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

by Stephen Templin

  Tom leaned forward on the sofa and said, “I’m here to help.”

  Hank stormed away and punched the white stucco wall on his way out. The impact was so hard that it would’ve put a hole through drywall, but this wall didn’t give.

  “The Germans make their walls out of concrete,” Willy said, but Hank didn’t seem to hear him.

  Max faced Willy and asked, “Tomorrow can we set up surveillance on this Düster guy to find out more about him?”

  Willy nodded. “But surveillance is as far as you go. Until you collect more reliable and valid intel, and I give you the green light.”

  “We can gather more intel,” Tom said. “And find out who this Düster is for sure.”

  Max left the living room and found Hank in his room. Max waited a moment before speaking. He knew how to set up surveillance, but he asked, “How should we set up surveillance on Düster?”

  Hank looked up, and after a moment his face softened, but he didn’t say anything.

  “I’ll be in my room making sure my gear is ready.” Max left Hank and passed Tom’s room, where he was on his knees.

  “What’re you doing?” Max asked.

  “Praying,” Tom said.

  “Since when do you pray?” Max asked.

  “Since always.”

  “Waste of time, if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t ask you,” Tom said.

  “What are you praying for?” Max asked.

  “Dad.”

  Max didn’t beat a dead horse. He left Tom and used his time more productively and looked over his kit in his room.

  The hushed voices of Hank and Willy came from Hank’s room. Their voices became louder until Willy yelled at Hank, repeating the same conversation they had earlier, except this time the conversation was one-sided.

  Minutes later, Hank joined Max in his room. He was calm now. “I’d like to do a recce of the Casino Sultan and the surrounding area tomorrow.”

  “Will do,” Max said. “I’ll tell Tom.”

  30

  The next evening, Max rode shotgun while Tom drove through the wintry streets of Munich in a CIA van disguised as a Deutsche Telecom utility vehicle. It was untraceable to the United States, and vans like it were a common sight parked along German roadsides. Hank talked on his phone and sat in the back with the gear they’d purchased: energy bars, bottled water, a kerosene heater, sleeping bags, inflatable sleeping pads, a five-liter plastic bucket, kitty litter, disinfecting wipes, and other supplies. They had poured some of the kitty litter into the bucket and closed the lid, to be opened in time of need and used as a shitter. After each use, they could simply pour some kitty litter on top of their business and close the lid. People outside of the van couldn’t see in through the windows, but the Waynes could see out. They’d followed the seven Ps: Proper Planning and Preparation Prevent Piss Poor Performance.

  At 1713 hours, the van passed sex shops and streetwalkers. They stopped on Goethe Street and backed into the dirty gray slush accumulated in a parking spot. Behind them, someone had tagged the side of a building with graffiti: Cruel Odysseus. “Cruel Odysseus, is that a gang or a band?” Max asked.

  “No idea,” Tom said.

  Twenty-five meters north of their van, across the street, stood Casino Sultan. Earlier that day, the Waynes had examined the inside of the casino. On the first floor, a mix of stinky, noisy weirdos and winos sat on dilapidated chairs and played the slots. Also on the first floor was the checkin desk for hotel guests. The second floor consisted mostly of electronic table games, and the remaining four floors were hotel rooms. This part of the city smelled like the armpit of Munich.

  Hank ended his phone call. “That was Willy. He said that Vlad gave us the full name for the head of Ringvereine—Otto Düster.”

  “Stellar,” Max said. He texted the information to Young in hopes he could find out more.

  “Grub didn’t give us a first name,” Tom said.

  “He’s the man who killed Autumn—I’m sure of it,” Hank said.

  “But we haven’t made a clear connection between the Otto Düster who Vlad reported as head of Ringvereine and the Düster in the photo that Grub’s friend gave us. And Mom’s killer isn’t necessarily connected to either of these. We need to establish a clearer connection.”

  Max took out his compact binoculars. “I thought that’s what we’re doing. Right now.”

  Frustration filled Tom’s voice. “Dad is talking like he wants to snatch the guy off the street right away.”

  “I don’t think that’s what he’s saying,” Max said. Then he turned to Hank. “Are you saying you want to snatch him off the street now?”

  “We’ll make the connections,” Hank said. “We will.”

  “See,” Tom said. “Dad wants to bag and drag him as soon as he shows up.”

  Max defended his father. “That’s not what he’s saying. He said we’ll make the connections.”

  Tom shook his head.

  There was movement on top of one of the buildings—Max surreptitiously took a look with his binoculars, but nothing was there. Maybe it was a bird or something. He observed for several more minutes before he unwrapped an energy bar and ate it. He washed it down with some bottled water.

  A few minutes after 2000 hours, a purple Porsche 911 parked next to a black Mercedes in front of the Casino Sultan. A man stepped out of the Porsche. “He’s the guy from the picture,” Tom said.

  “Otto Düster,” Hank said.

  “Düster,” Tom said as if correcting him.

  Hank became cold and hard, locked on to his target. “I’d recognize him anywhere,” he said. “He’s the man who killed Autumn. I’m sure of it. After all these years, we’ve finally found the bastard.”

  Düster sauntered into the casino.

  “That black Mercedes he parked next to has been there for a while,” Max said.

  “Engine exhaust has been blowing smoke since we first got here,” Tom said.

  “Could be countersurveillance,” Max said.

  “Or an ambush team,” Tom said.

  After an hour passed, Hank fidgeted. “I’m going to wrap that sonofabitch up,” Hank burst out. “I’m going to wrap him up. I’m going to wrap him up.”

  “Calm down, Dad, and let’s do this right,” Tom said.

  “Autumn’s killer is in there,” Hank said. “The head of Ringvereine.”

  “Wait,” Tom said. “We’ll follow him after he leaves the casino.”

  “Max?” Hank said, as if soliciting support.

  “I agree with Tommy,” Max said. “I want to catch Maman’s and Charlotte’s killers, too, but let’s do it right.”

  Hank stopped fidgeting and just sat there. After a few minutes, he spoke solemnly: “You know, I thought I was alive before I met your mother. I was wrong. She showed me what living was all about. But after she died, I became a shell of who I was. All hollowed out.”

  “You still got us,” Max said.

  Hank’s body became still. “I know. For so many years, you two have kept me going.”

  Max’s phone rang. It was Willy. “How you all doing?”

  “Is that Willy?” Hank asked.

  Max nodded.

  “Put him on speakerphone,” Hank said.

  Max pressed the speaker icon. “I’m putting you on speakerphone, Willy.”

  “What is it?” Hank asked.

  “Called to see how y’all are doin’,” Willy said.

  “You mean how I’m doing,” Hank said suspiciously.

  Willy paused. “That, too.”

  Hank softened his tone. “I’m doing fine.”

  “Good,” Willy said. “I just want to say—”

  Max spotted Düster first, exiting the casino. “There he is.”

  “I see him,” Tom said.

  “I’m sorry, boys.” Hank went for the door.

  “Wait, Dad,” Max said.

  “No, Dad, don’t,” Tom said.

  “Don’t follow him on this, boys!” Wi
lly shouted.

  “Can’t let him go this alone,” Max said before hanging up on Willy and pocketing his phone. He rushed out the door. Tom’s footsteps beat the street behind him.

  Düster stopped at the driver’s side of his purple Porsche, and he drew his keys from a pocket. Now Hank was ten meters away from Düster.

  Max followed at a brisk pace. He tried not to draw attention to himself, but his dad was moving too quickly.

  Hank was five meters away from Düster. Düster looked up at him and fumbled his keys. Hank closed the gap and grabbed him.

  Bang! A bullet struck behind Max. He twisted in the direction of the gunshot. He tried to spot the shooter, but the shooter was gone.

  Tom bumped into Max from behind, almost knocking both of them off balance. A bird squawked and flew away, and a delivery truck whipped past them. Streetwalkers, weirdos, and winos cleared out. Max should’ve cleared out, too, but he had to protect his dad.

  Max ducked behind a parked blue compact car, and Tom took cover behind a sporty white sedan.

  Bang! The windshield of the blue compact car blew out, missing Max. Bang, bang! The shots drilled the blue car again—it was clear he’d become the main target. Pedestrians and people with shopping bags scattered away from the gunfire. “Maybe it’s only one shooter,” Max said.

  With all the shooting focused on Max, Tom took the opportunity to return the love. He spun around the back of the white sedan and blasted twice. Five shots answered him, and he retreated to cover behind the vehicle.

  “Big brother knows best,” Tom said sarcastically. Bang! A bullet struck the car near Tom’s head. Bang!

  While the shooter pinned down Tom, it freed Max to move. He leaned around the tail of his car and spotted a husky armed man on the roof across the street. Max shot at him twice, but the man ducked. Max ran at a crouch to the purple Porsche to help Hank.

  Tom came, too.

  Düster lay in a pile of slush with his hands behind his back and his mouth gagged. Hank yanked Düster to his feet and said, “Let’s get in the casino and out of this kill zone. We’ll find a way out there.” He pushed Düster toward the casino.

  Two shooters appeared on the rooftop across the street, and Max and Tom shot at them, giving Hank cover fire. The two shooters ducked.

  Max followed Hank into the casino, and Tom followed. Max was only two steps inside when five shots obliterated the glass doors. The shots sounded from inside.

  “Damn it,” Hank cursed. He pushed Düster behind a ratty couch and used it for cover.

  Max and Tom flipped a table to use as a shield, knocking a basket of waxed fruit off it. Hotel staff and guests scampered out of the way and hid. Gamblers abandoned their slot machines except for one elderly gentleman who played on as if he were deaf and blind.

  More shots fired.

  This time Max pinpointed the direction they were coming from. He and Tom popped out from behind their shield and fired at three shooters. Hank fired, too. Two of the men jerked before dropping behind slot machines. The third guy fell out of sight, too.

  Düster shouted something, but mumbling German with a gag in his mouth made him incomprehensible. Through all of it, Düster still held his car keys in his hand.

  Hank snatched the keys and said, “This is our ride out of here. Max, take us out and give us cover fire, and Tom cover our asses. I’ll drive.”

  “Okay,” Max said.

  Tom nodded.

  A police siren sounded from afar.

  There was a blur of movement behind the slot machines.

  “Go!” Hank said.

  Max leaned out of the hotel and scanned the rooftop. He saw two men, and shot at the taller one. He went down, but the other shot at Max, striking the wall next to him and puffing debris in his face. Max returned fire—twice—and the shorter man dropped. There hadn’t been much time to aim, and Max wasn’t sure if he hit either of them, but they weren’t shooting, and that was a good thing.

  Max sprinted to the Porsche. A shot came at him from another rooftop, and Max exchanged fire on the run. Footsteps sounded behind him—Tom—he fired on the run, too.

  The police siren grew louder.

  Shots hit the Porsche instead of Max. He spotted a gunman wearing a darker jacket than the others, and he was on a different rooftop. Max took a fraction of a second to line up his shot on the man’s chest and pulled the trigger. Bang! The shot actually hit the man in the gut, and he pulled his hands toward his belly and his body doubled over, out of sight.

  Then Max spotted a gonzo shooter on a different roof, and Max fired once—twice—the second shot got him, and Gonzo’s hands flailed as he fell back.

  A single crack reported from a second-story window across the street, and Düster stumbled to his knees before Hank opened the back door of the Porsche and stuffed him in the back seat. Then Hank threw open the driver’s door, took the wheel, and started the engine. Max sat next to him, and Tom jumped in back next to Düster.

  “He’s shot,” Tom said. “Düster is shot.”

  Hank backed out of the parking spot. “What goes around …”

  Max reloaded.

  A police car rolled onto Goethe Street to their rear, but gunfire hailed down on it as if its flashing lights and siren announced target practice. The police car slid sideways on the icy road, blocking the Waynes’ retreat.

  Hank slammed on the brakes and swerved, but he hit the squad car with a loud metallic crack! Max’s back sank so deep into his seat that he thought he’d cracked his spine. The airbags popped and the Porsche’s engine died. Hank tried to restart it, but it wouldn’t turn over.

  The shooting stopped.

  “Düster is dead,” Tom said.

  “Leave him,” Max said. He noticed a man with a pistol sneaking through the ground floor of a strip club, moving in their direction. Another booger eater positioned himself on the roof of a Turkish travel agency.

  “We’re sitting ducks in this car,” Hank said.

  “Armed men coming through the café beside us,” Tom said.

  “Head for our van—ready?” Hank asked.

  The van was only ten meters away, which might as well have been ten kilometers, but if they stayed where they were, they would surely die.

  “Go,” Max and Tom replied in unison.

  Max unassed the Porsche—gun blazing. He took out the booger eater on the roof, then he waxed the dude in the strip club. Tom capped the men in the café, and Hank cleaned two more off the casino rooftop. Max, Tom, and Hank advanced five meters toward the van, but they had five more to go.

  Police sirens wailed from across town. The cavalry was coming, but they weren’t coming fast enough.

  In spite of the ferocity with which Max and his family fought, they were outnumbered and outgunned. Max couldn’t hear his own pistol over the fiery roar of his enemies, and it made him feel tiny. A round struck him in the hip with the clank of a baseball hitting an aluminum bat. Another hit Tom in the shoulder, and he winced.

  Max pressed the last meter to the van. Two men carrying AK assault rifles, approximately the same age and height as Max and wearing civilian clothes, came at them from opposite sides of the street—Ice and Duck from the Club Grace in Stuttgart. Ice aimed at Tom, and Duck aimed at Hank. Tom and Hank were so busy defending themselves against threats from above that they couldn’t protect themselves against threats from below. Max only had a split-second to save his brother or his father but no time to save both. He didn’t want to make the choice, but if he didn’t choose, he’d lose them both.

  Max decided—he pulled the slack out of his trigger as he aligned his sights on the head of Tom’s attacker. Bang!

  Ice’s head spurted crimson and bone, and his head flopped back. Tom hopped into the van. Max shifted his aim to Duck. Hank’s upper body recoiled as if he’d been shot in the chest, and Duck zigzagged in a tactical retreat behind a parked car.

  Hank struggled to open the side door of the van. Two men on the roof gunned for him. Max�
��s finger slapped the trigger and popped the first gunman on the roof, but the second one fired. Then Max dropped the hammer on the second gunman.

  “Get in, get in!” Tom cried.

  Hank had opened the door, but he had trouble getting in.

  Max pushed Hank into the van. The back of his jacket was wet and sticky—he’d been shot in the back, too. Hank crawled on the floor of the van then curled into a semi-fetal position. Max jumped in with his father and slammed the door shut. Bullets pecked the van like a flock of angry woodpeckers. Max used his body to cover his father like a shield against enemy bullets. “Go, go, go!” Max shouted.

  Tom dispensed with backing into the street; instead, he drove forward onto the sidewalk. He accelerated between buildings on one side and parked cars on the other.

  Hank wheezed. “After all these years, we finally got him.”

  “You did it, Dad, you finally got him.”

  A smile spread across Hank’s face, and the creases in his forehead smoothed.

  “Dad, are you okay?!” Max asked frantically.

  “Dad?!” Tom cried out.

  Hank’s eyes were open, but he wasn’t moving.

  The pit of Max’s stomach plunged through the deck and kept going. He put a hand on Hank’s neck to check for a pulse and put his cheek to Hank’s mouth and nose to feel for breath. He looked at his chest to see if it rose and fell. There was nothing. He administered CPR. It was like trying to hold a handful of sand and not letting one grain escape. He clenched the handful more tightly. Mentally, Max floated outside of his body and watched himself try to save his dad.

  Time slowed. Max remembered the thrill of the first time shooting with his father at the Marine Corps range. After Maman died, Dad moved Max and Tommy to Maryland and took them to Adventure World, where they rode down a log-flume roller coaster called the Typhoon Sea Coaster. Dad gave him his first knife, a Marine combat KA-BAR with a seven-inch blade, and when Max couldn’t find a can opener, he opened it with his knife. The three visited the nation’s capital, and Max marveled at the giant statue of Lincoln. There was the summer day when Dad let Max goof off instead of mowing the lawn. And the cool autumn evening that the three of them reclined on the hood of his vehicle and looked up at the twinkling stars—not saying a word. In the winter, they roasted marshmallows over the fireplace. Dad wasn’t around much during their teen years and missed Max’s high school graduation, but even though he’d wanted Max to become a Marine, he found a way to attend Max’s graduation from the Navy’s Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training. Dad looked proud enough to pop. Years later, at Langley when Max received his CIA spy diploma, Dad sat in the auditorium with a Mississippi grin.