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

by Stephen Templin

  “Not yet. I thought maybe he told you.”

  “Not yet. Probably still making arrangements.”

  Tom pointed to the lounge area with a view of the river. “We can hang out in the lounge and stay warm while we keep an eye on the river until the shipment arrives.”

  Max strolled over to the lounge and took a seat on a sofa. Tom sat with him.

  Caterers brought food and beer kegs into the auction hall. When they finished laying out over a hundred tables, they set the tables with linen and tableware. Outside on the pier, the fishermen had finished unloading their catch and drove away.

  Max had become warm and unzipped his jacket. “Thought I’d be happy to get Maman’s killer, but I didn’t know how much it would cost us, and now the hole in my heart is a sinkhole.”

  “Me, too,” Tom said.

  “You know, I’m not doing this to save anyone or doing this for my country; I’m doing this for Dad.”

  Tom stretched out his long legs. “I hope we can save people, too. This party better finish before the shooting starts.”

  “Keep your fingers crossed that we’re in the right place,” Max said.

  “We surveyed St. Pauli landing from one end to the other. This has to be where they’ll come in.”

  “If it isn’t, we’re screwed.” Max pulled out his phone and sent Willy and Park encrypted e-mail asking if they had anything new, but their only reply was that they were still working on it.

  One of the caterers came over and spoke loudly and rapidly, but Max didn’t understand what he said.

  “We’re with the band,” Max said in English.

  The caterer appeared puzzled.

  Max pointed to the stage and made an air guitar gesture. Tom joined in and played air drums.

  The caterer said something and walked away.

  At 1600 hours, the sun had just set, but there was no boat on the pier. Inside the hall, caterers hastily made final preparations for their event. A small orchestra dressed in black sauntered in, took the stage, tuned their instruments, and did a sound check. They played dark and moody notes.

  “If this is a wedding, we’re underdressed,” Tom said.

  “Sounds like a funeral,” Max said.

  At 1745 hours, one by one the guests started arriving—mostly young and dressed in geeky casual. Normally Max would pay special attention to the ladies, but sitting in the lounge for several hours made him think about other things.

  “What’s wrong?” Tom asked.

  “Can’t stop thinking about how I let Dad down.”

  “You didn’t let him down. You did what he wanted.”

  “I keep trying to tell myself that, Tommy, but it’s like there’s a black cloud following me, and it keeps saying that I let him down. And now the world seems emptier without him. I got to get up and do something—something to shake off this funk. Before this thing wraps me up and buries me.”

  “You once said that thinking too much about what happened and what is about to happen will wear you down. Live in the moment, and take it one step at a time.”

  Max agreed. “I should follow my own advice.”

  A pair of quirky young women practically skipped up to Max and Tom and chatted them up. They were cute, but Max didn’t understand a word. He looked at Tom, who didn’t seem to understand either.

  “We’re from Canada,” Max told them.

  The gal with glasses smiled. “Canada?”

  “Yes,” Tom said.

  “Where in Canada?” the one with the ponytail said.

  “Vancouver,” Max said. “We’re with sales.”

  Tom put his hand on Max’s and said with a grin, “We’re here together.”

  Max didn’t like what he heard, but he forced a smile anyway.

  The girls said something before leaving.

  Guests came in by the tens and then hundreds. They swarmed the hall and took seats at the tables. The black-clad orchestra played a German neoclassical dark-wave version of “Carol of the Bells.”

  “The pier,” Tom said.

  Max looked out the window and saw a black van parked near the water. Its tailpipe blew exhaust across the pier. The snowflakes were not piddling now, but blowing harder and constantly.

  “One van—that’s not enough to pack explosives and men,” Tom said.

  “Maybe it’s only transporting the explosives,” Max said. “And more vehicles are on the way.” Max lowered his head as if in prayer. “We’ll finish this. We’re not going to let Ringvereine get away. We’re not going to let anyone get away.”

  “You think the van is Ringvereine?” Tom asked.

  Max’s pulse remained steady but pounded hard. “Whoever it is, it’s time to say bonjour.”

  Max left the warm madness of the hall and embraced the frigid calm of the night. Defying the weather, he left his jacket unzipped, allowing him quick access to his MP7 submachine gun. The chill cut through him to the bone, and the music died behind him. Instinctively, he pressed his arms against his armpits to retain body heat.

  Other than whoever was in the van, Max and Tom were the only ones out here. The van had backed onto the pier and now faced Max, but he couldn’t see who was inside. The pier was seventy meters long and icy in spots, so he stepped cautiously. Below, running waters licked up at them like hellhounds. If a person or people in the van perceived the Waynes as a threat and caught them on the pier, the bad guys could use the van as a shield and take them out as easily as knocking out pins in bumper bowling. The van’s headlights came on, blinding Max.

  “If this goes sideways, I’m going for a swim,” Max said quietly.

  “Are you crazy? You’ll freeze to death.”

  “No room to maneuver on this pier—and we can’t outrun bullets.”

  “I’ll take my chances on the pier,” Tom said.

  The wind increased to ten miles per hour, and snow swept across the pier, but now Max couldn’t feel the chill. He pushed into the blinding light. He approached on the driver’s side and Tom the passenger side. Max glanced at the deck to make sure he didn’t stray off the pier and into the freezing waters. He continued forward, and the headlights shone brighter.

  Max passed the lights, and his eyes readjusted to the darkness. Two men sat in the van. Max positioned himself so he could shoot the driver and the passenger without shooting his brother. Tom positioned himself tactically, too. Max tapped on the driver’s window. The driver looked at Max but didn’t say anything. The passenger scowled at Max, who kept his eyes on both of them.

  Max rapped on the window again: I want to know if you’re good guys or bad guys.

  The passenger’s eyes and lips tightened. “Verpiss dich!” he shouted.

  Max was unmoved by whatever it was he said, probably not nice.

  Tom remained near the passenger’s window.

  Max figured that a law-abiding citizen would leave or maybe stay and argue. A cop would indicate his authority by showing a badge, ID, or something. If either of these numb nuts pulled a gun first, they weren’t law-abiding citizens or cops.

  The passenger pulled a gun.

  Max swung out his submachine gun and aimed at the passenger. Tom did, too. Either the passenger didn’t see their weapons, or he thought they were bluffing, because he moved his muzzle in Max’s direction. Shooting through the front windshield was a bit of a crapshoot because the glass could shift the bullet’s trajectory, but Max was close enough to take some of the guesswork out. Glass and bullets imploded on the passenger, and he convulsed. Max and his brother continued to fill the passenger with lead until the convulsions stopped.

  The driver reached into his jacket for something, and Max shifted his aim to him. Whatever it was he was after must’ve lost importance, because he slowly removed his hand and showed that both hands were empty. His eyes blinked rapidly, and he avoided eye contact, as if to defuse any more violence.

  The driver’s side window was intact, and with one hand, Max tapped his muzzle on the glass with a loud click
, and with the other he motioned for the driver to open the door. The driver hesitated. This time Max aimed at him and tapped louder. The driver’s whole face seemed to blink with his eyes, and he opened the door a crack.

  Max motioned for him to open the door some more. He did. Max cuffed the driver’s hands and feet with plasticuffs while Tom dragged his bloodied buddy to the back of the van. Tom returned with a blanket. He wiped the glass out of the passenger seat before throwing the blanket over the bloody upholstery and sitting.

  Max shoved the driver over onto the center console. The storage compartment jabbed the back of his ass and the automatic transmission selection stick pressed into his crotch. It was a nutcracker, and Max wanted it that way. While Max held his muzzle to the man, Tom searched him and confiscated a pistol and a knife.

  Max slammed the door, shutting out the snowstorm from the side, but it continued to blow through the bullet holes in the windshield. The van’s heater was running and the cab was warm, but Max turned up the heat to compensate for the cold coming in through the holes in the glass.

  The driver chattered in Arabic, “Who are you?”

  Max poked his muzzle into the man’s ribs, knocking bone.

  The driver babbled something in German that sounded like begging.

  “Why shouldn’t I kill you?” Max asked in Arabic.

  The driver reverted to Arabic. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

  “I want to know what you’re waiting for.”

  “I—I’m waiting for a shipment.”

  “A shipment of what?!”

  “Fish,” the driver said.

  Max lowered the muzzle to the driver’s kneecap and pulled the trigger—phht.

  “Aiieeh!” the man screamed.

  “Oh la vache!” Tom exclaimed in French. Holy cow!

  Max wanted to stick the muzzle into the driver’s mouth to shut him up, but the sound suppressor was too thick to fit. Instead, Max pressed it against his bleeding kneecap and stared him in the eyes.

  Tears streamed from the driver’s ginormous eyes, and snot ran down his lips and dribbled down to his lap.

  Tom spoke again in French. “Did you have to kneecap him?!”

  Max didn’t answer.

  The driver whimpered.

  Max pushed the muzzle harder against the man’s knee and asked, “What is the shipment? I will not ask you again.”

  “Explosives,” the driver said. “I came to pick up explosives.”

  “When?”

  The driver looked over Max’s shoulder, and his eyes blinked repeatedly. “Now.”

  33

  Max jerked his head around. He saw it—a trawler—one klick away. He turned back to the driver and anxiously asked, “Is there some kind of signal?”

  The driver held his bloody knee with both hands. “What?”

  Max became even more anxious. “Do you have to give them some kind of signal?”

  “Yes,” the driver said.

  “What is it?!”

  “P-press the brake lights and hold them until the trawler f-flashes a red light back at me. Then brake twice if it’s safe—three times if there’s danger.”

  Max turned to Tom and said, “Take him in the back and secure him.”

  The driver blinked incessantly. “You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?”

  “If I was going to kill you, you wouldn’t be asking me about it,” Max replied.

  Tom grabbed the driver by his shoulder. “Do as we say, and you’ll live.”

  “My partner and I were supposed to help tie the trawler to the pier,” the driver said.

  “Do the men on the trawler know what you two look like?”

  “Junior might, I don’t know.”

  “We don’t have time for this,” Tom said.

  Max talked faster. “Who’s Junior?”

  “He’s the number two man in Ringvereine,” the driver said. “He always wears a suit, and his hair is slicked back.”

  “He’s on board?” Max asked.

  The driver nodded.

  “How many others?” Max asked.

  “Ten—maybe more.”

  “We’ve gotta hurry,” Tom said. He dragged the driver to the back of the van.

  The driver grunted and groaned.

  The ship came within half a klick away and floated closer.

  Max stepped on the brake and held it down.

  The red port light from the vessel flashed back, so Max released the brake for a few seconds before answering it with two flashes.

  Max hustled into the back to help Tom, who’d already tied the driver to a metal D-ring on the deck and applied first aid to his knee.

  “Let him bleed,” Max said.

  “We need him alive,” Tom said.

  “We’re running out of time. We need to tie the trawler to the pier.” Max gagged and blindfolded the driver and stuffed plugs in his ears.

  The ship was less than a quarter klick away. The wind blew ripples into the swollen river and scattered snowflakes across the water.

  Max hopped out of the van and into a blast of cold wind that felt like hitting a brick wall. “Taking down this ship is going to be a kick in the nuts—and I don’t mean in a good way.”

  Tom joined him outside. “I think you’re being optimistic.”

  Max walked into position on the pier and prepared to receive the ship’s lines. “Hope they don’t recognize us, at least until we’re on top of them,” Max said.

  Tom was ready, too. “What’s the plan?”

  “Surprise, speed, and superior firepower. Then run like hell.”

  The ship slowly pulled up next to the pier.

  Max started to feel like his old self again. “You know what I could use right now?”

  “What?’

  “A slice of that cheesecake,” Max said.

  Tom grinned.

  At the bow stood several men with AKs—a deck officer, deckhand, and an observer. Midships was an armed deckhand, and another man emerged from a passageway nearby. This man had slicked-back hair and wore an open trench coat with a suit underneath—Junior, Ringvereine’s number two. He walked with a cane and surveyed the ship and the pier before stepping back into the passageway he came from. At the stern, a deckhand carried an AK assault rifle strapped on his back.

  The snowfall became so thick and abominable that Max could barely see the men on the ship. The cold made his eyes water, making visibility even worse.

  Deckhands on the bow tossed their line to Max, and he secured it to the mushroom-shaped bollard beside him. Aft deckhands tossed the stern line to Tom, who secured his rope to the bollard near him.

  The river pushed the trawler forward and the howling wind blew it away from the pier. The ship’s main engine reversed, and the thrusters pressed sideways to compensate and keep the vessel in position to tie up.

  “Double up the lines, double up the lines!” the deck officer shouted.

  If the second line came through the air, he didn’t see it. He examined the snow around his feet. Before he spotted it, an idea came to him—a diversion.

  Tom finished and arrived at Max’s side. “What’s up?” he asked.

  Max spoke close to Tom’s ear. “I’ll shoot the bow line. When it breaks, the snap back will cause a diversion on board. We’ll have to hurry across the gangway before the ship separates and the gangway plops in the river.”

  “If we’re on the ship when the gangway falls, how do we get back to land?”

  “You doubled up aft, right?”

  “Yes,” Tom said.

  “We’ll crawl across the stern lines to the pier,” Max said.

  “And if the lines break before we get off?” Tom asked.

  “Then we go for a swim.”

  “Double up the bow lines!” shouted the deck officer. “Double up the lines, damn it!”

  Max brought up his MP7 and searched for the secured bow line. He found the bollard and traced it with his sights until he spotted the line. “Stand back, and sta
nd ready.”

  “You’re crazy!” Tom exclaimed.

  Max took several shots. The sound-suppressed rounds were hardly perceptible above the roar of the wind. The taut line parted most of the way, and under so much pressure, it would soon break. Max tapped Tom on the shoulder and shouted, “Follow me!” He ran to the gangplank, where the midships deckhand secured the railing. Max looked behind, and Tom was still with him.

  Who-pshh! The bow line broke and swooshed through the air like a giant whip, and it cracked into the men on the bow with a vengeance. The sound startled the midships deckhand, and he looked up from his work on the gangway. Max charged through him and knocked him off. Max didn’t stick around to wave goodbye as he floated away with the river. The metal walkway was icy, and the midships deckhand had taken his swim before he could complete locking the railing into place, so Max moved cautiously to avoid taking a swim with him.

  “Aah!” screamed a voice from the ship’s bow.

  “I can’t find my legs!” cried another from the bow. “I can’t find my legs!”

  “Two men down!” called out the deck officer.

  “The bow line broke—the bow is drifting!” another man shouted.

  Max threw open the midships hatch and rushed into a clearly lit passageway with his MP7 ready to fire.

  He heard Tom secure the hatch behind them, closing out the chill and noise of the wind. It was warmer inside. Max’s vision began to clear and adjust to the white lights.

  Max advanced. An armed man came up a ladder from a deck below, and Max dispatched him with a shot to the face. The man toppled back down from where he came. Max heard the faint phht-phht of Tom’s weapon behind—au revoir. Max swiftly descended the ladder and stepped over the meat suit on the deck. Tom’s footsteps sounded on the ladder behind him.

  AK gunfire reported from above the ladder, and Max didn’t hear Tom’s weapon this time, but someone, not Tom, made an audible grunt, and the AK fire stopped. Max maintained his focus in front, and he trusted Tom to protect their rear. In the overhead, a mass of tubes, pipes, and their shadows snaked through the ship. Max saw red—he wasn’t sure if the lights were red or if his eyes were tricking him, but it didn’t matter, he was going to get Junior and the explosives.

  Max’s body burned hot, his mouth was dry, and he experienced a dark feeling, like he was journeying into Hell. He scanned for movement in the shadows ahead. The man in the suit—Junior—appeared and fired a shot before ducking into a passageway.