Without Options

by Trevor Scott

Reluctantly, the man did just that, his jaw to the point of crushing his own teeth.

  Inside the room, Franz first noticed Jake’s bike against one wall, his helmet strapped around the handle bars and his shoes sitting underneath. Then he saw the dead man, covered like the man dead in Jake’s apartment with the standard-issue clear plastic. Each spent brass casing was marked with a numbered tag. Five feet from the dead man was a pool of blood.

  “Did you get a sample of that?” Franz asked a technician.

  “Ja, Herr Martini.”

  Well, at least someone remembered him, Franz thought. His eyes scanned the room looking for anything that could help him understand the scene.

  Hermann Jung stepped up to Franz and said, “It looks like Jake Adams was wounded.”

  “Why do you say that?” Franz inquired, not looking at the younger man.

  “The extra blood.”

  Franz tried his best not to slap Jung across the head. Instead, he pointed to the bed. “Jake wasn’t in the room. Two men kicked the door in and started shooting. One went to the bathroom and shot a few more times. At what? Nothing. Because somehow Jake knew they were coming and he entered behind them. That’s his brass outside the door on the sidewalk. Those are forty cal, his weapon of choice.” Franz didn’t bring up the fact that the bullets that killed the man on the floor might have been standard Austrian Polizei issue rounds from the gun he had provided Jake to protect himself.

  “But then where is Herr Adams?” Hermann Jung asked derisively.

  Without answering, Franz went to the dead man on the floor, pulled aside the plastic and examined the body. Pulling up the sleeve on both arms, he noticed a tattoo on the man’s left forearm. He smiled and pointed. “You found no identification?”

  “None. Just like the man at the apartment.”

  “This man is a Serb.”

  “What?” Hermann came closer and stooped down. “How can you be sure?”

  “The tattoo. Two-headed eagle with two sabers, topped off with the crown. That’s from the Serbian Army flag.”

  The wheels seemed to be turning in Herman Jung’s mind, trying to assess the situation anew. “So, the other man wounds Jake Adams and takes him with him for some reason. That makes sense.”

  Jesus, help me, Franz thought as he lowered the sheet back onto the dead Serb. He rose and towered above Jung. How in the hell had this man filled his position? “No. You have it backwards. As I mentioned, Jake wasn’t here when the men came in shooting. They don’t need anything from Jake, other than his death, to receive the bounty on his head. All they need is proof of death. Jake, on the other hand, needed something from these two. He needed to find out why they wanted him dead and who had hired them. So, Jake shot this man in self-defense, shot and wounded the other assailant, and then took him in their car.” After he said this last part, he wished he’d kept his mouth shut. Sometimes his own superiority got in the way of logic. But he couldn’t help correcting such a flamboyant dolt.

  With that, Hermann Jung rushed out of the gasthaus room onto the parking lot, pulling his cell phone out and talking in private. Franz glanced one last time around the room to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. Jake was either the best Franz had ever seen, or the luckiest bastard alive. How had he known these two would come for him here at this time? Franz thought about the isolated location of the gasthaus, the distance to St. Anton, possible response time and direction of that response, and came up with his best guess. Jake had planned this out quite specifically. It was perfect. Luck had nothing to do with it. He smiled thinking of the intelligent guile of his American friend.

  Hermann Jung came back ten minutes later, a smirk on his face. “Thank you for your help, Herr Martini.”

  Hesitating and in deep thought, Franz said, “What have you done?”

  “One of the men rented a car at the Innsbruck airport using a Serbian passport. They don’t see them very often, so the rental agent made a mental note. The men rented an Audi A4 just hours ago. I’ve put out a bulletin on it. I also informed Interpol in case Adams decides to cross into Germany or another country.”

  Great. Franz checked his watch. “He could be in Germany, Switzerland or Italy by now.” At least Franz hoped so.

  Hermann gnashed down on his teeth. “We’ll find him. Trust me on this, Herr Martini.”

  “You mentioned in the bulletin that Jake Adams is a victim here,” Franz said vehemently.

  Not answering, Hermann Jung walked away.

  That was fantastic, Franz thought. Now he’d have to clean up this mess behind the scene to keep Jake out of jail. But he wasn’t sure if he still had enough pull in the Austrian Polizei to make that happen.

  Central Intelligence Agency

  Langley, Virginia

  Behind his large desk off the command center, his second office and nearly his second home, CIA Director Kurt Jenkins clasped his hands together in deep thought. His intense eyes moved from the 24-inch LCD screen to a briefing one of his analysts had set in front of him moments ago before leaving him alone to his thoughts. Since taking over the Agency, this was the second time he had been briefed on his old friend Jake Adams. Sure he’d tried to call Jake back into service many times while he was the deputy director of the CIA. Maybe that was a mistake. But he always thought of Jake when he needed something done and could trust no others to do the job with such great verve. And Kurt trusted him like a brother. But this report was disturbing. He had also kept Jake’s recent problems secret from Jake’s ex-girlfriend, Toni Contardo. After what happened the last time the two of them had worked together, he thought that Toni and Jake should keep their distance. Love hate? That was the problem. Kurt wasn’t sure how the two of them felt toward each other anymore. Not that it mattered to him. He had asked the analyst to fetch Toni as soon as he scanned the briefing and she should have been to his office by. . .

  Knock on the door.

  Now.

  Toni entered wearing black slacks and a black sweater that highlighted her still-perfect body. Her long curly black hair flowed sensuously over her shoulders with each step she took in her high-heeled boots. He certainly understood Jake’s attraction. God, almost forty and she was still beautiful. But Toni was now untouchable. Married to a wealthy businessman from New York, whom she didn’t get to see much thanks to Kurt sending her all over the world on special projects. Helluva way to run a marriage.

  She took a seat on a leather chair to the side of the large desk, her hand sweeping hair away from her dark eyes. She crossed her legs and slowly tapped her fingernails on the arm of the chair.

  “You get your morning coffee?” Kurt asked her.

  Toni’s eye’s glanced at the wall, where numerous clocks ran from zulu in the center to locations around the world. It was zero six thirty local east coast. “An hour ago. What’s up?”

  “We have a situation in Europe with one of our assets,” Kurt started. “Former assets.” He searched for his words. “Let me bring you up to date.” He explained to Toni what had happened to Jake over two months ago in Austria, just days after Jake had worked a private case in Bulgaria. When he was done he waited for a response, knowing it could be anything from subdued indifference to pulling a gun and shooting him between the eyes.

  She looked stunned. “Jake almost died two months ago and I’m first hearing about it now? We’ve been friends for years.”

  “I know. I shouldn’t have kept it from you, but we weren’t sure if the hit was directed toward him or his wife.”

  “Girlfriend” she corrected.

  “Right. Besides, we had a local asset watching him while he was in the hospital for two months. If nobody tried to finish the job, we thought the hit must have been on Anna.”

  Toni’s expression changed from concern to alarm. “Really.”

  Kurt nodded.

  Expelling a deep breath, Toni said, “He could have used a friend, Kurt. I should have been there for him. He probably thinks I’m a complete ass.”

  “I thou
ght you moved on. You’re married.”

  “We’re still friends.”

  Looking at the briefing again, Kurt thought how he had directed the conversation and realized he couldn’t have done it any better than he had. Now to close the deal.

  “That’s not everything,” Kurt said. “There was another hit attempt on Jake yesterday at his apartment in Innsbruck.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “Yeah. Jake killed one man, a Turkish Kurd, but the other man got away.”

  “Innsbruck? He was living in Vienna.”

  “He still owns the apartment in Innsbruck. Anna’s parents dissolved her apartment and sent Jake’s stuff back to his old place. Also, a man died setting a bomb to Jake’s car a few days before Jake got out of the hospital.”

  “Jesus,” she muttered. “What has he gotten into this time?”

  The two of them sat in silence for a moment. Kurt fiddled with the paper and Toni squeezed down on the arms of the chair.

  “What do you plan on doing?” Toni asked.

  “What do you suggest? He’s not officially our asset. He’s an independent contractor. A private security consultant.”

  She pushed forward in her chair. “After all he’s done for this Agency? And this country. We sure as hell better help him. Besides, this could be related to a mission from his Agency days.”

  “Settle down. He’s my friend too. I was asking for your opinion. I guess I have that now.”

  Her body relaxing somewhat, she slumped back into the leather. “Well, send me to help him. Sounds like he could use a second set of eyes.”

  A speaker on Kurt’s desk beeped and a woman’s face came onto his screen. “Sir, Johnson is here to brief you.”

  “Have him wait,” Kurt said.

  “He says he must see you immediately. About your friend.”

  “Fine. Send him in.” Kurt clicked off his assistant’s image.

  Seconds later Johnson came in, stood across the desk from his boss, and handed him a briefing. Johnson was a former Navy communications specialist, but Kurt Jenkins had started to use him as a general analysts in the past month. He trusted the man. And that was everything to any CIA director.

  “Are we sure it was Jake Adams?” Kurt asked Johnson.

  “Yes, sir. He used his personal Visa at the gasthaus. And the bike he left behind was his. Purchased recently in Innsbruck.”

  Kurt Jenkins handed the paper to Toni, who had moved forward in her chair again anxiously.

  “That’ll be all Johnson. Thanks.”

  Johnson lifted his chin and started to leave.

  “Just a minute,” Toni said.

  The analyst stopped and turned to Toni.

  “Are you sure the Austrian Polizei are looking for Jake?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Because of this recent attempt at the gasthaus?” she inquired.

  “No, ma’am. Because of the man he killed at his apartment in Innsbruck. But I’m sure they’ll intensify their search after this recent attack.”

  Toni looked at the briefing and said, “It says here there were two attackers at the St. Anton gasthaus. What happened to the second man?”

  Johnson hunched his shoulders.

  “Speculate,” Kurt said.

  “My guess,” Johnson said, “is that Jake took the man. The car they rented at the Innsbruck airport is also missing.”

  “Thanks. That’s all.” Kurt smiled and the analyst left.

  Toni slid the briefing back onto the desk.

  “What do you think?” Kurt asked Toni.

  She rubbed her temples in deep thought. Finally, she said, “You really want to know?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, since Jake knew he was under attack at his place, he must have left town on his bike. His car had been blown up. So he goes to St. Anton and uses his own Visa to pay for the place. If Jake didn’t want to be found, he wouldn’t be found. He’d be back home in Montana fly fishing. He expected another attempt. He looked forward to another try. He could have easily killed both of the men at the gasthaus, but instead he keeps one man alive. Why? To acquire information. To find out who was after him. And he will find out.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Kurt said. “So how will you find him? He’s incommunicado now, I’m sure.”

  Kurt could see that something wasn’t working for Toni. She looked confused. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Do you find it strange that the first man Jake killed at his apartment was a Kurd and now two Serbs try to take him out? What’s up with that?”

  “Not to mention those who tried to kill Jake a couple months ago. One was a Bulgarian and the other a Hungarian. Because he was attacked just after taking down a terror group in Bulgaria, we checked into it carefully. But found no connection whatsoever.”

  “That makes no sense, Kurt.”

  “Get over there. Having been the station chief in Vienna, you have many contacts in Austria.”

  Toni rose and hesitated.

  “Take someone with you,” he said.

  Shaking her head, she said, “No. Jake won’t trust anyone but me.”

  “There isn’t anyone?”

  “Not directly. But any help behind the scenes would be greatly appreciated. If you could direct some assets to find out who’s trying to kill Jake. . .” Her words drifted off with a smile.

  “Already on it.”

  “Outstanding.” She started to leave but stopped before opening the door. “Oh, and I could use a ride with a diplomatic pouch”

  “The jet is being fueled on the tarmac as we speak. Take whatever guns and communications equipment you need.”

  She smiled and left him alone in the room. Jesus, she looked just as good going as she did coming. And not once did she mention her husband. Interesting.

  He looked over the two briefing papers again trying to gain further insight into this strange case. Toni had been right. What had Jake gotten himself into this time? Sure he’d made many enemies over the years. But hits were normally ordered because someone represented a threat in some way. A threat to ideology. A threat to continued wealth. Yet, revenge was also a great motivator. He had a feeling Toni would find the answer soon enough.

  8

  Driving much of the night, unsure where to go or what to do, stopping and going erratically with no great desire to show any logical pattern, Jake crossed into Germany nearly an hour ago and drove to Garmish-Partenkirchen, the ski resort that hosted the 1936 Winter Olympics. Jake had skied the Zugspitze, Germany’s highest mountain, many times and was quite familiar with Garmish. But he wasn’t sure why he’d come here. Maybe he felt safe here. Maybe he wanted to stay in familiar surroundings. He was now just a mountain pass away from crossing back into Austria and down to Innsbruck. More than anything, he needed some rest and some time to think. On the drive the night before, he’d stopped in a few isolated areas to rest his eyes, but the cold mountain air had made him get on the road again. Once getting to Garmish, though, he couldn’t check into a hotel or gasthaus at five in the morning. Instead, he’d found a bakery with a coffee bar and started sucking down the thick black brew, while pounding down a couple of pastries. He considered driving north to Munich and hanging out there for a while. He’d worked for years in Germany as an officer in the CIA. Since quitting the Agency years ago, he’d spent most of the time living in Europe, mostly Austria, but he’d crossed over into Germany many times. Which made him think about what the Serb had said, saying a man named Gunter Schecht had put out the hit on him. That, of course, was impossible. Jake had shot the man dead along the Rhine River in Bonn, Germany. Somebody was using the man’s name to screw with Jake. But who? Who knew Jake had killed the man? That could be a long list, since anyone with access to that incident would know. Over the years Jake had worked with Gunter’s niece, Alexandra, an officer with BND, German Federal Intelligence Service. Maybe Jake had found his direction.

  Leaving the bakery, a coffee to go in his rig
ht hand and the keys in his left, Jake stopped when he saw the green and white German Polizei car parked behind the Audi A4. He sipped coffee and then continued forward, past the Audi and past the BMW Polizei car—a younger officer inside on the computer. Damn it.

  Without thinking, Jake rounded the back of the Polizei car, came up along the driver’s side, swung open the door and dumped his coffee on the man’s lap. The Polizei officer jerked his body back against the seat, and when he did, Jake punched the man in the face with a back fist, knocking him out.

  Hurry now, Jake. He checked the computer and saw that the officer had already called in the Audi A4. Damn it.

  Over the radio, dispatch was asking about the car.

  Then the screen flipped to a wanted person notice for Germany and Austria, searching for Jake. He was screwed now. He had to move fast.

  Glancing about the area, especially to the bakery he’d just sat in for nearly an hour, nobody had seen Jake hit the cop. He slowly closed the door, wiped his prints from anything he’d touched, and hurried to the Audi. He needed to move the car and dump it.

  Fifteen minutes later, Jake had dropped off the Audi in a residential area a few blocks from the downtown of Garmish, wiped the car as clean as he could and hoisted his pack to his back and started walking with purpose toward the S-Bahn train station a kilometer away. If he got lucky, he could get right onto a train. The two guns could be a problem, but trains within the country still had mild security on the commuter lines. He rarely saw anyone stopped, unless they were drunks or derelicts. Regardless, he swapped out his passport to a diplomatic U.S. version, which would allow him to be armed.

  Hiking along, he saw a Polizei car race on a street across the river in the direction of the bakery. The cop had called in his assault. Crap. He had a pretty good relationship with German Polizei. Not just friends, but he had lectured them a number of times on counter-terrorism in nearby Oberammergau. He’d have to be sure to send the guy a Christmas present.

  At the S-Bahn station, Jake bought a one-way ticket to Nurnberg with cash, but he’d get off before Munich. He did get lucky. The train was on the track and pulled out with German precision ten minutes after Jake sat down, his eyes on the station for any Polizei. None came.