“No.”
“Go ahead, Jim.” Sorgi took the two cups and walked to the beverage bar, lingering there and staring out the window.
Ellis waited a moment, making little chuckling sounds on purpose.
Kenny narrowed his eyes. “Why are you laughing, sir? What is all this?”
The chuckling ceased. Ellis leaned forward, speaking to Kenny in the way only two black men can understand and appreciate. “Kenny Mars, it’s plain to these tired old eyes that you’re lyin’ outta your black butt. Your reaction to all my crazy questions was too bland, too dadgummed vanilla. Have you talked to a dead man?” Ellis asked, mocking his own query. “What the heck kinda question is that? Someone asked me that, I’d look at them like a giant water moccasin was slitherin’ out their mouth.” Ellis leaned back and stared at Mars from the corner of his eyes. “Now, if you woulda shown just enough surprise at such a question, then I’d probably be back at square one. But your response was so cold, so controlled, that I knew you had spoken with him and most likely had even seen him.”
Kenny’s gaze was hardened steel, locked in on Ellis’s eyes as if drawn by a magnet. They shared the moment, both of them appreciating it for what it was.
“So, where is he, Kenny?”
Silence.
Ellis opened his hands in a surrendering gesture. “You need to know that I don’t think he’s guilty, Kenny. I know that girl in Frankfurt was his girlfriend. As a matter of fact, I’m rogue on this thing, working on my own hunch. But I gotta stop him before he goes too far,” Ellis said, his face taut. “I can save him now, but if he goes back to Metz for revenge, he’ll be off the reservation. The Germans and the French’ll eat him up, and the U.S. will turn a blind eye to him.”
Ellis dipped his chin. “In our government’s mind, he doesn’t exist, Kenny. They wrote him off and now they’ll hang him out. He’s a spook…a ghost…and they can do that to a ghost. They’ll do some nice little favor for the French or the Germans and old Hartline or Schoenfeld will cease to exist, buried in some unmarked grave somewhere.”
Kenny licked his lips once but was otherwise unresponsive.
“Come on Kenny. Help me here. Help your old friend.”
Kenny Mars let out the breath he had been holding. Panic seemed to seize him as his eyes darted left and right. Ellis grabbed his hand.
“Is he already in Metz, Kenny?”
Kenny chewed his lower lip, air sucking in and out of his nostrils. A vein on his forehead popped out.
“Help Matthew Schoenfeld, Kenny. Help Gage.”
That did it. Kenny’s eyes went wide and his lips parted.
Ellis squeezed his hand even harder. “You have my word, brother. I’m not trying to nail him with all this. I’m trying to help a soldier, one of us, who’s in trouble. I done heard from everyone ‘bout what a good man he is. Now let’s stop him before he goes too far.”
Kenny squeezed his eyes shut for ten full seconds. Finally, to himself, he nodded and began to speak. The words crawled at first, faster once he warmed up. After two minutes, Kenny was incredibly detailed as he recanted what he and Gage had done for the last week.
From across the restaurant, Sergeant Peter Sorgi sipped his coffee and shook his head in awe. There was no limit to what Captain Damien Ellis was capable of.
***
Sunday, November 15 – Metz, France
It was Gage’s sixth bar in the past three hours. He stepped into the quiet pub, glancing around for a spot that would give him the best vantage point. The bar was located just outside of the city’s center, cut into the rock of the hillside, located down a flight of stairs and in a cave-like environment. Gage immediately recognized the Rolling Stones’ “Sway” blaring from the stereo as he slid into a darkened booth at the back of the bar. Fitting music.
There were only seven patrons, all of them sitting in twos except for a hulking type sitting alone at a table next to the bar. In a quick glance, Gage decided that none of them happened to be the big Frenchman whose life he spared—the one named Bruno. It was after midnight and Gage knew his body would require sleep soon. Trying to find his guy was like looking for a needle in a haystack, but he didn’t know any other way to do it without tipping him off, and Gage needed the element of surprise on his side.
The evening before, after he had paid cash and checked into the simple hotel on the outskirts of the city center, Gage had experienced a slow-burn adrenaline rush as he readied his supplies on the bed of the dingy studio room. He reveled in the nine-millimeter’s calculated sound as the slide floated back, securing a shining bullet, ramming the round into the clean chamber. Gage smelled the film of gun-oil in the barrel. He enjoyed the texture of the grips in his palm. Felt the lethally cold weight of the hardened steel in his hands. And it was good.
He assembled the Walther sniper-rifle, over and over, finally doing it with his eyes closed. The satisfying click of the precisely milled parts sliding together took him back to a time and place when he had once been important, had been relevant. Back when the missions were treacherous and critical; when his only worries were keeping his teammates safe; when guys laughed at stitches and bullet wounds; when a bottle of Wild Turkey was shared over stories of great peril in places like Karachi and Tbilisi and Damascus and El Obeid; when Uncle Sam valued him, adored him for his abilities. Before Crete. Before Metz. Before Monika. Before this mess he was now planning to create.
He had stopped what he was doing.
Not planning to create…going to create.
Gage had pulled the curtain back, aiming the rifle nearly a kilometer down the hill, tracking people as they walked the path on the bank of the Moselle. Each person moved in a hurry, the wind biting their skin as they hustled to wherever it was they were going. Not a one of them had a clue that one of the world’s finest rifles was trained on them and, had a bullet been in the chamber, their certain death could lie less than one supersonic second away, smaller than a fingernail, capable of covering thousands of feet in the blink of an eye, able to penetrate armor, shatter bone, with enough inertia to keep right on going.
As he sat there in the semi-crowded bar, recalling the emotions he had felt late the night before, Gage knew he shouldn’t move forward. He should do what Hunter had said, and get to the States and let him get him some help.
He should.
But the simple fact was Gage felt better than he had in years. There had been times before when the headaches had abated, but having a new mission had completely killed his depression and constant worry. The upset stomach had been gone for the entire week. He had even slept well at night, never waking to a nightmare or the pangs of guilt.
Gage Hartline—Gage of old—was alive, and doing quite well.
He glanced at his simple backpack to his left, nothing more than a simplified version of his team pack. It had everything he needed, and if it didn’t, what the hell did it matter? Coming out alive was not mission-critical. If he lived, fine. This wasn’t a suicide mission. But if he were to go down with the mission, the only disappointment would be the mission’s incompletion. That would constitute failure, and that couldn’t be an option. These men needed to be made to—
And then, as if by magic, the medieval-style door at the bottom of the stairs banged open, and in lumbered Bruno, the amber light of the bar illuminating the pinkish, healing scar on his forehead. Gage dipped his head as the big man plodded across the bar, taking a seat opposite the other hulk who had been sitting by himself.
Studying them, it was easy to see a resemblance as the two brutes sat directly across from one another. They had to be brothers. Gage could see the similarity of their profiles and their mass. Both were big—at least 6’3” and weighing more than two-hundred-fifty pounds. They both had slumped backs, rounded shoulders, and the back of each man’s oversized head was long and sloped, with no undercut between the enormous head and the nearly nonexistent neck. Bruno was mostly bald. His brother had thin, dark hair that should have been shaved like Brun
o’s. Both men wore a scowl that screamed bad attitude. Two thuggish monsters used to getting their way wherever they went.
The bartender, upon seeing Bruno, hustled around the bar with a tall bottle of clear liquid and a shot glass. His brother was drinking red wine. Bruno tipped the bottle, downing a shot and pouring another almost immediately.
When the bartender came to him, Gage ordered a beer in French and removed a newspaper from his bag, also French. Rather than read, Gage used the newspaper as a prop, hiding himself and glancing occasionally at the two men as they proceeded to drink the contents of their respective bottles.
Gage couldn’t believe it. Tonight was going to be the night. He took several deep breaths, wanting to drink the beer but willing himself not to throw away years of sobriety, even on a night such as this.
Over the course of watching the two Frenchmen, twice Gage stepped to the restroom behind him, only after the two thugs had freshened their drinks. He stepped into the tiny toilet, dumped his beer, ordered another. As he waited, pretending to drink, he studied the two men, gauging them. Usually able to read people in a short amount of time, Gage decided they were both somewhat simple, but most likely vicious. Especially if cornered. Two pit bulls. The contempt with which they talked to the bartender; the animalistic way they ogled a man’s wife as the couple walked by; the way they spoke to one another: these men were career hooligans, and violence and intimidation was the only way they knew how to get what they wanted.
Gage understood men like that. And he knew what it would take to get through to them.
After two and a half hours, the two men stood and staggered to the door, cursing the bartender, cursing one another. Gage counted to thirty, dropped ten euro on the table, and followed.
It was 2:30 in the morning.
It was time.
***
After stepping into the frigid night air, Gage felt a stab of panic when he didn’t see the men on the street or the pedestrian walkway that ran beside the bar. The distant sound of an engine and the red and white lights of an automobile backing up alerted Gage to a parking lot down the street, across the Moselle River. Gage sprinted down the sidewalk, eventually seeing the profile of Bruno in the blue, four-door Opel. The car’s tires spun as it fishtailed from the parking lot and began moving southward on the other side of the river.
Gage cinched his pack upward on his back and sprinted. He was not as fast as he had once been, but could still move at a brisk pace, and the adrenaline coursing through his veins helped give him an initial burst that helped him keep up.
The car was not racing away as if it was running; it was jinking and weaving as if it was driven by a drunk, which it most certainly was. Mercifully, three blocks down the river, the car slid to a halt at a traffic light, slightly askew. Gage was a block behind, and still on the eastern side of the Moselle. He slowed his pace, glancing about for a taxi or anyone who might help him. It was late and the streets were empty. As he ran on, the light flickered to green, and the Opel lurched forward, tires scraping, turning left into the murky night.
Putting on an extra burst, Gage crossed the footbridge at Rue Harelle, forcing himself into a fast trot in the direction Bruno’s car had gone. He could see the car’s taillights far ahead and, as he ran, eventually—Gage guessed at least a kilometer down the road—the car turned right and was lost behind the trees. Now jogging, Gage watched as the lights flickered intermittently as they disappeared up the road. At one point, well up the road and mostly obscured by vegetation, he thought he saw the dark red signature of brake lights.
Gage was deflated. He could simply call it a night and try to acquire transportation on the next day, repeating the task until Bruno and his brother reappeared. Part of him wished he had taken Kenny’s offer of the use of his car for a few days. Gage had resisted vehemently, knowing that it would have easily implicated Kenny in what he was about to do. Kenny had provided enough help with his equipment.
With no lights to follow, Gage slowed to a walk. There were two right turns along the road, each leading down into the river valley. Gage passed them and kept going. Finally, more than a kilometer into the country and farmland, at the beginning of a rise, Gage spotted a darkened road that moved upward. Bruno’s lights had gone upward. He turned and began to look for homes or other streets.
It was nearly a half kilometer before Gage came to a turnoff to his right: a gravel driveway. He walked down the road, eventually seeing a large farmhouse and knowing immediately that it was not where Bruno lived. He left the way he came, repeating the process four times at what he judged to be at least four full kilometers from the city. It was now four in the morning.
At the top of another rise was the first drive Gage saw to the left side of the road. All of the others had been to the right, into the arable farmland that no doubt took irrigation from the adjacent river. This driveway went further upward, into the craggy woods and the blankets of darkness. Turning back to the hazy lights of the city, a misty corona in the distance, the former soldier went through the machinations of what would soon occur. If this was the mobsters’ place, they were drunk and tired. The military has a readiness time, about this time each day, known simply as stand-to. Stand-to exists because in World War II, the Japanese knew the human body was at its most-tired, least-ready state between three and six in the morning. They would wait patiently, holding their attack until most of the American soldiers were asleep or wishing they were. After several blistering early-morning defeats, the military consulted professional behaviorists, and stand-to was born.
Gage cracked his knuckles before stretching lightly. Unlike his quarry, he was sober. He was wide awake. He was ready. A quick glance at his Timex showed the time as 4:12 a.m. He doubted Bruno and his brother practiced stand-to, or even knew what the hell it meant. And, as he reminded himself, this may not be their place. It would be the last one he would check. If it wasn’t, Gage decided he would jog back to his hotel for sleep. He could start fresh again tomorrow.
The path was not incredibly long, but it was well concealed by the thick brambles on both sides of the rutted path. The leafless trees partially shrouded the purple night, making the dark even darker as fingers of uncut limbs scraped Gage, keeping him away from the edge of the rough road. As the drive leveled off, Gage sensed light coming from an opening at the top of the hill. He slowed. When he reached the mouth of the path, he peered around a large tree, seeing a small timber and stone house. It appeared to be very old and, thankfully, had no exterior lights turned on. The light Gage had seen was spilling from a large window to the right of the front door. From what he could see, the entire residence was unkempt, with stains on the white boards and scraggly bushes struggling to grow around the stone foundation.
Taking his time, Gage waited a full five minutes before easing himself into the clearing around the home. He moved low and slow to give himself a view of the right side of the house. When he was in position, Gage allowed his eyes to adjust to the blackness and what he saw took his breath. Parked to the right rear of the house, at an odd angle, was a blue Opel four-door.
The blue Opel four-door.
Gage licked his lips, moved to the house and flattened himself against the side. He slid around to the front, lowering his bag to his feet and removing a black rod, extending it. Gage tilted the mirror on the end to a desired angle, using it to peer around the room inside the large plate glass window.
Sitting in an orange chair in the center of the room was Bruno. Through the tiny mirror, Gage could clearly see the scar on his forehead. An already disgusting man, he was all the more repulsive at that moment because he was masturbating—or trying to. Between Gage and Bruno was a television, probably displaying a pornographic film. As the light from the TV danced, Gage noticed with some satisfaction that Bruno was flaccid.
Booze will do that to you, little big man.
Gage twisted the mirror, scanning the grimy room for any sign of the man he presumed to be Bruno’s brother. Other than ga
rbage, dirty plates, and a pistol sitting in front of Bruno, he saw no sign of the other goon.
After hitching up his bag, he made his way around the house, ready to run at the first sign of a dog, alarm, or even a motion-detecting light. Fortunately for him, there were none. At the back of the house were three windows, and the first one he came to revealed dull light coming from inside. With the mirror, Gage was able to see the light coming from a bathroom at the back of what looked like a bedroom. And in the center of the bedroom was a double bed, upon which was the other thug, facedown, his clothes still on. He wasn’t moving.
Just in case, Gage checked every other room, even looking for signs of a basement. After fifteen tedious minutes, he was certain the brothers were the only two people in the house.
Gage’s heart beat like the thump of artillery. He licked his lips, stunned to find himself smiling, grinning wide like some kid going to his first big-league ball game. He collected himself, willing his decisions and actions to be surgical. The time for pleasure would come later.
Making his way back to the north side of the house, where the car was parked, Gage ascended the three-step stoop, checking the door knob. It was unlocked. He took a deep breath, twisted it, and waited for an alarm or reaction.
Nothing happened.
Gage eased the door open, cringing when a squeak escaped. He trained his nine millimeter down the hallway but no one appeared. Gage stepped inside, leaving the door open. He cleared the room, eventually lowering his bag to the floor and leaving it in a corner by the old gas stove. As Gage watched for movement, he cursed himself for not deciding on a shotgun rather than the sniper rifle. It had all boiled down to a question of space, and the rifle broke down to a smaller size than the Spas-12 Gage wished he was holding right now. He’d simply have to make do. Gage stepped left, chancing a look into the room with the television. Sure enough, what appeared to be a very old skin flick was playing with the volume turned louder than necessary. It was American.
The Diaries - A Gage Hartline Espionage Thriller (#1) Page 31
