
He took a large overcoat from the other chair and draped it across his arm. He reached into a shoulder holster and pulled a silenced pistol out, hid it under the coat.
“Don't tell her. We live in a different world, you and me.”
Foster turned, and as he turned he pulled the trigger twice.
Across the street, a rotund man with a wispy blond woman on his arm pitched forward and collapsed. The woman screamed as the man leaked blood on the cobblestones.
Brill jumped up with the crowd.
It was easy to tell the heroic hearts from the sheep. People ran in two directions, some for cover and away from the noise. Others ran to aid the fallen man.
“You may be right,” Brill said.
“You'll see,” Foster answered.
Brill moved with the crowd in one direction while Foster slipped away in the other.
There would be no tourists on this street today.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The Ballroom was packed with beautiful people in Armani suits and couture gowns. They spun
around the small dance floor in front of a tuxedo clad orchestra led by a small man bouncing a baton and smiling over his shoulder at the swirling couples.
The room was dark, pools of spotlight casting harsh shadows, the tables lit by candles and wall sconces dimmed to pinpricks.
Brill marched through the crowd, eyes scanning as he moved. He slid between the tables and couples, avoided contact as he moved like a predator through the herd.
He caught sight of something in his periphery and paused as he glanced over. There was Maddie, leaning across a table and laughing softly into the ear of a man in a white tuxedo jacket.
Brill turned and angled toward the bar as he tried to stay out of her line of sight. She turned away from the table and he rolled into the bar. He could see her in the reflection of a small mirror set above the glassware.
A young pretty bartender hurried down to him.
“What can I get you?”
“Bourbon,” said Brill, his eyes locked on the mirror. “Three fingers.”
She poured the drink and slid it to him. He held the glass to his lips but didn't sip.
Maddie moved to the next table, put her hand on the shoulder of the man and bent down to whisper to the woman. Brill caught sight of another man moving through the crowd. He is impeccably dressed, with a rim of silver gray hair and groomed beard.
Brill watched the man reach his table and grab a well endowed young woman by the arm. When he jerked her out of her seat, there was almost a show as everything rolled around and threatened to spill from her top.
She glared at the man but he ignored her.
Brill swallowed down his drink and set the glass on top of the bar with a twenty dollar bill underneath.
He glanced at Maddie, waited for her back to turn, then pushed through the crowd again. He made the foyer before the bearded man and the girl.
He leaped across the counter into the coat check room, and spun as he landed.
“Take a break,” he said to the coat check girl.
“You're not supposed to be back here,” she warned as she backed away.
“I slipped,” said Brill.
“I'm getting the manager,” she shouted.
Brill held a finger to his lips. She fumbled for the doorknob and tried to yank it open. He stubbed it closed with the toe of his polished shoe and grabbed her wrist. Twisting gently, he directed her to the floor.
“Sorry about that,” he whispered as the Bearded man walked up with a haughty air.
“Get in the car,” he slurred to his companion and shoved her toward the door. He tossed a claim ticket down on the counter and glared at Brill with bleary eyes.
“I'm in a hurry.”
Brill reached for the ticket as the Bearded man turned his head to watch the girl leave. Brill kept reaching until he grabbed his lapel and yanked him across the counter top.
He dragged the man into the coat room and pressed a silenced H&K into his chest. The man landed with a plop and Brill thudded two slugs into his chest.
He vaulted over the counter and walked through the door.
As it closed behind him, he heard the gurgling scream of the coat check girl echo through the foyer. It sounded just like a woman with a dead man's head in her lap.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
A standoff is pretty standard in the world of espionage and it usually ends with both parties backing off or backing down. If every encounter ended with a shootout, there wouldn't be anyone left alive, or worse create a series of cascading grudges and revenge hits.
There are two ways to react in any standoff situation. Hold your ground until the other guy blinks, then magnanimously allow everyone to holster their weapons and get down to business. Or wait for a distraction and take full advantage.
Brill preferred the distraction method.
The bus tilted slightly as Scooter stepped on board.
“How is he up?” he called from the front of the bus. He fumbled with the AK-47 strap, struggled to bring it to bear.
Brill drew and shot the rifle out of his hands. Scooter yelped and held both hands high above his head.
“Holy crap man!” he screamed.
“What is it with you people!” Brill shouted at him.
He waved everyone back with his gun. Blood leaked from his shoulder as he moved and he leaned against the bed trying to stay up. Ron showed him her hands, palms out as she stepped closer.
“Who are you dude?” she said in a soft voice. “I mean, if you're not a spy for the Federales, you have to be a mole for the US. You shoot like Quick Draw McGraw.”
Brill cracked a tiny smile.
“I watched that when I was a kid,” he grunted.
“Want to trade secrets?” Ron said as she took one step closer. “We tell you, you tell us?”
Brill glanced at the scarred rifle resting on the bus floor.
“None of my business,” he said.
The bus tilted again as another member of the Commune shoved his lanky head into the door.
“Federales!”
Scooter followed him out as the camp exploded in activity, like an ant hill kicked over. People ran around, grabbing weapons and supplies and hightailed it into the jungle bush.
“I told you not to trust him,” mumbled Enrique.
Brill stuck his pistol into the waistband of his pants.
“Not mine,” he said. “You were followed.”
The group of people surrounding him looked anxious to run, but even more afraid he would shoot them in the back if they made any sudden moves. They knew how fast he could draw.
“Move,” he commanded. “Move!”
Dana scrambled for the exit, as Ron leaned back to let her pass. Enrique stopped by Brill and growled.
“I won't forget.”
“Take it up with you later, Rique,” Brill smiled.
Enrique shoved past him and bent to grab the fallen AK.
“Leave it,” commanded Brill.
Enrique glared as he left the bus and ran into the jungle.
“Are you with them?” Brill asked Ron.
“What are you going to do?”
He checked the clip in his pistol.
“Think I could talk my way past them?”
A half smile played across her luscious lips.
“You don't know where you are.”
“I didn't think so.”
He bent over to scoop up the AK and collapsed with a groan. Ron grabbed him and helped him sit up.
“You're not so good at the talking,” she teased and helped him to his feet. “Are you going to be okay?”
“This? It's just a flesh wound,” he said in a fake British accent.
She smiled and half carried him out of the bus.
Overhead an ancient Huey Helicopter buzzed over the treetops as it circled the clearing. A solider on an M50 leaned out of the open side and raked the jungle with bullets.
Ron stopped and reached for Brill's pistol. He leaned away, raised the AK and shot the helicopter motor. Smoke poured from the engine cowling and the chopper whirled away with a high pitched whine.
“We need to move,” she said and dragged him toward the thick undergrowth.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Maddie sat back in her chair with the phone pressed to her ear. She nodded twice.
“I understand,” she said into the receiver.
She pulled it away from her ear and slammed it into the phone base so hard it cracked in half. She spun her chair around and stared out of the window.
The skyline was beautiful, a collection of silver skyscrapers that towered over the green verdant landscape. Mountains blurred the horizon and she glared at those in particular, hating the way remembering made her feel.
She slowly turned the chair back to the desk and reached into the drawer. Maddie pulled out a Glock 17, checked the magazine and chamber.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Foster sat across from Wallace and stared. No matter what anyone said, the man could eat. He had a plate f
ull of two burritos, three tacos and a tamale. He ate like a man who learned chow from the Army, hunched over his plate, each arm in a circle in a protective perimeter. The right arm shoveled, the mouth chewed. At least he kept it closed.
One of the things Foster detested were poor table manners, which were so abundant in the parts of the world where he operated, it made him perpetually queasy. It helped him stay thin.
“You better watch your figure,” he warned. “A man in our business has to keep fit.”
Wallace shoveled a forkful of burrito into his mouth and chewed methodically. He swallowed and patted his trim stomach.
“I've got a fast metabolism.”
“So did I,” Foster sighed as he let the man focus on his food.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Brill and Foster stood across from each other in a narrow unlit doorway. The street beyond them was dark thanks to three well placed and silenced shots from Brill's pistol. They wore matching dark overcoats against the chill night air, and to help blend into the grime covered brick of the buildings.
“Do you want to know what they do in there?”
“Does it matter?”
Foster reached under his coat and extracted a backpack. He held it out to Brill by the straps.
“We counted nineteen under an hour ago. No one has came nor went. Want some help?
Brill opened the backpack and pulled out two silenced pistols. He worked the slides and checked the mags. Each was full with one chambered.
“Thirty two,” he said. “No problem.”
A truck pulled into the far side of the street, headlights washing across the walls. They ducked further back into the doorway.
Brakes squealed as the truck crunched to a stop in front of a doorway up the street.
Six men climbed out of the truck and shuffled up the stairs. They were dressed in what Foster referred to as gangster leathers, the ubiquitous black leather coat that left them formless and shapeless, enough to cover their weapons.
