by Mike Nappa
He forced himself to breathe in shallow drafts, keeping his muscles frozen even while his hands gripped his SIG. Best-case scenario would be that these guys wouldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. They’d keep walking, keep searching, keep moving away until he and Samuel Hill could start moving again as well.
The three men clustered beneath Hill’s tree, and The Mute almost wished the CIA agent would start shooting. If he could take out one mercenary and confuse the others, that would give him time to fire two shots from the SIG and complete the task. But Hill had his gun tucked close to his side, his back pressed hard against the bark of the tree. He was waiting for the best-case scenario to unfold.
A moment later, a new mercenary took the wheel of the ATV and drove north into the woods. The other two men followed on foot. The Mute started counting in his head, listening for signs that the soldiers might return. When he reached a count of one hundred, he tried to make eye contact with Samuel Hill again, but the man in the tree was looking out into the forest, apparently trying to track the mercenaries’ movements from his perch up above.
At a count of one hundred and twenty, The Mute let his limbs relax. He stood and started walking toward Hill’s tree. He’d only taken two steps when the mercenary “magically” appeared between the trees to his right.
“Don’t move,” the soldier said through a thick European accent. “Don’t even clench your teeth together or I put a hole inside your skull.”
Not good, The Mute thought. Not good at all. He dropped his rifle to the ground and raised his hands in the air.
The mercenary took a step closer, and The Mute saw him staring hard at the scar on his neck.
“You are one ugly thing,” the soldier spat. “Not the guy I was looking for, but you’ll do. I recognize you from the description my CO gave this morning.”
The Mute turned slowly to face the fighter who held the gun. Still too far away to make a move. The mercenary leaned his chin toward a radio transmitter on his left shoulder. “Cat caught canary,” he said into the radio, “and this one’s got a big scar across his—”
The crack of gunfire spilled past The Mute’s ears, one beat behind the moment when the bullet entered the soldier’s chest. The man gurgled and fell to the ground, eyes already going glassy in his head. The Mute jumped toward the mercenary to finish him off, but Samuel Hill had done his job. This soldier wouldn’t last more than a minute or two longer.
Behind him, The Mute heard Hill sliding down the tree and hitting the ground with a thud. He turned in time to see the spook roll on his shoulder and then spring up to his feet.
“You’re welcome,” Hill said breathlessly. “Now, come on, we’d better get out of here before his buddies come back to see what’s taking him so long.”
A voice crackled through the radio on the dead man’s shoulder. The Mute missed the first part of what it said because the accent was confusing. But he made out the rest of it.
“ . . . girl and the woman surrounded. Forward on my mark. Geht!”
Hill heard it too. There was no need for either of them to speak. Hill pointed in the direction the other two soldiers had just gone. They both took off toward the party.
They’d been going for several minutes, trying to keep an angle wide enough not to miss the women in the woods but also trying to move swiftly toward their goal. Then there was a single gunshot, different from others they’d heard. Louder, more percussive, as if shot from a small cannon instead of an automatic pistol.
Both men stopped and took stock. The Mute listened to the echo in the trees around him. He looked toward the sky and was grateful to see a bright, full moon shining through the burned-out branches of the forest. It was not the same as sunlight, but it did give more than enough illumination for the task at hand.
The Mute isolated the origin of the echo first. He pointed, and Samuel Hill nodded.
Dead or alive, The Mute promised himself.
No one left behind. I will bring them all out.
Dead or alive.
38
Trudi
Trudi reached for Annabel’s hand, pulling her toward an opening in the tree line to the west. But before they could break into a full run, she hesitated, listening. She finally squeezed Annabel’s hand and came to a complete stop.
Trouble, she thought. Now we’re really in trouble.
The sound of ATVs crunching through the blackened remains of the Conecuh National Forest barely preceded their appearance. Two machines popped up west, blocking the way to The Mute, to safety. A third emerged from the north. There were three soldiers total, one on each of the three ATVs. Trudi recognized the men on the second and third ATVs.
Brown Head and Blondie. Apparently they’d been freed by their comrades. And rearmed with automatic weapons.
For a moment, Trudi held hope in running backward, running south toward the bunker they’d just come from. If she surprised them, if she was smart, she might be able to run, hide, ambush, run-hide-ambush some more. Do something at least until Samuel could find them and lend a helping hand.
The pig.
He always was absent when he was needed. It was like his special gift to the world. Or to Trudi personally.
Then, appearing almost as if by magic from the thick woods, a fourth ATV hummed into existence behind her. It came from the south, blocking her retreat. And it carried the one man she didn’t want to see.
“Dr. Smith,” she muttered. “Of course.”
Annabel’s eyes widened. “Johannes Smith?” she asked. Trudi didn’t answer. Instead she watched the older man unlimber himself from the ATV while the other soldiers aimed short rifles and handguns in their direction.
“Gestellt, dass sich!” He waved toward the mercenary in the north. “Dolt. You shoot her, you might hit me.”
The dolt soldier lowered his rifle immediately and began moving to his left, to a place where his line of fire wouldn’t encompass any of his allies.
“And you, Ms. Coffey,” Dr. Smith said. “Would you kindly toss your weapon to the ground now? Thank you.”
Trudi made up a new curse word inside her head, then unholstered her Beretta and sent it flying into the brush.
The old man carried no weapon, only his cane. In spite of everything, he still wore an expensive tailored suit and polished black boots that crackled the underbrush beneath him when he walked.
“Well,” he said. “At last. It’s good to see you again, meine Tochter.” He nodded politely toward Annabel.
Trudi became slowly aware of the animal beside her. A low growl rumbled from its throat, vibrating the flesh and fur he wore. She glanced down and saw Annabel’s hand resting gently on the back of the dog’s neck, saw also that her hand was the only thing preventing the German shepherd from racing to attack the old man.
“Johannes Schmitzden?” The girl’s voice was trembling, but she stood her ground. “Are you Dr. Johannes Schmitzden?”
Dr. Smith cocked his head to the side as if appraising Annabel anew.
“You know this name, yes?” he said. At the corners of his mouth, a smile played, and his eyes were alive with interest.
Annabel nodded.
The German shepherd took a step forward and bared its teeth. The girl involuntarily squeezed on its neck, and the dog responded, restraining himself but never taking his eyes off the old man.
“What of the name Raina Aemilia Gregor? Does that one speak to you as well?”
Annabel nodded.
“Who told you of these names? Steven Grant? Leonard Truckson?”
“My mother.”
Now the old man’s eyebrows rose. He appeared ready to say something more but decided against it. Instead he turned to his companions.
“Take the women,” he ordered. Then his eyes fell on the dog growling at him. “Kill the animal. Make it suffer for what it did to poor Samir.”
“Annabel,” Trudi whispered. Her mind was racing. She couldn’t let this ruthless man take the girl, but she didn’t know wh
at to do. So she said it again. “Annabel—”
But Annabel wasn’t listening. She knelt quickly beside the German shepherd. She lifted her hand off its neck, and she whispered one word:
“Angreifen.”
Trudi didn’t need to understand German to know the command the girl had just given the dog. He didn’t hesitate, launching into an instantaneous attack, barreling toward Dr. Smith like a hound of hell hungry for human blood.
The men behind her shouted. She could hear them running toward the old man. But Dr. Smith stood his ground, a new fierceness on his face. His left hand grabbed at the stem of his cane, separating it effortlessly from the handle. And Trudi now saw, as if in slow motion, the ornate handle of the cane was actually the butt of some kind of decorative handgun. The barrel of the gun slid out of the cane stem as if oiled, constantly at the ready.
Dr. Smith extended his right arm with a precise snap that was unexpectedly brisk for a man of his age. Then came the thunder, an explosion that echoed like a small cannon through the Conecuh National Forest.
The animal squealed, an agonizing yelp that followed the sound of bone cracking. It fell in a bloodied mess about four feet away from where Dr. Smith stood, unmoving.
The dog writhed on the ground, bullet imbedded deeply into its right shoulder, just below the socket. Blood seeped from the wound, turning the thirsty ground into a muddy patch. Below the wound, the dog’s foreleg twisted in grotesque fashion.
Trudi heard Annabel’s scream through a fog, as if the girl next to her was standing far away and all that reached her ears was the echo of suffering. A second later she felt the impact of a mercenary body that tackled her and pinned her painfully to the ground. Trudi tried to struggle at first but knew it was in vain. She could barely breathe from the unexpected collision, let alone struggle under the weight of the attacker who held her trapped on the ground. It was Brown Head, and this time he was taking no chances with her.
Annabel was too fast for Blondie.
She raced toward Dr. Smith, shouting in staccato breaths, “Nein! Nein! Aufhören! Lass es!”
The dog was still trying to get up, to finish the attack, unwilling to admit that the wound in his shoulder was mortal, that he was a mortal animal at all. Trudi heard the girl’s sobs, loud at first, then muffled when she buried her head into the animal’s neck.
“Nein,” Annabel said softly now. “Lass es. In Frieden.” And then “Bitte, bitte.”
Dr. Smith towered over the girl now. “This dog means something to you, yes?”
“Ja.” Annabel didn’t lift her head from the dog’s neck. “Er ist ein guter Hund. Ein guter Freund.”
Trudi wasn’t much on German, but she could guess at that last part. A good friend.
“Ja,” Smith said. “I can see this was a good dog.”
The German shepherd stilled itself at Annabel’s touch, panting, an involuntary whine escaping only intermittently.
“What if I told you that you could heal this beast? You alone. What would you think then?”
“Sie sind ein verrückter, dementen alten Mann.”
The mercenary atop Trudi snorted at Annabel’s words and shook his head in slight admiration. “Your child,” he whispered into Trudi’s ear, “just called him a crazy, demented old man.”
Dr. Smith frowned and looked up. Brown Head responded immediately, digging a fist into Trudi’s ribs. “Quiet,” he growled, covering for his lapse. Dr. Smith turned his gaze back to Annabel.
“Take the girl,” he commanded to Blondie, the soldier on his right. “Keep her bound. Your life is forfeit if she escapes. You understand?”
The mercenary nodded and reached toward Annabel. The dog growled and snapped at him, trying to defend his charge even in his immobility. Blondie leaned in to deliver a kick at the bleeding dog, but Annabel stood between them.
“I’m ready,” she said. “I won’t fight. I won’t escape.”
The soldier nodded, grabbing the girl’s arms and securing them behind her with a zip tie.
The dog growled and tried to stand.
“Nein,” Annabel commanded. “In Frieden. In Frieden.”
The dog sighed heavily and slid down to the ground, lying on its wounded shoulder, burying the pain in the ashen, blood-muddied ground.
Smart dog, Trudi thought. The weight of the dog pressing the wound into the ground will help stop the bleeding.
Next Dr. Smith moved to where Trudi lay pinned to the dirt by her captor.
“The question with you,” he said, “is whether to kill you now or to try to extract information from you first.”
“Sie ein verrückter, dementen old man.” Trudi knew she hadn’t gotten it perfectly, but she figured it would be close enough for Dr. Smith to understand the intent. She knew she was right when the man on top of her slapped the side of her head in response.
“Well,” Smith said, “you need work on both your language skills and your manners.”
He nodded to the mercenary, who quickly zip-tied Trudi’s hands and raised her to a standing position. Trudi was annoyed to feel the tingling that overtook her feet and shins. That meathead soldier had sat so hard on her that her legs had fallen asleep. Even if she were to try to kick her way out of this, it’d be a few minutes before she could put her legs to any good use. She was worried about simply balancing on her feet just now.
“You may be needed in Truckson’s bunker,” he said. “And you might be helpful with the girl.” That seemed to be enough for now. Trudi was pulled roughly toward Dr. Smith’s ATV and then zip-tied to the bar beside the passenger seat, forcing her to lean slightly off the ATV so that her right foot just barely avoided the ground. She saw that Annabel was similarly loaded onto Blondie’s ATV as well.
A moment later the little convoy sped wordlessly through the trees, heading back toward Truck’s farm and to the bunker that was hidden beneath the ground there.
Trudi worried about Samuel. Had he already been caught? Killed? Was that why he still wasn’t here? And what of The Mute? Was he still waiting at the rendezvous point? Or had he been killed too?
Trudi caught sight of Annabel on the other ATV. Her tears had dried now. Her face looked calm, passive. Resigned to her fate. But in her eyes a fire was burning. Trudi watched the forest pass by and wondered what was going through the child’s mind at this moment.
In the distance behind them, a dying animal howled.
39
Trudi
Trudi marveled at the supreme confidence of Dr. Smith. Even though she was tethered to the ATV, she was still close enough to the old man to disable him with a kick. Surely he knew she was capable of that. Yet he evinced no concern whatsoever at what she might do.
She was tempted to kick his jaw just out of spite.
She didn’t though, because she knew what he knew. No matter what she did, Annabel would be in danger. And as long as the girl was in harm’s way, Trudi wouldn’t risk anything that could get her hurt in the process or hurt as retaliation for Trudi’s actions.
The old man had reason to be unconcerned. Apparently he knew his enemies well.
They rode in silence. Trudi scanned the surrounding forest, looking for, hoping for any signs of Samuel or The Mute. She was disappointed.
“I got your phone message,” Trudi said finally.
“I know.” Dr. Smith said it like they were old friends discussing the weather.
“What did it mean?”
Dr. Smith only smiled.
“‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’?” she said. “You called my cell and left me a recitation of ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’? Maybe you are a crazy old man.”
“You are not a fan of nursery rhymes?”
Trudi glanced toward Dr. Smith and saw Annabel riding on Blondie’s ATV behind him. She was watching the old man intently, trying to follow the conversation.
“Not this time,” she said.
“I see.”
Trudi was frustrated by the smug silence that Dr. Smith ushered in at th
at moment. She tried to wait, but patience had never been her strong suit.
“So,” she said. “What did it mean?”
“Nothing,” he said.
“What?”
“It meant nothing. I could have just as easily recited Keats or the dictionary. It didn’t matter what message I left, only that I left a message.”
He flicked a look toward her, a reflection of triumph in his eyes.
What in the world is this guy talking about? she wondered. I don’t get it.
“You must know, Ms. Coffey,” he said, “that after our first meeting I made you a subject of no mild study. You had proven yourself someone of intelligence and certain physical resources.”
“Surprised you with that electrocution bit, didn’t I.”
Dr. Smith nodded in acknowledgment. “Yes, that was . . . unexpected.”
“So what did you learn about me in your studies?”
“You, Ms. Coffey, are a predictable personality.”
Trudi felt herself getting unreasonably angry at that comment. It reminded her of a recurring fight she’d had when she and Samuel were married.
“In fact,” Dr. Smith continued, “you even got a Wonder Woman tattoo on your hip just to prove to your ex-husband that you were not predictable. But getting that mark as a means of proving unpredictability was easily predictable by anyone who understands human nature.”
Trudi was really annoyed now. Only four people in the world knew about that tattoo. Trudi, Samuel, her doctor, and the tattoo artist who had applied the maroon-and-gold “WW” symbol.
So, Dr. Smith really does do his homework.
“What are you, some kind of psychiatrist?” she grumbled.
“Psychologist,” he said. “Similar, but different enough to warrant correction. And a physiologist. And a priest of the highest order.”
Trudi was tempted to ask more about that priest thing, but she was still preoccupied by the phone message.
