by Trevor Scott
The first full day in his old place Jake went by taxi to a local bike shop and purchased a high-end bicycle—a touring bike for eventual rides in the country. Franz had made sure his mountain bike with front and rear suspension had been shipped to his apartment from Vienna. But Jake knew he’d have to wait to go off-road for a while. There was no way his knee could handle that pounding.
For the rehab of his left knee and his overall musculature, he propped the road bike onto a stationary wheel, riding at least a dozen kilometers a day and building up to thirty kilometers this morning. While he rode the stationary bike, he read through the digital files Franz Martini provided him of the investigation of Anna’s murder to date, finding no great clue as to who wanted him dead. Disturbing, yes, but not entirely unexpected. The killers were professionals. Their only flaw had been not finishing the job. Not killing Jake. One of the shooters had gotten away, but Jake wasn’t overly concerned with finding him, unless that man could lead Jake to the person who had ordered the hit. Strangely enough, Jake didn’t harbor too much animosity toward a hired shooter. He was only doing a job which he or she was uniquely qualified to perform.
If Jake was smart he’d simply lay low until he could solve this case, a case which he was nearly his own client. Sure Franz gave him a retainer of sorts with the Glock, which he carried night and day, and which even hung from a holster strapped to the handlebars of his bike while he rode, but Franz was only trying to make his continued stay in Austria legal. He needed to continue to work to maintain his visa there. He had friends in high places within the Austrian government, yet he was sure that those friendships might be somewhat strained following a few shootings in the past couple of years. Jake also knew that Franz was probably the reason he still had a carry permit in Austria—not that not having one would deter Jake anyway—without a weapon he wasn’t only a sitting duck, he was a dead one.
But Jake didn’t depend only on the kindness of Franz for his safety. He’d gone to his local bank branch and retrieved a few items from his safe deposit box, including one of his stashed handguns—a Beretta PX4 Storm also in .40 cal, with two extra magazines. No need to keep two different calibers. He also picked up a few passports, two from the U.S., one from Canada, and one each from Germany and Austria. All with different identities and photographs. Old habits.
His only ventures other than the bike shop, the bank, and the grocery store was spending a few hours shooting his two handguns at an indoor range. Like riding the bike, he hadn’t lost his skill at punching holes in paper. He did have to modify his stance somewhat with the new knee.
Riding the stationary bike, he had plenty of time to think about his life—what he had and what he had lost. Was he the man he always thought he would become? If so, he wasn’t sure he liked himself too much right now. At this time, forgiveness was not a huge part of his vocabulary.
Jake finished his bike ride and slowly dismounted, his legs tired and nearly collapsing beneath him as he stood for a moment to catch his balance on his special bike shoes. He’d given up the cane for the past couple of days and hopefully wouldn’t need it again. Although used with his left hand to take pressure from his left knee, he felt vulnerable with the cane and not as quick to pull his gun if needed.
He lowered himself into a leather chair and glanced at his 24-inch LCD monitor, which picked up multiple wireless cameras positioned outside the apartment, front and back, and in the front foyer where he could watch those from the first and third floors come and go. He’d also placed a number of motion detectors that would alarm him any time someone came in view of a camera. The one on the sidewalk out front was annoying, going off anytime someone passed by walking a dog or going to a car. But if Jake really wanted to play it safe, he’d go to America or South America and pay cash for everything. There were hundreds of great trout streams in Patagonia he hadn’t wet a fly in yet. Instead, he’d taken up residence in his old place and bought food with a visa in his own name. He wasn’t hiding. He was waiting.
He took off his bike shoes and socks and let his bare feet spread out onto the cool hardwood floor.
Part of him expected his wait to be short. After all, someone had blown his perfectly fine VW all to hell just two days before he’d gotten out of the hospital. The trail was fresh and Jake was now ready for anything. His strength was almost back to one hundred percent.
Glancing across the room, he noticed his two favorite fly rods hanging on the wall, wondering when he’d get a chance to attack some more trout. It had been far too long. But even that, the one true passion left in his life, would have to wait. Maybe when this was all over he’d go back to Montana, ride horse in the back country and find some of his old fishing spots on the Madison River. Or the Gallatin.
When the motion alarm went off on his computer speakers, Jake focused his attention at the LCD monitor, enlarging the camera shot. With it being morning, he didn’t expect it to be any shooter in his right mind. They’d come at night. And Jake was right. He recognized the bald man at his front door, a nearly finished cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth.
Jake watched as Franz buzzed his door.
“I see you’re still with the living,” Jake said into the mic.
Franz raised his head and tried on a smile. “Barely. You gonna buzz me in?”
“Only if you leave that cigarette on the sidewalk.”
Franz shook his head, took in one final breath from the smoke before throwing it to the sidewalk, and then pulverized it into the cobblestone.
Moments later, Franz made it to the second floor, Jake watching his old friend labor with each step. It was hard to see this formerly vibrant man reduced to such a level. Jake let him in and had him take a seat on the leather sofa.
“Can I get you something, Franz?” Jake asked, still standing.
“No. Take a seat. That’s a nasty scar.”
Jake took a seat in his leather chair and rubbed his left knee. He was wearing only his bike shorts and a T-shirt. “Scars,” Jake corrected, twisting his knee for his old friend to see. “They completely rebuilt the knee from both sides. A total knee replacement. Synthetic and better than new.”
“I heard you had an infection that nearly killed you.”
“That’s what they tell me. But I was out of it. Great drugs. I should have left the hospital after about three weeks, but the infection and the other bullet wounds didn’t help much. Because of the shoulder wound, I couldn’t use crutches or a cane for a while.”
Franz glanced at the computer screen. “Nice security system.”
“What’s up, Franz?”
“Right to the point. You don’t change.”
“I can tell something’s bothering you. What you find out?”
The old cop lowered his eyes and said, “We still don’t know who hired the shooters, or who hired the guy to bomb your car.”
“The bomber was a Kurdish Turk.”
“That’s right. But, as you know, they’re spread all over Europe now. Doesn’t mean anything.”
“Might mean something. I once took sides against them with the Turkish government.”
“That’s true. But why now?”
He had a good point. It didn’t make sense. “You’ve got something for me, though.”
Franz pulled out a handkerchief and coughed into it a number of times, his face turning red.
“You need some water?”
“You got any schnapps?”
Jake hesitated and then said, “I have no alcohol at all.” He had used the long hospital stay to not only rehab his physical body, but also to dry out from too much alcohol over the past year or so. Anna had finally forced the issue with Jake, especially after his last case in Bulgaria.
“Sorry, I forgot,” Franz said.
“Anna?”
“Yeah, she was concerned.”
Jake rose to his feet and ran his fingers through his long hair.
“Sit, Jake.”
He did so and then said, “I wasn’t d
rinking when Anna was killed.” Jake hesitated. “Well, we were going to share a bottle of wine. It didn’t affect my reaction, though.”
“I know. Interpol did a blood alcohol on you and Anna. She had nothing and you barely spiked.”
“Bulgaria was difficult for me,” Jake said, his mind drifting back to the case he had last worked there. He’d been hired by one of the new uber-rich to recover over a hundred million Euros that had been embezzled from his company by a group of uber-deadly thieves with ties to worldwide terrorism. Anna had been assigned the case by Interpol. Jake had been forced to lie to his own girlfriend many times as he went about his investigation. The case had ended well for Jake, having taken in a ten-percent recovery fee, but Anna had almost been fired for not keeping her boyfriend out of the way. It had strained their relationship somewhat. Jake’s drinking hadn’t helped much. Their trip to the cabin patched things nicely. Until the shooting. Jake’s first thought about who had struck them there was someone from that group he had taken down in Bulgaria. But the Agency had looked into that option and found nothing.
Franz folded his hands onto his lap. The old Polizei man looked older by the second.
“What’s up?” Jake prodded.
Coughing again, when Franz finished he said, “There’s a contract out on you.”
“No shit!”
“It’s not what you think, Jake. It’s now become non-specific.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning. . .whoever whacks your ass gets one million Euro.”
Jake whistled softly. “Christ, I might kill myself for that. You getting ideas, my friend?”
“Of course not.” Franz smiled now, his face becoming a field of wrinkles. “Maybe if I wasn’t dying I might consider.”
Thinking hard now, Jake guessed his plan to simply stay put and wait for someone to come and kill him was no longer a sound decision.
“This will bring any crazy bastard with a gun or knife out of the woods to take a poke at me,” Jake said pensively. Considering it more, things became much more clear to him. He laughed and said, “The bastards. They’re trying to dilute the gene pool. They figure if they send every Tom, Dick and Harry after me I’ll never see the real hit man coming. I’ll be too busy sifting through all the wannabes.”
Franz nodded. “That’s what I was thinking. Why I’m here, Jake.” He opened his coat, revealing a handgun strapped under each arm.
“No. No way. I need you behind the scenes feeding me information. I need an inside guy, Franz.”
The old cop rose as nimbly as possible yet shaky nonetheless. “What you’re saying is you don’t want some old kränklich watching your back. That’s what you mean. Just say it.”
Jake let out a deep breath. It was a no win situation. “All right. You’re right. I can’t trust you. Jesus Christ, look at you. Age has nothing to do with it. You should be in the damn hospital, not out chasing bad guys. You can barely stand.”
With no grace or speed Franz drew both of his guns and pointed them to either side of him. “It’s not how fast you pull the gun, Jake, it’s the truth of your aim. And I can still shoot, damn you.”
“Put the guns away. At the range I’m sure you can still hit the target. But what if we have to run? Cancer has eaten you alive. And the cigarettes have clogged your lungs with black sludge. You can’t keep up. There’s no way. I’m not trying to be cruel, Franz. Just a realist.”
Franz slowly put his guns back into their holsters, dejected, shoulders slumped, and an air of emasculation lingering about his entire body.
Jake continued, “I’ve gotta get moving now. It’s one thing to wait here for a couple of shooters and quite another to sit here like a fish in a barrel for any dickhead drooling for a million Euro to come along.”
“Even the blind pigeon finds the bread crumb once in a while,” Franz said.
Nodding, Jake went to the window and looked out over the Inn River. Maybe he could take his fly rods out one more time. Make sure he still had the action down. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the turquoise water glistened from the sun’s rays. He imagined a trout rising to his fly, coming out of the water, and his line going stiff, bending the tip of his rod to the near breaking point. God, he had to get out on a good trout river soon or he’d go crazy.
“I can still drive, Jake. Let me take you somewhere. I can do that much.”
Jake turned to his old friend. He had a point. Jake didn’t even have a car. And if he took public transportation, someone could find out. They were scanning passports now. Sure he could use one of his fake passports, but maybe he should let Franz have something.
“Yeah, Franz. I’d hate to have this place shot all to hell anyway. Give me a couple minutes to pack a few things.”
When Jake was done packing a few items in a small backpack, he glanced around the main living area of his apartment and his eyes focused on his bike. In the past couple of weeks he had looked forward to his long sessions on his new bike. He’d even taken his old mountain bike for a ride outside once. But he preferred his road bike now.
“You got room for that in your trunk?” Jake asked, pointing to his bike.
“Sure. If you break it down.”
Moments later they were down at the curb, Jake’s bike and backpack in the trunk and both of them about to get inside.
“What’s the matter?” Franz asked, holding the driver’s door open.
Jake’s eyes scanned the street for anything out of place. There were the usual suspects moving about. He recognized most of them.
“I forgot something,” Jake said and moved toward his apartment. He had strapped his Beretta under his left arm, hidden by a light wind breaker.
“Hurry up,” Franz said, plopping himself behind the wheel.
Making his way upstairs, pain shot into his left knee. He’d forgotten his pain medication and wanted to also check one more time for anything he might need. No telling how long he might be gone.
Inside his apartment he hurried from room to room, grabbing the extra passports he’d hidden under a dresser drawer. He couldn’t believe he almost forgot them.
Stepping out into the main living room, he caught movement at the front door and thought Franz had returned.
Gun.
With one fluid motion, Jake pulled his automatic pistol from its holster and dove behind his sofa.
Bullets struck the leather with dull thuds.
Silencer, Jake thought as he rose up with his gun and fired twice, hitting the door frame next to the shooter and making the man scoot into the hallway. Jake crawled forward and peered around the end of the sofa.
More bullet strikes. This time on the wood floor next to his head, forcing him back.
Jake waited a couple seconds. Listening carefully. But his ears were ringing. He flashed back to the night Anna had been killed. Anger brewed within him. This was his turf.
Two shots from the hallway.
Jake rose up to see a dark figure shift into his apartment. He shot twice and dropped the man with a resounding thud. The sweet sound of lead striking flesh and bone.
More shots from the hallway.
Franz had forced the man into his apartment, but why were there more shots? A second shooter?
Move, Jake.
Cautiously, he rose and made his way toward the front door, his gun leading the way. The Beretta aimed at the front door, he checked the shooter’s pulse. Nothing. Then Jake pushed his body against the side of the open door, his gun just inches from his face, his breathing heavy. Slow your breaths, Jake. Like your bike ride.
“Jake.” It was Franz outside. “You all right?”
“Yeah. Where’s the second shooter?”
Just then screeching tires from the back alley.
“Coming out,” Jake yelled. Locking up, he made his way down the stairs and found Franz against the banister on the first level, one of his guns still out, spent brass at his feet.
“Let’s go,” Franz said.
“What about
the Polizei?”
Franz didn’t answer. He just led Jake to the car and got in. Jake plopped into the front seat and shoved his gun into its holster.
In seconds Franz pulled the car away from the curb and sped off, the sound of Polizei sirens approaching.
“What’s going on?” Jake asked him, looking out the back window for a tail.
“I’ll call in what happened later. Once you’re out of the way and safe.”
Jake finally got his breathing under control, his heart beats reduced to a reasonable rate. He’d felt this before, the adrenalin rush during a shooting, followed by his heart nearly exploding from his chest, and then came the crash, like a kid a few hours after eating a bag of Halloween candy. It was only then that he could feel anything at all for the man he’d just shot. The man looked to be in his late twenties—too young to die. Jake tightened his jaw. The man should have found different work.
His eyes drifted to Franz Martini, a man who had always been a by-the-book Polizei man. Jake had known Franz for years and had never seen him break protocol. But something was wrong with him now. Something out of character. He was scared.
