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

by Stephen Templin

  “We need to get out of here before Vlad’s thugs or the police show,” Max said.

  “Ready,” Tom said.

  “Lead us out,” Hank said.

  Max hopped on his snowmobile and accelerated over the virgin white powder. He circled the mountain clockwise. In the distance, a handful of hamlet lights sparkled.

  Willy’s voice came over the radio. “Alpha, Whiskey, I hear your engines, over.”

  Hank’s voice was tired, but he could still keep up with the wolf pack: “Whiskey, Alpha, give me a sign, and I’ll identify, over.”

  An infrared strobe, invisible to the naked eye but visible in the NVGs, shone.

  “I see an IR strobe,” Hank said.

  “That is correct,” Willy said. “Go to the strobe.”

  Max steered toward the IR strobe. “Going to the strobe.” He was careful to avoid the occasional tree on his way. The pulsating IR light became bigger and brighter until Max could make out a couple of SUVs, from one of which the signal glowed.

  “I see you at fifty meters,” Willy said.

  “That is correct,” Hank said.

  Max continued at full speed.

  “Twenty-five meters,” Willy said.

  Max dropped the throttle down to half speed.

  “Ten meters.” Willy emerged from the truck with the IR strobe. Two men stepped out of the other SUV. The engines of both trucks were running, their exhaust pipes smoking.

  Max stopped in front of Willy, and the IR light shut off. Willy walked over to Tom and pointed to Vlad. “This him?”

  “Yep,” Tom said.

  Willy motioned for the two men to load Vlad into their vehicle. Max checked on Sonny. The wound hadn’t bled through the bandage, and the bleeding appeared to have stopped. Good. “What happened to Sonny?” Willy asked.

  “Wounded in action,” Tom said.

  Sonny was stoic. “Just a flesh wound.”

  Willy examined the leg. Then he pointed to the van with the two men and Vlad. “My guys will get you to a doc and patch that up.”

  “Is that it?” Sonny asked, dejected. “Is this all there is?”

  “With your leg like that,” Willy said, “I’d say this is it for you—until you’re healed. We’ve got more work to do.”

  “Wish you were going with us,” Max said.

  “Thank you, Sonny,” Hank said.

  Sonny put on an air of humility: “Only doing my job.”

  Max felt a special kinship with Sonny’s childlike zest for life—he hardly knew the man, but Max was going to miss him. He gave Sonny a slap on the shoulder. “Hope we get to shoot together again. And party.”

  Sonny winked at him. “Be careful what you wish for.”

  “Thank you, Sonny,” Tom said.

  Sonny fist-bumped Tom. “Go, Army.”

  Tom smiled.

  “Whatever,” Max said.

  Hank rolled his eyes.

  Max and Tom tried to help Sonny to the van, but he waved them off and boarded the van on his own.

  Willy got into his SUV and fired up the engine. Hank plopped down in the seat next to him. Max and Tom gave a final wave to Sonny before taking seats behind Willy and Hank. Willy put the SUV in gear.

  Max looked over his shoulder. The other SUV carrying Willy’s two men, Sonny, and the HVT followed. Beyond them sat three snowmobiles in the snow.

  When they hit the main roads, the SUVs split up, and Sonny’s headed in the direction of Munich’s international airport while Max’s made its way toward Munich.

  During the two-and-a-half-hour drive, Max cleaned up, changed into civilian clothes, and was debriefed with Tom and Hank by Willy. After the debrief, Max was too full of adrenaline to crash, but Tom fell asleep.

  Hank slouched in his seat as if worn out, not moving a muscle. His phone vibrated. He slowly took it out and read the caller ID. Max snuck a peek; the caller was Grub. Hank put the phone on speaker and asked, “Is your line secure?”

  “Mine is,” Grub said. “Is yours?”

  “Mine is secure,” Hank said. “Did you receive the payment?”

  “Yes. But I need more.”

  “I’ll need more information.”

  “I have more information, but this time the payment is double.”

  Hank took a deep breath. “You’ll have to give double to get double.”

  “This is more than double,” Grub said.

  “Explain.”

  “I have a friend who knows the head of Ringvereine, who is also the Alabama shooter you’re looking for.”

  Max’s ears perked up. Maman’s killer—the man responsible for Charlotte’s death.

  Hank sat up straight in his seat. “What’s his name?”

  “My friend doesn’t want to give his own name.”

  “No, who is the Alabama man who is also the head of Ringvereine?”

  “I don’t know,” Grub said. “My friend has that information. Can you be in Stuttgart, Germany, in two days?”

  Hank paused. “I think so.”

  “Good. Go there, and I’ll give details later.” Grub ended the call.

  “Wait,” Hank said, but the line was dead. “Bastard.” Hank put his phone away.

  “Mmm,” Willy said disapprovingly. “Grub sold out Blade so he could dominate the local counterfeit and forgery markets. I understand that. But he didn’t give us anything more. Now all of a sudden he’s giving us intel leading to the head of Ringvereine—who’s also the Alabama shooter? Why the sudden change of heart?”

  “He wants the money,” Hank said. “If the intel is legit, we’ll give it to him.”

  “I don’t like it,” Willy said.

  “Why not?”

  “I already told you. And when it comes to the matter of finding Autumn’s killer, I can’t trust your judgment because your judgment stops being your judgment—you stop thinking straight.”

  “I am thinking straight.”

  Willy sighed. “We’ll see.”

  Max supported his father, but he kept quiet. He’d let his family down when he accidentally killed Blade, but capturing Vlad filled Max with a feeling of redemption—gave him a clean slate. He wouldn’t let his family down again. Determination filled him to take down the men who killed Maman and Charlotte.

  27

  The fog of war was replaced by foggy weather, and although Max was relieved to be out of the former, the latter made him uneasy. Maybe Willy was right—maybe Grub was stringing them along for some evil purpose.

  Willy drove through the fog into Munich, near the Perlacher Forest.

  Max attempted to shake off his discomfort and enjoy the ride. “This area reminds me of the World War II POW camp that Steve McQueen tried to escape from in that movie,” he said.

  “The Great Escape,” Willy said. “It was filmed here.”

  “Small world,” Max said.

  Hank puffed out his chest and said, “In real life, Steve McQueen was a Marine.”

  Tom was awake now. “Wasn’t such a great escape. McQueen and others were captured, and fifty were executed.”

  Max scowled. “Thanks, buzz kill.”

  They cruised through a neighborhood where the houses weren’t built to appear similar, contrasting with the uniform homes of American subdivisions. Houses in this neighborhood were big and small, new and old—all of them well kept. The driver pulled into the driveway of an unadorned white home with simple gold trim around the door and window frames on the first floor, and black frames around the windows on the second floor. Like many of the homes in this neighborhood, it had a high sloping roof. This was an Agency safe house.

  The driveway had been recently shoveled, leaving only a light dusting of fresh snow. Willy followed it around back to a detached two-vehicle carport where a black Mercedes was parked. Evergreens surrounding the property gave them additional privacy. Willy parked the vehicle near the back door, and Max and the others got out.

  Willy unlocked the door, and they passed through a small kitchen before parking th
emselves on IKEA furniture in a small living room. No one else was around, and the place looked clean. Willy flicked a switch. “This is to warm the floor,” he said.

  Max was impressed.

  Willy answered his phone, even though Max hadn’t heard it ring. “What?”

  Max tried to overhear the conversation, but Willy mostly listened with a serious look on his face. Then he returned his phone to his pocket.

  “What was that about?” Hank asked.

  “Our captive financier is already talking,” Willy grumbled. “Gave up the name of Ringvereine’s head honcho—Düster.”

  “Why the grumpy face?” Hank asked. “That’s great stuff.”

  “Düster is such a common name in Germany,” Willy said. “And the other information he’s giving us is general in nature.”

  “It’s better than nothing,” Max said.

  “You guys get some rest,” Willy said.

  “How about you?” Max asked.

  Willy still looked grumpy. “I’m always resting.”

  Like vampires, Max and his crew slept during the day and hunted at night. In the evening, Willy drove them in the black Mercedes two-and-a-half hours out to Stuttgart to get a feel for the place. Willy said, “The German officer who attempted to assassinate Hitler was from Stuttgart.”

  “Tom Cruise played him in the movie Valkyrie,” Tom added.

  “That kraut was a hero,” Max said.

  Much of Stuttgart covered hills and a riverside, and inside the city, Willy passed modern buildings and a tenth-century castle. Man-made structures and nature and the new and the old seemed equally at home here. The people were a mix of ethnicities, and their clothes appeared neat and clean. They drove newer cars that seemed cared for. In addition, the streets were smartly laid out and without litter.

  “Stuttgart looks more in harmony than Vienna turned out,” Max said.

  “It ain’t all peaches and cream,” Willy said. “Last year in Stuttgart, on New Year’s Eve, there were twenty-two sexual assault complaints of perpetrators described as appearing of Arab or North African descent. An Iraqi asylum seeker was detained as part of a group who sexually assaulted two girls.”

  Hank joined the conversation. “That was tame compared to thousands of sexual assaults throughout the rest of Germany, mostly in Cologne—twenty-four rapes. The media didn’t cover it until the outrage on social media blew up and they had to cover it.”

  Max became angry. “They can’t get laid, so they gang-rape girls—what’s their problem? And the news media tries to cover for them?”

  “It’s called taharrush jamai,” Hank said.

  Max had heard the Arab phrase for “group sexual harassment” that occurred in some countries, but he hadn’t heard details.

  Hank continued: “An inner circle rapes the women while an outer circle protects the rapists and pretends to help. Sometimes the rapists insert sticks or knives into the women’s vaginas. A number of the attackers organize online. For the women, it’s called the ‘circle of hell.’”

  “These rapists are women haters—sexist at best,” Willy said. “In their twisted world, it’s a way to keep women in the home.”

  “Then the women suffer shame, not the rapists,” Tom said. “In Egypt, they raped Lara Logan, a reporter for CBS News and 60 Minutes, but were never caught.”

  Max felt sorry for the women, and he’d heard enough. “Let those sons of bitches try to gang-rape me; I’ll give them a circle of hell to remember.”

  Willy passed cars, taxis, buses, railways, subways, and the Neckar River. “Lots of transportation choices for getting in and out of Stuttgart. Multiple pedestrian ins-and-outs, too. And you’ve got our military base to the southwest—they don’t know we’re here, but if you get in a giant pickle, you can seek refuge there.”

  Willy stopped near a train station and picked up train passes that were good for subways, too. He returned to the car and gave each Wayne a pass. “This will save you time screwing around with money and tickets,” he said. Max put his in his wallet.

  Willy wrapped up the tour and left Stuttgart. Just before they arrived at the safe house, Hank’s phone rang. He put it on speaker and answered.

  “My friend will meet you tomorrow night at 2000 hours,” Grub said. “At the Club Grace in the Spielbank Stuttgart on Plieninger Strasse 100.”

  Hank pulled paper and pen from his pocket. “Say again. I need to write this down.”

  Grub repeated the time and address. “Bring a copy of this month’s ADAC Motorwelt magazine under your left arm. My friend will do the same. Sit down next to him at the bar.”

  Hank continued to write. “What’ll be the verbal bona fides?”

  “What?” Grub asked.

  “The recognition phrases.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Tell your friend that I’ll say, ‘This is my first time here, how about you?’ Then he’ll say, ‘No, I’ve been here before.’ Did you get that?”

  “I got it,” Grub said.

  “Say it back to me so I can make sure,” Hank said.

  “Just a moment,” Grub said. It was quiet for a moment until his voice returned. “Can you repeat that?”

  Hank gave him the verbal recognition signal again, and Grub repeated it to him.

  “If there’s danger,” Hank said, “either of us can scratch his stomach to let the other know.”

  “If danger, scratch stomach,” Grub repeated. “The information you want will be in the magazine.”

  “Tell him to put his magazine on the bar, and I’ll do the same. When we pick up magazines, we’ll pick up each other’s.”

  “Got it,” Grub said. “One more thing.”

  “What?”

  “You have to come alone.”

  “I’ll bring a friend,” Hank said.

  “No, he was very clear,” Grub said. “If there’s more than one person, he won’t do it.”

  Hank said nothing.

  “I mean it,” Grub said.

  “Okay,” Hank said, “I’ll go alone.”

  “I have to hang up now.”

  “I’ll see your friend tomorrow night at 2000 hours at the Club Grace.”

  Grub hung up.

  “What’s a Spielbank?” Hank asked aloud.

  “A bank?” Max asked.

  “What bank is open until eight at night?” Tom said. He searched his phone. “Says here that spielbank means ‘casino’ and strasse means ‘street.’”

  “Dad, you did the last meet with Grub,” Max said. “Now it’s my turn. You and Tom can run countersurveillance.”

  “Tomorrow morning we can pick up the Motorwelt magazine,” Hank said, “then drive out to Stuttgart for a recon of the casino.”

  Max tried to lighten things up. “Do magazines still exist?”

  28

  In the morning, Max was calm about the mission. Willy drove them to a local shop to pick up the magazine before he drove out to Stuttgart to familiarize them with the casino area for the night’s mission. They surveyed the surveillance detection routes (SDR) they’d take, possible escape routes, and got a general feel for the place. Max studied how the people dressed and carried themselves so he could blend in.

  Then Willy returned them to the safe house to make final preparations.

  Now Max became anxious. The anxiety was normal—it energized him to prepare as best he could. Max burned off the pre-mission jitters through thorough preparation.

  By evening he was ready, wearing a suit and carrying a concealed Austrian Glock 19 pistol on his hip. His German automobile magazine rested on his overcoat, folded neatly beside him on the sofa. He sat still and took long, deep breaths and let them out nice and easy. His body and mind became serene.

  Tom arrived wearing a suit and carrying an overcoat. He took a seat on the couch, too. Then Willy and Hank, also in suits and wearing overcoats, entered the living room. It’s time.

  Max and Tom stood and put on their overcoats. They stepped out into the cold night an
d hopped in the Mercedes. Willy put the vehicle in drive and did an SDR between Munich and Stuttgart. When he was sure they were clean, he drove into Stuttgart and dropped Hank and Tom off at a bus station. Then he deposited Max at a subway station.

  Max’s serenity was short-lived. As soon as his feet hit the pavement, his heart began to pitter-patter. In his peripheral vision, he watched people in car window reflections. He descended the steps into the subway station and used his peripheral vision to see who was behind him. He exited the other side of the station and hailed a taxi, which he rode alongside Porsches and Mercedes-Benzes past designer shops to a mall, where he walked inside and continued his SDR. Still, no one followed him—as far as he could discern. He left the mall through the movie theater exit and walked across the street. His heart rate increased. His breathing became shallow and quick, and he was losing control of it, so he pulled on the reins and breathed in hard and long. Then he exhaled hard and long, too. He maintained the rhythm as if he was swimming.

  He strolled past a limousine parked in front of the high-rise that housed part of the Hotel Dormero and the Spielbank Stuttgart. Max glanced at his watch: 1858 hours. He was über-prompt so he could check for anyone setting up an ambush on him. He strolled into the crimson hotel lobby. The building housed an Italian restaurant, a pub, and other shops in addition to the club. He passed casually dressed customers at the slot machines and entered the semiformal atmosphere of the Club Grace as if he were a longtime customer.

  The interior of the club was black with blue and white lights. Blue and green bottles shimmered behind the bar. Across from the bar were green game tables, and in the lounge area at the end of the club, people gyrated under lights that pulsated to the beat of the DJ’s music.

  Tom sat at the bar stool nearest the exit, and he pretended not to notice Max. Tom disliked gambling and wasn’t a drinker either, so he was probably drinking a virgin something-or-other—he could be such a party pooper sometimes. But he was Max’s go-to as a designated driver. Tonight was a working night, and Max would have to stay sober, too. He wondered where his dad was.

  Most of the customers at the club seemed like they belonged and were having a good time. If someone was there for purposes other than clubbing, Max had a hard time spotting him. He kept his German automobile magazine rolled up in the inside pocket of his suit jacket, hidden until the appropriate time—he didn’t want to give away his position early.