by Jay Giles
The two men got out, knocked on the front door. It was opened immediately.
Monique pushed past them. “Let’s see these FBI agents you killed,” she said, her voice high and shrill. Albrecht followed like a lapdog a step or two behind her.
Ruis opened the van’s back door. Soto unzipped the woman’s body bag.
The sight and smell hit Monique hard. Her hands flew to her face, she took two steps, retched into the bushes. Albrecht quickly moved to comfort her.
“Want to see the man?” Ruis asked.
Albrecht waved a hand at him. Monique was still retching. She straightened up, took a tissue from her pocket, wiped her lips, blew her nose.
“Satisfied?” Soto asked.
Monique gave Soto a hard look. “What if more FBI agents come?” She asked through clenched teeth. “Will you kill them, too?”
“Only if the mon—” Soto’s attention shifted to the red Jeep driving in the driveway.
• • •
My God, Marike thought, seeing the police van. They’ve found him. If Albrecht was arrested, she’d have no chance to get the money. She drove close to the van, jumped out of the Jeep, the HK in her right hand. Her gaze took in Albrecht, the blond woman, the two policeman.
There wasn’t a moment of hesitation.
She gunned down the two policemen, two shots each to the chest. Then put a bullet in the blond’s right kneecap. A wisp of smoke wafted from the barrel, as she pointed it at Albrecht.
Eyes wide, mouth slightly open, hands trembling, he stared at her in horror.
Monique rolled around on the ground, clutching her leg, screaming in pain.
“Why Dieter,” Marike said smiling, “aren’t you pleased to see me?”
His shocked expression seemed frozen. “How did you—”
“Find you? It wasn’t that hard. You’re not nearly as clever as you think you are.” She motioned with the gun toward the doorway. “Now carry your little hausfrau inside.
We have work to do.”
Albrecht bent down, had trouble getting his hands under Monique.
“Drag her if you have to,” Marike instructed.
• • •
“Stop,” Hanna commanded.
Miles slammed the brakes of the white Honda Civic rental. The car came to halt a fifty yards from the yellow villa. “Why? That’s her Jeep,” he said questioningly.
Hanna heard the urgency in his voice, nodded that she understood. She’d stopped Miles from driving all the way to the house so she could survey the scene. Besides the Jeep, her gaze took in the police van, a beat-up Nissan, two bodies on the ground. Hanna saw no signs of movement, presumed them dead. The front door of the massive house stood open. To the right, the double garage door was also open.
As Hanna studied the scene, she felt her heart beat accelerate. This was it. This was the confrontation.
“What are we waiting for?” Miles had his hand on the door handle, ready to get out.
Hanna knew they couldn’t just barge in, they needed a plan. She worked with what she saw, said to Miles, “That’s a police van, the two bodies are probably police. We’ll get their weapons, go in through the garage.” She looked over at Miles. “Do you know how to use a gun?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Stay behind me. Don’t say anything, don’t shoot unless you have to.” She reached for her door handle. “Let’s go.”
They quickly covered the fifty yards to the van, saw the bodies belonged to Soto and Ruis. Hanna was surprised to find neither man wearing a gun. She pulled Miles by the arm around the van, so it blocked them from the house, whispered to him. “This changes things. We’re going to have to use whatever we can find in the garage as weapons.”
Miles grinned. “Rakes and shovels against a gun. Poor woman doesn’t have a chance.”
Once again, his confidence buoyed Hanna’s. She took off in a crouched run for the garage, heard Miles behind her. In the garage, she took inventory. There was a pump-up canister sprayer. Hanna smelled the nozzle. Bug spray. “That’s good,” she whispered and handed it to Miles. She pointed to the aluminum ladder, whispered. “We’ll use that, too.” In a few short minutes, they’d gathered an arsenal of saws, clippers, and pointed trowels, stockpiled everything by the door that led into the house.
Unfortunately, when Miles set the ladder on the concrete floor, it clanged.
• • •
In the study, Marike was seated at Albrecht’s desk, watching his laptop screen. On the other side of the study were the bodies of Albrecht and Monique. They’d been duct taped to chairs, tortured, executed.
Marike was waiting for the screen to refresh, watching to see confirmation from her bank, when she heard a noise from the back of the house. Marike suspected it was a servant. She’d shot one. But there might have been another she’d missed. That wouldn’t do.
She stood, picked up the gun off the desk, checked the clip, added more ammunition. Holding the gun in front of her with two hands, she moved silent as a cat from the study to the hall. It was clear. Her back against the wall, she moved to the rear of the house, went through a doorway to the kitchen. Just inside the door, back against the wall, gun in front of her, she watched, listened for movement.
The kitchen was in a large rectangular space. To Marike’s left, the wall was lined with cabinets, stainless range, refrigerator. On the side wall, French doors led into the dining room. In the center of room, on a large granite-topped island were the ingredients for dinner. Chicken. Lettuce. Tomatoes. Celery. Bread. Noodles. Cans of tomato paste.
The cook who had been preparing the meal was face down on the red tile floor, a bullet hole visible in the back of her black uniform.
On the far wall in front of Marike was the sink, more counter area. Right of the counter, French doors led to the stone terrace. A wooden breakfast table and four chairs had been placed to take advantage of the view through the terrace doors. To Marike’s right, a short hallway—perhaps ten feet long—led to the garage. On one side of that hallway was a pantry door, on the other, the laundry room door.
Marike heard a muffled footstep, knew someone was coming in from the garage. Silently, she inched along the wall. As she moved, she heard shuffling steps. Too many for one person. Had to be two.
When she reached the edge of the hallway to the garage, she took a deep breath, stepped into the hallway, firing.
• • •
Hanna waited for Marike to step into the hallway. Crouched low in the laundry room doorway, she pressed the lever on the canister, hit Marike in the eyes with a steam of bug spray.
Marike screamed, fired two wild shots, as she rubbed her eyes with her hand.
Miles, holding the aluminum ladder horizontal, charged in from the garage, rammed Marike just below the neck. The blow drove her body back into the kitchen island, her head whipsawed back and forth. She kept firing. The first shot hit the side wall, the second the ceiling, the third Miles’ left shoulder.
Hanna saw him spin around, teeter upright for a moment, fall hard to the floor.
Still rubbing her eyes, Marike reeled off two more shots, tripped on the ladder, fell over.
Hanna seized the opportunity, pulled Miles into the garage, closed the door, wedged it shut with a rake. Grabbing a long handled shovel, she went out a door to the terrace.
• • •
Marike righted herself, went to the sink, put water in her eyes to flush out the irritant. It helped. Her eyes didn’t burn as badly. A soft rattle made her jump. Her gaze darted to the sound’s origin. The doorknob on the French door to the terrace. She saw it turn ever so slightly.
Marike flattened against the wall on the left side of the door. Whoever was out there would be on one side or other of the door. She looked at the door’s hinges, saw the door swung inward. She reached over to the knob, turned it, gave it a pull. The door swung open.
• • •
Hanna, waiting against the wall, saw the door open, waited to see Silber.
Heart pounding in her chest, she held the shovel like a baseball bat, ready to swing.
C’mon. C’mon. Her eye caught movement. She swung the shovel with all her might, felt the blade hit the wall, vibrate.
Silber had gotten her to swing on a feint.
Grinning, Silber stepped out of the kitchen, pointed the gun at Hanna’s face.
Hanna closed her eyes.
Click.
Hanna’s eyes flew open.
Click. Click.
Marike threw the gun at her. Hanna moved her head, it sailed by.
The two women squared off, eying each other.
Hanna had the shovel. Marike, a fiendish grin on her face. “Prison teaches you how to fight. I’m going to beat the hell out of you.”
Oh, good. Trash talk. Hanna swung the shovel.
Catlike, Marike stepped back. The shovel swished by harmlessly in front of her. Hanna swung again. Missed.
Again. Missed.
Marike’s grin broadened with each miss. “That the best you can do?”
Hanna jabbed the shovel at her midsection. Connected.
Marike let out an Oomph, grabbed the end of the shove, pulled hard.
Hanna let go.
Marike fell backwards, landing on her back.
Hanna jumped on her, both knees to the midsection, got in a right and left to the face.
Marike pushed Hanna off, got to her feet. Blood ran from her nose.
The two squared off again.
“Guess that prison where you learned to fight was Camp Cupcake,” Hanna taunted her.
Marike swung a roundhouse right. Missed badly.
Hanna countered with a left, missed. Her arms felt like lead. Tired from yesterday, she knew she had to get this over quick. She moved in. Landed a kick to the side of Marike’s knee. The leg buckled. Marike’s face registered the pain. Hanna followed with a hard right to the face.
Marike’s head spun sideways from the blow.
Hanna hit her with a left cross, spun her head the other way.
Marike enraged, gave a loud guttural shout, charged, head butted Hanna.
The blow caught Hanna under the chin, slammed her jaw shut, blurred her sight as the vibration rocketing up her head. Momentarily stunned, she felt Marike’s hands on her neck, choking her. She tried pulling those hands away, knocking them loose, but she couldn’t break Marike’s grip. The fingers pressed harder, deeper into her flesh. She felt herself getting lightheaded.
• • •
Something stirred Miles. He found himself lying on his back in the garage. He lifted his head, saw a rake handle across his legs. Just moving his head that little bit, sent waves of pain through his body. His left shoulder burned, his left arm and side were sticky and wet. Miles didn’t need to look to know it was blood.
He took a deep breath, gathered his feet under him, used his good arm to push off the floor. As he stood, waves of pain and nausea washed over him. He gritted his teeth.
He had to find Hanna.
He opened the door to the house, saw his own bloody trail. He made his way to the kitchen, looked out the open French doors, saw Silber choking Hanna. The two women were dangerously close to the terrace wall. One push and Hanna would topple over and fall to her death.
Miles, aware he couldn’t get to her in time, grabbed a can of tomato paste off the kitchen island. Knowing this was the most important throw he’d ever make, he made sure the mechanics of his pitching motion were perfect. He rocked back, brought the can up, kicked, and delivered.
The can left his hand cleanly, flew straight and true right at Silber’s head, until she took a half step forward.
Miles’ heart fell. It was going to miss her.
But then, just as he thought everything was lost, the can arced left.
Marike, sensing something, turned to look. The flying can hit her in the left eye, causing her to let loose of Hanna’s neck, fall backwards over the terrace wall.
Before he blacked out from the pain, two things ran through Miles’ mind: Hanna’s safe.
Wow, I finally threw a curve.
CHAPTER 137
Dennis Casper parked his car by the side of the road a quarter mile from Albrecht’s house. He walked the rest of the way, approaching the house from the cover of a low rise. As Casper peered cautiously over the top of the hill, he was startled to see a police van, two policemen lying in pools of blood.
He scrambled down the hill to the driveway, his trained gaze recording every detail: the bodies, van, Jeep, Honda, open front door, open garage door. He also noted something odd on the roof.
Casper reached the bodies. He didn’t have to check, he knew they were dead.
He peered up at the roof. That something odd turned out to be a camera. In the back of the van, he saw two body bags. He unzipped one. Yep, body inside. Zipped it closed, peered in the open front door. Quiet as a tomb.
In almost thirty years with the Bureau, Casper had never seen a crime scene this weird.
Slowly and cautiously, he entered the house. Immediately, he smelled burnt gunpowder, death. The smells led him to the study, where he found two bodies.
Moving on, he checked other rooms, eventually finding his way to the kitchen. In the kitchen, he found the dead servant, Marin stretched out on the floor bleeding from a shoulder wound, and the ladder.
He felt Marin’s neck, found a strong pulse considering the amount of blood he appeared to have lost.
Casper left Marin, picked up the ladder, retraced his steps to the front door. On the way, he noticed a large black soft-sided suitcase. Curious as to what it was doing there, Casper put the ladder down, unzipped the bag, saw that it was filled with neat stacks of large denomination American bills.
Hmmm. Pay off? Escape money?
He zipped the bag closed, picked up the ladder, carried it outside, discovered that the object on the roof was a camera. As he lifted it up, he found it was running. “I’ll be damned,” he said to himself. He climbed down from the ladder, studied the camera, found the stop button. The record light went off. He pressed rewind, felt the film turning in the camera. When it had completely rewound, he pulled out the little view screen, hit play and watched.
He saw the policemen show Albrecht’s wife the bodies, saw the tall blond woman approach the group, shoot the two policemen, the wife. A little later, he saw Chance and Marin approach the policemen, leave. He let the film run, but saw nothing more of interest.
Casper took the camera with him, went back inside the house looking for Chance, found her on the terrace, slumped against the wall, unconscious. He knelt, felt her neck, found a pulse. Standing up, he peered over the terrace wall, saw the blond’s motionless body on the rocks below.
Casper sized up the situation and decided it was perfect. He could report the crimes, take charge, bask in the glow of bringing two high-profile criminals to justice. His grip tightened on the camera. He even had the evidence in hand.
Casper pictured that glory taking him to a senior position at Bureau headquarters. He’d be an assistant deputy director, at least, with access to the top. He’d be in the important meetings, setting policy, directing field agents. This was what he’d worked for, sacrificed for, deserved.
He reached into the pocket of his slacks for his Blackberry. One call would set his new life in motion. He started to punch in a number, stopped.
Who was he kidding? He’d still be damaged goods. Someone with items in his file. O’Neill wasn’t going to forgive and forget, give him the keys to the kingdom.
He entered a different number. When the operator came on, he said, “I’ve got a medical emergency.” He gave them the address, the briefest of details, rang off.
He bent down next to Agent Chance. “Hanna. Hanna. Wake up.”
Her eyelids slowly fluttered open. “Agent Casper,” she mumbled.
He put the camera in her hands. “Hold onto this. It’s evidence. I’ve called for medical help. They’re on their way.”
Hanna’s eyes closed.
Casper started to go, decided there was something else he needed to say. “Hanna, listen to me.” Her eyes fluttered back open. “You should feel proud, you did excellent work on this matter. This is the kind of case that makes a career.”
She gave him the faintest of smiles.
Casper stood, headed for the house.
“Where are you going?”
“Away. I’m retired,” he said over his shoulder. The FBI might not love him anymore, but he knew someone who just might.
On the way, he grabbed the handle on the big black bag of money, took it with him.
CHAPTER 138
Miles spent seven days in a Mexican hospital where they operated on his shoulder, replaced the blood he’d lost. The medical staff was amazed at his rapid recovery. Hanna wasn’t. She’d seen it before.
She spent as much time as she could with Miles, the rest working with the Mexican police. The video from the movie camera Casper had given her cleared Hanna and Miles of any wrongdoing. The Mexican authorities couldn’t have been more helpful.
Hanna’s focus was on Albrecht’s laptop. She was able to trace the wire transfers Marike had made, Albrecht’s transfers before that. Over a week’s time, she documented the ransom money’s every movement. The bulk of the ransom—$31-million—was recovered and returned to Daimler AG. The only money Hanna couldn’t account for was the $500,000 wired to Albrecht’s bank the day of his death.
Hanna, in constant communication with Deputy Director O’Neill and Agent in Charge Shuloff, was asked on several occasions about Agent Casper. Hanna mentioned the ‘retired’ comment when quizzed by O’Neill.
“Probably for the best,” O’Neill told her. “I know he had his heart set on a position here in Washington but, even with the successful resolution of these matters, that wasn’t going to happen.”
Hanna’s hard work, however, was recognized. The Director, himself, phoned to commend her and to offer her a senior position on the task force tracking terrorist funding. Her dream job.
