Assassin's Sons: [#4] A Special Operations Group Thriller

by Stephen Templin

  In the early days, the brothers’ main income came from extortion. When someone couldn’t afford to pay them, they accepted favors or property. That was how they’d obtained the nightclub, which they promptly renamed and upgraded to be like the Copacabana in New York. When gambling in Germany became privatized, they incorporated roulette wheels and other gambling tables into the Honey Badger. Again, when a person couldn’t afford to pay his debts, Düster and Junior accepted favors or property. However, the twins spent money rip-roaringly, and they allowed criminal buddies to rack up substantial debts. When they ran short of cash, branching out into the terrorism business helped balance the books. With the decline of ISIL, the books might not stay balanced for long, but Düster always found a way to have his orgy of delights and make others indebted to him.

  “You’re my angels,” Mother said.

  “Oh, Mom.”

  A studly young waiter brought a bottle of wine and a pair of wine glasses. “Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Düster.” Each of the waiters was ogle-worthy, handpicked by Düster. For the gay customers, some waiters doubled as male prostitutes. Then one of Düster’s men might videotape a customer and prostitute, so the twins could use it later for blackmail.

  “Evening,” Düster said.

  “Good evening,” Mother said.

  “Your brother sent this with his regards,” the waiter said before opening the bottle and pouring it.

  Düster and his mother looked over at a nearby table, where Junior and his stabbingly beautiful girlfriend, Sveta, sat close to each other, smiling and waving to them. It angered Düster to see how happy they were, but he didn’t know why it angered him. Mom forbade them to fight each other, so he had to direct his anger elsewhere.

  Mother rushed off to their table and began chattering away.

  Düster shifted his gaze to a random man nearby, who happened to be joking with his pals. Düster walked over to him and said quietly. “What’d you call me?”

  The man was still smiling. “Pardon?”

  Düster moved in closer. “You called me something. What was it?”

  The man stopped smiling, took a step back, and his voice quivered. “I didn’t call you anything.”

  Düster grabbed a handful of the man’s shirt. “Do you know whose place you’re in?”

  “Yours and Junior’s.”

  Düster continued to project the calm before the storm. “That’s right. We’re the kings.”

  The man broke loose and stumbled away—through the exit. Düster followed him out into the night. He stomped through dirty black and gray slush and gained on the man. Footsteps sounded from behind, and Düster glanced over his shoulder to see Junior following them. Friends of the man, several Ringvereine men, and some men Düster didn’t recognize spilled into the parking lot after them.

  The man turned and drew a gun on Düster.

  The others stood and watched, but Junior stepped forward. Düster motioned for him to back off. Düster burned his gaze into the man and quietly growled at him: “Shoot me.”

  “I don’t want to shoot you,” the man said.

  Düster took a fighting stance as if it were a boxing match. The gun didn’t scare him. “Come on, shoot me.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Because you’re weak,” Düster said.

  The man’s hands trembled as he continued to aim his pistol at Düster.

  Düster laughed. The man seemed uncertain how to react, and then he laughed, too.

  Düster’s tone softened. “Let’s act like grown-ups and get along. Let’s forget about this, okay?”

  The man’s nervousness receded, but he still pointed his pistol at Düster, who maintained his eye lock on him. The man seemed uncomfortable with the quiet staring, but Düster persisted. Finally, the man gave in and holstered his pistol.

  “Good.” Düster twisted the handle of his sword cane until it clicked. “Best not to scare people. And that weapon is illegal.” Then Düster drew his sword and pointed it at the man. Of course, Düster’s weapon was illegal, too.

  The man stepped back until the building behind him blocked his retreat, and he shielded his face with his hands. “Why, Düster, why?” he pleaded.

  “Take your hands away from your face,” Düster said calmly and firmly.

  The man continued to protect his face.

  “Take your hands away,” Düster said.

  “Why?” the man wheezed.

  “Just take your hands away from your face and I’ll tell you why.” When he didn’t do as he was told, Düster grabbed the man’s pistol hand and pinned it to the wall. The man struggled to free his hand, but Düster didn’t budge, and the man reached for his pistol with his off hand.

  Düster pressed his sword horizontally between the man’s lips and held it there.

  The man pulled his pistol out of the holster, but he fumbled it and the weapon struck the asphalt with a dull thud.

  “You were laughing at me, and now you’re going to laugh forever,” Düster said. He used both hands to press the sword deep between the man’s lips, as deep as he could press it. Then he cut sideways. Blood shimmered off his blade under the streetlights. The man screamed.

  Düster released him, and the man collapsed, eyes closed and a fresh Cheshire grin on his face. Düster smiled back and wiped his bloody sword on the man’s clothing before sheathing it. Then he took several steps toward the club.

  Junior walked with him.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Düster said. “With Blade dead, we’ve lost our ship passage to America, and we’ll only be able to bring in half the men we planned. But we don’t need a ship ride to attack the US embassy in Berlin during their Christmas party. And we can do it with half the men. Each year, America’s top business leaders in Berlin, German business leaders, politicians, diplomats from various countries, and others attend. We’ll blow them all up. The party is on the same day that we planned to set sail for America. We can shift targets without shifting our schedule. It’s not the attack I’d hoped for, but it’ll accomplish a similar purpose.”

  “Well, how do you like her?” Junior asked.

  “What?”

  “Sveta.”

  Düster was bisexual, but women seemed to fear him more than men, and he had better luck with men. He wanted to bang Sveta. Or kill her. He wasn’t sure which. “She’s blood stirring.”

  Junior gave a grin. “You know you could have a woman like her—if you weren’t so scary all the time.”

  “You know you could be stronger if you were scarier,” Düster said.

  “I’m scary enough. I want Sveta, too.”

  “I’m not scary enough. I want to be scarier. I want to be feared around the world. Bombing the US embassy during their Christmas party and killing so many international diplomats and businessmen will strike fear around the world.”

  Junior’s grin broadened.

  Düster’s phone rang. It was the assistant coyote. Düster stopped walking and answered it. “Are you using the encrypted phone?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good,” Düster said.

  “I’ve transported the twelve jihadis from Syria to Turkey. Now we’re travelling to Greece.”

  “Excellent,” Düster said.

  “There’s one thing,” the assistant coyote said.

  Düster became irritated. “What?”

  “I only received IDs and counterfeit money for six men to enter Greece.” Greece was an EU country and upon entering they’d have free passage through the other EU countries.

  “Yes, about that,” Düster said. “Blade is missing. The police raided his apartment, rescued a kidnapped man, and confiscated IDs and counterfeit money. There will be no more IDs or money. There has been a change of plans. Get rid of the six men who don’t have documents—they’re no good to us now.”

  “Get rid of six men?” the assistant coyote asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How would you like me to do that?”

  Düster
thought for a moment. “Transfer the six with documents to another vehicle. Then cover the truck’s ventilation and abandon the truck somewhere.”

  “Let the undocumented six suffocate in the truck?” the assistant coyote asked respectfully.

  “You heard me the first time. Kill them, and then come to Berlin with the documented six.”

  22

  “The black BMW behind us has been following since we left the hotel,” Max said.

  “Two cars behind us,” Tom said.

  Hank turned north on the Autobahn Fourteen. “Is it still behind us?” he asked.

  The BMW dropped back further but continued to follow. “Yes,” Max and Tom said.

  “I’ll make sure,” Hank said. He slowed and turned into an OMV Tankstelle, an Austrian gas station. The black BMW passed them and kept going. After a brief pit stop, the Waynes were on their way again.

  Sophia studied something on her phone. “I was looking at Nebelhorn, a mountain with a ski resort. From the top, you should be able to get a good look at Vlad’s estate.”

  “How far is that from the hotel we’ll stay at?” Max asked.

  “Less than a ten-minute walk,” she said.

  “We don’t all need to go and stick out like turds in a punchbowl,” Hank said. “Max and Tom, why don’t I drop you off at the resort, and you two can go up the mountain and do a recce. Then Sophia and I can check into the hotel and arrange for a new car. The one we’re driving now has Swiss plates—better to have German plates for Germany.”

  “Changing vehicles is a good idea,” Tom said.

  “Okay,” Max said.

  Two hours after leaving their hotel in Liechtenstein, they arrived in Oberstdorf, Germany, where a church spire rose from the city’s center. Hank dropped Max and Tom off at the edge of town near a gondola lift that ran two thousand meters up to the top of the Nebelhorn.

  Max and Tom rode the gondola partway up the mountain, passing over a forest of frosted firs. Beginners skied down gentle slopes that wound through the forest below. The gondola reached the first station, called Seealpe. The brothers got off, boarded the lift there, and rode further up the mountain. Instead of trees below them, there were ski jumps and other obstacles that skiers and snowboarders tried their tricks on. At about two thousand feet, Max and his brother transferred to the next lift at Hofatsblick Station. An elderly couple and young skiers joined them. As the lift took them higher, the city of Oberstdorf behind them became smaller. The elderly couple across from Max kissed. Good for you, Max thought. The young skiers beside Tom and across from him chattered away at each other. Below, skiers and snowboarders flew down steep slopes.

  At the top of the mountain, everyone exited the gondola. Max and Tom stepped across a wooden deck that snow swept across. They passed the Gipfel Restaurant and stopped at the edge of the observation deck. A pair of small, shiny black crows with yellow beaks and flame-colored legs danced on the handrail as if begging for scraps.

  “These birds flew pretty high to get here,” Max said. “How high can a bird fly?”

  “Some cranes fly over the Himalayas when they migrate. That’s about thirty-three thousand feet.”

  “A crane?” Max said in disbelief. “I’ll bet a vulture flies higher. Those bloodsuckers fly so high that we can’t see them, but you can be sure they see us.”

  “You got a thing for vultures?”

  “They’ve got no taste in food. I hate ’em.”

  The elderly couple approached, so Max looked around for a more private place where he and Tom could do the recce and discuss it.

  “Up here,” Tom said. He led Max up a snowy trail to the tip-top of the mountain where, mounted in the rocks, stood a Christian cross that was taller than the brothers.

  Max looked out over hundreds of mountain peaks that made up this part of the Alps. He pulled out his phone and examined the satellite map on it, Vlad’s location in particular, and oriented his phone map to the real world. After he located Vlad’s mountain, he switched from his phone to pocket binoculars. Then he adjusted the focus. Vlad’s estate was two stories tall, sitting on top of a little plateau. The second story included a spacious outdoor observation deck, but no visible guards. Outside the first floor was a guard shack with a man in it and a tram on a private aerial tramway, the only apparent way of transport up and down the mountain. At the bottom of the mountain, where the tramway’s cables ended, there were several guards. A small road led away from the mountain through a valley for a little over five hundred meters, where a guard outpost with armed guards and SUVs were posted. Three hundred meters further was another outpost with armed men and SUVs. Beyond that were half a dozen snowmobilers who looked like they were out having fun. “You won’t believe this,” Max said. He handed the binoculars to Tom and switched back to viewing the map on his phone.

  Tom took a look through the binoculars. “Most of the security is in the valley. We’d have to get through both outposts and the guard at the foot of the mountain and somehow make Vlad’s men lower the tram to take us up to the estate. That’s just to get in.”

  “On the map there’s a place called Snowmobile Tours where those snowmobilers are. Wish we could take snowmobiles around the outposts in the valley.”

  “We’re just going to stop by in the middle of the night and rent some snowmobiles?”

  “Who says we have to rent them?”

  “Snowmobiles would be cool, but they’re too noisy, and snowmobiles aren’t going up that mountain. We’ll still have to make Vlad’s men lower that tram so we can get up to the estate.” Tom handed the binoculars back.

  Max put his phone and binoculars away. “We could parachute drop on the estate, snatch Vlad, and take the tram down.”

  “It’d be best to have two assault teams: one team to neutralize the outposts in the valley and the guard at the foot of the mountain. And a second team to parachute onto the mansion, grab Vlad, and bring him down the mountain.”

  “We’ll need more men.”

  “Langley won’t approve more men,” Tom said, “especially for a covert op in a NATO nation. If the op goes sideways, it’ll be an international incident.”

  Max blew out air in frustration. He hiked down to the observation deck. Tom followed, and they hopped onto the gondola lift. This time only the two of them were passengers.

  As they descended the mountain, Tom asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “Huh?”

  “What’s wrong?” Tom asked again.

  “Nothing’s wrong.”

  “Ever since Liechtenstein, you seem different.”

  “I’m still me,” Max said. “I’m still a man.”

  “You seemed to like Emma, even if just a little, but after she died, all you talked about was gingerbread houses. Something’s wrong.”

  Max struggled to be patient. “I like gingerbread houses. I only get to eat them this time of year. And I don’t know when I’ll get another chance to taste one in Liechtenstein. Or if I’ll ever be in Liechtenstein again.”

  “Sometimes it helps to talk about things, but when you don’t talk about things, I worry. Same with Dad. I worry about him, too.”

  Max became irritated. “Talk is overrated.”

  “I just want you to be happy.”

  “I’m happy not talking.”

  They rode the gondola down the mountain in silence. With each section of cables, the wintery village of Oberstdorf grew larger and larger. As they neared the bottom of the mountain, Max broke the silence. “We need to hack into Vlad’s telecommunications, too.”

  23

  05 Days

  Shades shut out most of the light in Düster’s living room while he sat on his black leather sofa smoking and thinking. The only light in the room came from the YouTube menu on his TV, but he wasn’t watching any videos; he was angry about whoever was responsible for Blade’s disappearance. One of the young waiters from his club lay stoned on the leather love seat; his glassy eyes reflected the light of the TV screen.

&
nbsp; The phone rang. Düster looked at the caller ID—just a phone number, but he recognized who was calling—Udo Pfeiffer. Deep down inside, Düster was anything but calm, but he answered calmly in German. “Who is this?”

  “Pfeiffer, sir. I heard you wanted to talk to me.”

  “Yes. After Commander al-Iraqi’s disappearance, Blade has gone missing, too. And so are the IDs and money for six of my men. Now my plans are half as grand as they used to be.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about that,” Pfeiffer said.

  “On the other hand, since Blade’s disappearance, you seem to have picked up more business. I’d like to ask you for help, but you’re not as talented as Blade, and it’s too late, anyway. But I would like to ask if you happen to know anything about Blade’s disappearance.”

  Pfeiffer’s voice sounded nervous. “I don’t know what happened to him. Is there some way I can help?”

  “Tell me your code name,” Düster said.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Well, I think you do,” Junior’s voice said.

  “Ohh!” Pfeiffer shouted. “You’re here in my apartment, Düster. You scared the hell out of me.”

  “Junior is there in your place now, isn’t he?” Düster asked.

  “Oh, I thought he was you. I didn’t know he was here until now.”

  “I know. Tell him hi for me.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Tell Junior, hi.”

  Pfeiffer’s voice cracked. “Hi, Junior.”

  “Why don’t you put me on speaker, so my brother can hear, too?”

  There was a brief pause. “Okay, it’s on speaker.”

  “Good,” Düster said. “Now tell me your code name.”

  “My code name?” Grub asked.

  “Your code name,” Düster repeated.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Crrack! It sounded like Junior hit a home run with his cane, and Pfeiffer screamed. “My knee,” he cried. “My knee. I don’t know. I don’t know what you want from me.”

  “Just answer my question.”

  Crrack. The phone made a knocking sound as if it had been dropped. “Ohee!” Pfeiffer shouted. Then he whimpered, his voice far away. Then his voice returned to the phone. “My code name is Grub.”