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

by Stephen Templin

  Max turned the corner to follow him and was surprised to run into a boyish-faced man carefully carrying a crate of what was probably explosives. The boyish man froze, seeming more surprised than Max, who gestured for him to lower the crate to the deck and open it. Immediately after opening the box, Boy Man ran away.

  The crate was open on top and contained blocks of Semtex, plastic explosives used for mining and other applications. White light emanated from the hatchway of a nearby compartment, and Max leaned over to take peek inside with his MP7.

  At the opposite end of the compartment were stacks of crates like the one he opened, and a trio of armed thugs and Junior, who stared at him with beady snakelike eyes. Junior seemed coiled, about to strike. There was a clicking sound, and he pulled a sword out of his cane.

  One of Junior’s thugs aimed his pistol at Max.

  Shit!

  Max popped his head out of the compartment.

  “Hear more bad guys on their way,” Tom said. “Need to get out of here before they box us in.”

  Max pulled out his grenade and pulled the pin.

  Tom noticed what he was doing and seemed to understand what was about to happen.

  Max let the spoon fly. “Take us out—tout de suite.”

  Tom stepped in the direction they’d come from.

  Max tossed his grenade into Junior’s compartment. “Fire in the hole.” He pulled his hand back before a small explosion blasted. A man cried out. Before Max took a step away, a grandificent explosion shook the deck and knocked him off balance. Several men let out agonizing wails.

  Max willed himself to sprint, but adrenaline sped his senses to make the whole world decelerate. He looked behind. The explosions had warped the metal bulkhead of Junior’s compartment. Had it been a Sheetrock wall, Max would be dead. The blasts followed the path of least resistance and blew the hatchway open wider. Sparks shot out of the hatchway like a giant sparkler. Max’s ears rang, and he struggled to breathe, but no one followed—yet. He returned his gaze to the front and followed Tom up the ladder. Another explosion rocked the trawler. It vibrated through the metal rails, through his hands, and rumbled in the metal steps beneath his feet.

  On the main deck, Tom threw open the hatch, and Max followed him out into the blizzard. Max squinted to see land through the falling snow, but the land had moved, or rather, the ship had moved. The bow had rotated more than ninety degrees and was swiftly pivoting toward a complete one-eighty. The armed deckhands seemed to be at the bow or elsewhere because there was no one midships or aft. Max followed Tom aft.

  The two lines at the stern continued to hold the ship to shore, but with the push of the wind and the pull of the water, it was possible the lines could sever. Tom mounted one of the lines, hooked a leg on the rope commando-style, and used his hooked leg to push him across the top of the rope. At the halfway point, an explosion rocked the ship, and smoke blackened the night, but Tom held on. At the three-quarters point, a man appeared wielding an AK. The snow was so thick now that Max couldn’t tell if he was looking Tom’s way or not. When AK Man raised his weapon, Max assumed he’d spotted Tom—or himself—so Max squeezed the trigger until AK Man sucked deck. Tom reached the pier. Now he covered for Max to cross.

  Although Tom’s commando style conserved arm energy, it was slower, and Max was in a hurry. He mounted below the rope and crawled with all four limbs like a monkey. He could see the ship beyond his feet as he crawled. After he crossed halfway, the ship completed its pivot, and the bow banged against the pier, knocking both of Max’s feet off the rope. It felt like he ripped the muscles in both arms to hang on. His arms burned and his fingers went numb, and he had to get his feet back up and move full-throttle before his arms burned out and he fell. He hoisted one leg back up on the line—then the other. The line tightened so taut that it hummed. Max passed the three-quarters point. The smoking ship erupted in flames, and a burning man howled as he ran to where the gangway used to be, but it wasn’t there now—even if it was, it couldn’t reach land now. The flaming man jumped into the freezing river with a splash. More men came aft. Either they didn’t know Max was there, or they didn’t care. One man mounted the strained line, straining it further. Then another climbed on.

  Max reached land and dismounted the rope. He aimed his MP7 at one of the lines, Tom aimed at the other, and they opened fire. The ropes severed, and the men on them splashed into the water. Without the lines to hold the ship to the pier, it drifted away with the flow of the river.

  On board the ship shooting erupted, probably directed at Max, but he ignored the shooting and ran to the van. Before reaching it he glanced over his shoulder, and the flaming ship sank slowly as the river pushed it downstream, taking the wailing men and their gunfire with it. From the heart of Hamburg, a cacophony of sirens raged against each other. It felt good to sink Junior and his ship, but this wasn’t over yet.

  34

  One more head of the two-headed snake that was Ringvereine remained. Max hopped into the van, where he undid the driver’s gag and unplugged his ears. Tom turned the heater on full and drove.

  “Where were the explosives headed?” Max asked.

  The van left the pier and passed through the parking lot. Partygoers exited the Fischauktionshalle and watched the flaming ship sinking downstream. Others stood inside staring out the windows.

  “The explosives—” the driver said, “the explosives were going to Berlin.”

  Tom pulled out his cell phone and manipulated it as he drove. “Berlin.”

  “What happened to Junior?” the driver asked.

  Max took off the driver’s blindfold and pointed his head to the flames. “Junior sleeps with the fishes.”

  The driver leaned back in horror.

  “Where in Berlin?” Tom asked.

  The driver blinked like he was losing his mind. “If I tell you, he’ll kill me.”

  “Who will kill you?” Max asked.

  “Düster,” the driver said. “Junior’s twin brother. The boss of Ringvereine.”

  “What’s his first name?” Max asked.

  “Otto.”

  Max wondered who died at the casino that night.

  “Is Otto Düster meeting the shipment of explosives in Berlin?” Tom asked.

  “Düster is worse than his brother. He has no regard for human life other than his brother’s and his mother’s. He doesn’t give a shit—he’s insane. Someone poisoned him, but it didn’t kill him. Düster walked into a rival gang leader’s house once—right through the front door. The bodyguards shot him, but Düster killed the bodyguards and their leader—then he took his rival’s men to work for him.”

  Max put his gun muzzle to the driver’s head. “I don’t care. Düster is only a man. Is he meeting the explosives shipment in Berlin?”

  The driver’s eyes became moist. “Yes, Düster is at his safe house in the Neukölln borough.” He gave the address.

  Tom stopped at a traffic light. He and Max input the address into the GPS on their phones. “That’s a little over a three-hour drive from here,” Tom said.

  Max lowered his weapon. “How many men are with Düster?”

  “He’ll kill you,” the driver said. “Both of you.”

  Max was losing patience. “How many?”

  “One or two.”

  “What kind of weapons?”

  The driver blinked his eyes more rapidly. “Pistols—maybe rifles—I don’t know.

  Max growled, “Anything else we should know?”

  The driver shook his head.

  Max put the blindfold back on the driver, gagged him, and plugged his ears. Then he concealed his MP7 under his jacket and sat next to Tom in the front.

  Max’s phone rumbled. It was Young. “What’s up?” Max asked.

  “We intercepted a report that a man named Otto Düster set up that ambush in Little Istanbul,” Young said. “Düster sold out his father, who was a hit man. Word is that the father abandoned Düster and Junior when they were little, an
d they’ve hated him ever since. In Little Istanbul, you fought the father and his bodyguards. And Ringvereine ambushed you. Ringvereine might’ve hired some additional muscle, too. We’re still trying to gather more and confirm it, but I thought I’d update you, anyway.”

  Max checked the GPS on his phone for the address the driver had given for Düster. Then he reported Düster’s address to Young. “Can you intercept any comms coming from Düster’s current location, and let us know what you find? We’re on our way there now.”

  “I’m on it,” Young said.

  “Thanks,” Max said.

  “Bye.” Young hung up.

  Max made a call to Willy.

  “You boys okay?” Willy asked.

  Max updated him.

  “I’m happy you two are safe,” Willy said. “Excellent work. But I want you and Tom to sit tight until I can get some help for Berlin.”

  “Sit tight, my ass,” Max said. “Otto Düster’s men killed Dad. You tell your reinforcements we ain’t waiting. If they want a piece of Düster, they better haul booty.”

  “Max—”

  Max hung up on him. He turned to Tom and said, “You were right.”

  “About what?” Tom asked.

  “I’m pissed,” Max said.

  “Dad deserves justice.”

  “Justice or revenge—makes no difference to me,” Max said. “It all ends the same.”

  Tom drove out of Hamburg and the blizzard and onto Autobahn Twenty-Four, and when he reached a long section with no speed limit, he stomped the accelerator. Freezing wind and snow whistled through the windshield’s bullet holes and wetted Max. Max zipped up his jacket. Snow fell at them from above and swept at them from the sides. The van’s wipers beat at high speed.

  “I remember trying to put Charlotte’s arm back on her body, but I couldn’t put her back together,” Tom said. “And I remember the first time we kissed and how glorious it was.”

  “I remember watching Dad’s life slip away like grains of sand between my fingers in Little Istanbul,” Max said. “And I remember the oorah on his face at that heavenly breakfast in Vienna.”

  “I do, too,” Tom said.

  Tom raced along the wet highway and came up behind a blue Volkswagen compact, white streams of liquid trailing behind its wheels. The blue car, white streams, and black night blurred across each other like watercolors. He passed it. The moon and stars were hidden, and Max could hardly see the road, but he could make out the taillights of a vehicle in front of them. The brothers neared the vehicle. It was a green sedan, its exhaust blowing and wipers wiping wildly. Tom passed it and sped into a curve. The side wheels of the van lifted off the road. Tom eased off the gas, and the wheels came down. Tom smashed the accelerator out of the curve like a man possessed. From the opposite lane, someone’s high beams blinded Max for an instant, but Max and Tom’s direction remained steady, and the flash of light was gone.

  A black SUV’s back wheels sprayed them, and Tom glided into the fast lane and blasted through the spray. City lights streaked by in a watery blur of white, aqua, and yellow against the black of night. The van rattled as if the velocity might rip it apart. The seat vibrated beneath Max. He wondered how Tom could see the road—or if he could see it at all. Together they hurtled into the unknown.

  “This is for Charlotte,” Max said.

  The steering wheel visibly vibrated Tom’s hands, but he didn’t let up on the gas. “And Dad.”

  “Düster has no idea what’s coming for him.”

  “He’s about to find out.”

  35

  01 Day

  Düster waited in the safe house for Junior—and waited. They had planned and anticipated this attack for months. Although the target had shifted, Düster still wanted to send a shock wave of fear around the world. His men were ready in the room next door, and all they needed were the explosives. Junior had called earlier saying that he was behind schedule, and he was supposed to call again when they unloaded onto the pier, but that call hadn’t come. Something was wrong.

  Düster looked out the window into the night and watched car lights come and go. He lowered his gaze to his phone and sent another text message. Then he looked out the window. This was the ghetto where they’d grown up—a prime breeding ground for the underworld and a raveworthy place to adopt underlings. There were good people and bad people here, but good people bored Düster.

  In the distance was a partial silhouette of Campus Rütli, a hauptschule, a vocational school for average and below-average students that he and his brother had attended. Most of the students were Muslims of Turkish, Arab, or Serbian descent, and many of their parents were jobless and marginalized by German society. On the first day of fifth grade, their German teacher paraded in front of the class like a military drill instructor, bellowing about learning expectations, grading, rules, and on and on until Düster had enough. He stood up and headed for the door. His brother followed. Before they reached the exit, their teacher approached them and demanded to know, “Where do you two think you’re going?”

  Düster turned and faced her.

  “Home,” Düster said.

  “For lunch with Mom,” Junior said.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” the teacher said.

  “You’re not saying anything of value, and you’re too loud,” Junior said.

  “So stick your rules and your grades up your ass,” Düster said.

  Düster’s classmates laughed. He’d become a role model to them.

  The teacher’s face turned red.

  Düster turned toward the door, but before he could take another step, the teacher grabbed him and his brother by the shoulder. He turned and punched her in the gut, doubling her over. Then he walked out the door and kept walking until he reached home.

  His mom answered the door. “You two are home early.”

  He walked inside and promptly told her what happened.

  “Serves her right for putting her hands on my angels,” she said.

  Düster and his brother never returned to school.

  He checked his cell phone again. There was no reply from Junior, so Düster texted him again. He stared out the window, but he felt something was missing—his brother. Fewer cars came and went. His mind derailed: even though his brother was weaker, they were the untouchables. How can he be missing? For the first time in his life, he felt alone, falling through a bottomless pit. For the first time in his life, he wept.

  The noise of footsteps came from the adjacent room. Düster dried his eyes quickly. Orhan “the Turk,” his enforcer, entered. At two meters tall and over 135 kilos, he was an imposing tank, feared by many, but Orhan spoke with humble nervousness in Düster’s presence. “Is everything okay, Boss?”

  Düster glanced at his watch; it was after ten o’clock. “Tell the men there’s been a change in plans. The explosives are late.”

  Orhan looked at his shoes like a schoolboy in front of the schoolmaster. “Is Junior—okay?”

  Düster didn’t know how to answer, so he didn’t. “Tell them to go home tonight and get some rest. If the bombs do come, I’ll call. Tomorrow morning, they need to bring all their weapons and ammo here. Expect to use bullets instead of bombs tomorrow night.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  36

  Shortly after 2200 hours, Max and Tom swooped into Berlin. Max’s phone vibrated—Young.

  Max answered it. “Yeah.”

  “We intercepted calls from two mobile phone numbers. They’re preparing to go somewhere. You’ll have to hurry if you want to catch them.”

  “You gotta go faster, Tom,” Max said. “They’re leaving.”

  “Bye.” Young ended the call.

  A red traffic light burned ahead, but the nearest car to the intersection wasn’t so near, and Tom ran the light. They darted deeper into Berlin until they reached Düster’s neighborhood. A light flurry of snow floated down from the sky. There weren’t many people on the streets, but a host of Christmas lights glowed.
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  “What’s our plan?” Tom asked.

  “Kick ass,” Max said.

  They approached another red traffic light, and cars were crossing in front of Max and Tom, so Tom had to stop to avoid an accident. Max spotted the safe house, where six suspicious men exited the building. One of them was about six-and-a-half feet tall and built like a linebacker. While Max’s attention was focused on the linebacker and his buddies, a seventh man surprised him from the side. He was the spitting image of Junior. “The guy in the suit, that’s Düster.”

  “He’s crossing the street in front of us,” Tom said.

  “Shit.”

  The world seemed to slow down. Düster looked both ways, maintaining awareness of his surroundings. He didn’t seem to notice Max and Tom, but then he did a second take, stopped in front of the van, and stared directly at them. He mouthed something and moved his hand like he was going for a weapon.

  Tom stomped on the accelerator, the wheels squealed, and the world jumped into fast forward. The van plowed into Düster. A crack sounded from his body hitting the grill, and he cried out as he bounced into the intersection. Max’s vision narrowed so tightly on their prey that he didn’t see much of anything else until a car slammed into the side of the van with a violent thwack, and glass and airbags exploded. Pieces of metal and glass flew over the intersection. Another car sped past, but Max became so disoriented that he didn’t know which way he or the other car were going. He felt like he was spinning, but he wasn’t sure if he imagined it or if the spinning was real. Then everything slowed down, and the world stopped and went black.

  “Wake up, we’ve got to go!” Tom’s voice said. Max woke up to find his brother shaking him.

  At first Max thought that Tom meant “go,” as in go after Düster, but when he saw Düster and his six men closing in on them, he realized “go” meant get the hell out of Dodge. Düster staggered as he walked, and Max opened the van door and fell, but Düster’s men seemed fine. Bullets whizzed over Max’s head and popped holes in the van. He crawled around the car that hit them, smoke rising from its engine, and used the vehicle for temporary cover.