Battle of the Bulge

by Pamfiloff, Mimi Jean

  I have very few family left. My grandparents are dead. My father and mother passed before I was ten. My uncle, who raised me, died last year. All I have now are a few distant cousins, one who lives here in Houston. I barely know him, but I’m trying to change that.

  “It won’t be enough.” I go back to making sandwiches. Who can think on an empty stomach?

  “Then answer this question for me, Mitch. Do you want the people who murdered your uncle to get off free? Do you think they have the right to take your life?”

  “You know I don’t think that.”

  “Well, neither do I, because if it were my uncle they’d hurt, I’d be pissed as hell. They don’t get to bury the shame of their family because of greed. They don’t get to commit murder and rob you of someone you loved. Which means you have to stay alive and testify.”

  I agree, but I’d add the point that they don’t get to rob me of a second chance at competing in the Olympics either. Swimming is my life, and I’ve sacrificed more than anyone knows.

  And there’s no fucking way I’ll let these greedy bastards walk. They’ve already caught the guy who killed my uncle. He goes by the name of Kristoff Bones and is a ruthless piece of garbage, though it’s hard to take him seriously with a name like that. Bones makes me think of Star Trek, one of my all-time favorite shows. Either way, Kristoff’s the one who put an open hit on me since he’s in prison and can’t get the job done himself. He’s not talking to authorities about who hired him, but I know. The Kemmler family’s behind it, which is why Interpol is working with local authorities to issue warrants in Germany and Switzerland.

  The sticky part of this is that everything hinges on those warrants. If they find no connection to Kristoff or he doesn’t cave and cooperate, the Kemmler family will get off free.

  So why do they want me dead?

  Two reasons: One, I witnessed my uncle’s murder. When Kristoff finally goes on trial, my testimony puts him away for life.

  Two, it’s a well-known fact that I have a photographic memory—a result of world-class coaching techniques focusing heavily on recall. I have almost as many hours in the pool as I have outside, visualizing the strokes of my arms and feeling my legs kick at just the right thrust to put me across the finish line faster than anyone else.

  My memory is why they’re afraid I might’ve seen the black-and-white photos before my uncle was killed. And they’re right. I see them now just as clearly as if I were holding them in my hand. They show Nazi soldiers standing next to a snow-covered embankment next to the River Meuse in Dinant, Belgium, while saluting a man. To someone like my uncle, and even to myself at the time before I became interested in this specific topic, they look like any other wartime photos. A bloody moment of history that would live on in books, movies, and even video games. But to the family of the man being saluted, they are proof of a legacy they wanted to erase forever. To them, the photos show Ralf Kemmler was in command—a junior officer promoted on the battlefield after their unit suffered considerable casualties. The pictures prove he was there, and being that he was in command, he was the only person who could have given the order to execute a group of British Allied soldiers after they were captured near Dinant. Under the Geneva Convention, prisoners of war are supposed to be provided shelter, food, and medical attention. But food was scarce. The weather was grueling and cold. They were losing. Ralf Kemmler decided it was better to murder the men even though the plan of attack had failed. They were about to lose the war.

  Later, after the war ended, Kemmler was set free. There was no firm evidence to disprove his claims—that he was nothing more than a foot soldier, as his official papers stated, and he played no part in the executions. At the time, my grandfather’s photos weren’t known about, and after he passed, his belongings were packed in boxes and stored in my uncle’s attic.

  Then, one day, my uncle is cleaning out our attic, and he finds the box. Thinking these are pieces of history belonging in a museum, he scans part of the collection and posts them on a few historian chat groups specifically dedicated to this particularly infamous battle. The next thing I know, the pictures disappear from those sites, my uncle is lying facedown in the driveway, and there’s a man pulling away in a gray van just as I’m coming back from a run.

  I got a good look at the asshole and the car. The stroke of luck was that the police happened to be two blocks over, dealing with some other issue. Kristoff Bones was caught later that morning after a long car chase, but no one knows what happened to the photos.

  So why do I assume Albert was killed over all this when Ralf Kemmler has been dead for years? Money.

  After the war, Ralf Kemmler ended up founding the world’s biggest greeting-card company with a presence in twenty-two countries. And even though the family doesn’t have any direct ties to this dark chapter of history, nobody wants to buy birthday cards from people associated with a mass-murderer Nazi. If these photos get out, or if I publicly identify Ralf Kemmler as the person I saw being saluted, it would sink a three-hundred-million-euro company.

  I still wonder how the family heard about the photos at all. Maybe the family keeps an eye out for stuff. Maybe they have connections in some of the museums my uncle approached.

  Doesn’t matter. Because they messed with the wrong Aussie. I might run around in swimmers and pose in fashion magazines, but that’s not a pussy I’m packing down there. Not that there’s anything wrong with those. I damned well love ’em.

  “Abi,” I draw a breath, “I’m not going to let these massive wankers ruin my career and get away with murder. But you, woman, are just another liability, so why don’t you leave the bodyguarding to the pros, eh?”

  Her face turns a fiery shade of red. “If I weren’t so determined to make you eat those sexist words, I’d kill you myself. That, and I think it’s really awful what they did.”

  She’s sweet. Too damned sweet. But I can’t call myself a man, knowing she’s absolutely, most definitely going to get hurt if she stays with this job.

  They are coming for me.

  They won’t stop.

  But I chose not to go into hiding, and I am not a guy worth dying for. I’m just a regular bloke who loves swimming. But I’m no one worth kicking the bucket over. Sam, Phil, and the other guys are ex-soldiers, and they’ve seen it all. They know what they’re getting into. But Abi is a nice girl. The type us men live to fight for, not the other way around.

  “Sweetheart, take the money. You can’t be a bodyguard. You can’t be anything but hot.”

  Her small hand whips across my face with a hard slap. “Fuck you, Mitch.”

  I really wish she wouldn’t use that word. Fuck. It makes me think of what I want to do to her right now. I’d also like to tell her that no one has the right to dictate what she does, so she’s right to give me a wallop, but I want her gone. By any means possible.

  “Naw, Abi. If I wanted a screw, I would’ve done it the night you begged me to.”

  She narrows those eyes. “You’re disgusting.”

  “Basically, yeah.” Don’t you understand that I’m not worth your life? Just leave, woman. Leave.

  And she does, but it’s not without some guilt on my part. I take no pleasure in treating her like this.

  Be strong. You know what’s right.

  “And don’t come back!” I yell.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Abi

  “What an ass! If he wants me to quit, then fine, I’ll quit,” I mumble as I walk to the front gate and let myself out. I hit my Uber app and see it’s a six-minute wait, so I decide to text Sam.

  Me: You up? We need to talk.

  No reply. “Come on. Answer.”

  Me: ???

  Sam: . . .

  My phone rings, and it’s him. “Hello?”

  “Why are you at Mitch’s house at twelve thirty at night?”

  “How do you know where I am?” The night air is cold, so I start buttoning my coat with one shivering hand. The street Mitch lives on is qui
et, but well lit. It’s the kind of neighborhood where the homes are big and people are overly paranoid, so I feel fairly safe.

  Other than a bunch of crazy hit men on the loose, possibly watching Mitch’s house. I pat my purse, ensuring I’ve come prepared.

  “You’re using the company phone. We have trackers on them. Didn’t Cray tell you?”

  “No. But that’s spying.”

  “It’s safety. What if you’re kidnapped or something?”

  “Oh. That. Okay, fine, it’s appropriate,” I reluctantly admit.

  “What’s not is you being at the client’s house so late when you’re not working.”

  “Well, it won’t be a problem again, because I quit, Sam. Mitch is a complete turd-kabob. Like, not just one turd, but a whole string of nastiness all stuck together in one giant shitty mess.”

  Sam is silent at first, which makes me think he’s preparing his argument.

  “I agree,” he says.

  “Sorry?”

  “I agree. This was a mistake. I never should have hired you.”

  Huh? “Is this some reverse psychology thing?”

  “Nope. It’s me admitting I was wrong. I knew Mitch would resist having you in his detail. I knew you two had some sort of falling-out.”

  “We never fell in. So it’s a little hard to fall out.”

  “The details don’t concern me,” he says. “This situation is dangerous, and I should’ve known better.”

  “Yeah, I heard about the war photos and Mitch’s uncle.”

  “So he told you.” Sam sighs.

  “Not exactly. That reporter came to my house. He wanted information—said he’d scratch my back if I scratched his.”

  “Dammit. That guy is relentless. I’m almost tempted to leak the story to his competitor Gisselle just so they’ll go away.”

  Gisselle is the woman who showed up to the charity event and started fighting with Leland.

  “So, Sam, what’s the plan?”

  “What do you mean?” he asks.

  “When does Mitch testify? When does all this end?” Because first he’s got to make it alive until this Kristoff guy’s trial. Then it sounds like this international court is investigating the Kemmler family’s part in the murder and whether or not it’s tied to those photos. Leland sounded convinced. So did Mitch. I just wonder if Mitch telling this court what he saw in the pictures is enough to bring the Kemmlers to justice. I’m no lawyer, but it sounds flimsy. Regardless, what I think doesn’t matter. If the Kemmlers want history buried, they’ll bury it.

  “I really don’t know when this will be over,” Sam says; his voice sounds deeply troubled. “Everything’s being handled in closed court sessions. My job is just to keep Mitch safe until he’s summoned.”

  I suddenly feel bad for quitting like this. “Are you going to be all right? I mean, do you have enough people to cover Mitch in Miami?”

  “I could have a hundred people surrounding him at all times, and it wouldn’t be enough. He shouldn’t be going at all.”

  Well, great! Now I feel like the turd-kabob.

  Sam adds, “The people behind this basically placed an ad in Craigslist for assassins. One million dollars in cryptocurrency to anyone who kills Mitch.”

  “Jesus, even I’d consider killing him for that much money.”

  “Not funny, Abi. It’s going to take a miracle to keep him alive. It was a mistake even taking him on as a client—the man needs an army, not bodyguards.”

  “Why did you agree to protect him, then?”

  “His uncle was a close friend of mine back when I was in the Marines. He was part of a training exchange with the Australians. They hosted several survivalist bootcamps in the outback.”

  “Oh. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were friends.” But it explains why Sam has been so over-the-top hands-on when he’s supposed to be letting Phil handle everything.

  “Albert called me right before he was murdered. He said he thought someone was watching the house. He asked me to look after Mitch if anything happened.”

  My heart sinks. “He should’ve gone into hiding.”

  “I was the one who talked him out of it.”

  “What! Why?” I bark.

  “Albert, his uncle, was Mitch’s biggest fan. He cashed in his retirement to hire coaches and pay for travel to all of Mitch’s first competitions. Watching him swim was probably Albert’s biggest joy in life, and I think if he knew Mitch quit when he was at the pinnacle of his career, all because of these corrupt, greedy assholes, well…”

  “It would break his heart. I get that. But his uncle is gone. Mitch isn’t.”

  “Trust me, I know I made a mistake. I’ve admitted it to Mitch, but now he won’t listen.”

  “This is the stupidest situation ever,” I mutter to myself.

  “Now I have no choice but to do my best and help Mitch come out of this alive. With or without me, he’s going to Miami.”

  Don’t do it, Abi. Don’t say it. Resist…need…to…help… Dammit, me! “I changed my mind. I’m coming, too.”

  “No, Abi, you’re not.”

  “I want to come. Not for him but for you.” I can’t even imagine how Sam is going to feel if anything happens to Mitch. And whatever happens to Sam happens to Georgie and happens to me. Kind of like a really fucked up three musketeers. “Besides, Georgie invited me to hang out, so I’m going to be there regardless.”

  “I don’t think it’s the best idea. I can’t afford the distraction of you and Mitch fighting.”

  “He won’t even know I’m there. I’ll stay away completely—in the back of the room, at the back of the crowd, wearing a wig so not even he recognizes me.”

  Sam is silent for a long moment. “Okay. But I’m only agreeing because I could use an extra set of eyes lurking in the shadows.”

  “Hoo hoo,” I hoot like an owl.

  “Come to the office around noon tomorrow. We have a team meeting to prepare.”

  Just then my Uber pulls up. “See you there.” I end the call, and the moment I slide inside the car, it dawns on me. “Sonofabitch! He totally mind fucked me into going to Miami.” I laugh and shake my head. “He’s good. He’s really, really good.” Either way, my reason for going is the right one. I now see that this isn’t just about Mitch’s life anymore. It’s about a whole lot more, so if Mitch doesn’t like having a chick bodyguard, well, too damned bad.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The next morning, I spend time hanging out with my mom and catching up on major chores, like laundry. Normally, I look forward to our time together. We laugh, we talk about her eccentric clients, and I tell her about whatever super-cheesy romance book I’m hooked on. But now, I just feel guilty about all of the lies, and I think she senses it. Every time we’re in the same room, she’s drilling me about the new job or why I look so stressed out.

  “I’m fine, Mom. Stop asking, okay?”

  The wounded look in her eyes was instant and now we’re not talking.

  Fuck. This is such a mess. I hit the buzzer on the door of Sam’s offices, and Cray greets me with a bear hug. “That’s mi girl!”

  “What…errr…” I grunt under the extreme pressure of his tight grip. “What did I do to deserve that welcome?”

  He releases me, but grabs my shoulders firmly. “I knew ye wouldn’t abandon your team. I told Sam not teh bet against ye.”

  “Bet? Seriously?”

  He slaps my arm. “Won me a hundred.” He trots off in the direction of the conference room.

  These guys are placing bets on me? They seriously need a kick in the knickers.

  When I finally catch up, I find Phil, Igor, and four other men who look like the most stylish, adorable boy band ever all sitting around the conference room table.

  Oh! Sam’s smart. The boy band will blend in perfectly at the fashion event. Another guy, who looks insanely pale with biceps the size of watermelons, is sitting in the corner, eyeing everyone suspiciously.

  Oh, and we have an
albino Hulk. We’re just like the Avengers now. Only our superpowers are less exciting—good dressers, extreme antisocialism, and wallflower power. That last one is me. I’ve had extensive experience in the fine art of not drawing attention to myself, a leftover from my Blabi days.

  I take the seat next to Phil, who’s in a suit as usual. I’m guessing he’s got Mitch duty later.

  Sam enters the room, wearing jeans and a black tee, with a purposeful stride. He stands at the head of the table like a drill sergeant.

  “All right, everyone,” Sam says. “Thanks for coming. As you know, this weekend in Miami is going to be extremely challenging.” Sam pulls a clicker thing from his pocket and steps aside. A projector suspended from the ceiling pops on and displays a map on the white wall in front of us. He goes over the first stop in the morning, which is a Weeno breakfast and photo op for their clients, mostly buyers from the large department stores. In the afternoon is a photo shoot. In the evening is the big to-do Weeno swimwear show followed by the after-party.

  I try not to laugh every time Sam says Weeno. I think it’s supposed to be like Speedo for the well-endowed man, but it just sounds ridiculous. Like, “We know…you have a tiny one.” On the other hand, women do pad their bras all the time. No, we don’t call our bras lame names like Mount Boob-More, Chia Tits, or Tah-tah-tastic, or whatever, but I shouldn’t judge men for wanting to make a big impression at the beach.

  “Any questions?” Sam asks and starts handing out packets containing floor plans for the three venues of the day.

  I raise my hand. “What if I see that Leland guy? Do I treat him as friend or foe?”

  “He’s not our focus. So unless he’s getting in your way, ignore him.”

  Easy enough. I mean, yeah, he’s smokin’ hot, but now that I know he was only flirting with me to get info, his gorgeous smile has lost its shine.

  I nod. “And any tips on what we should be looking out for besides the usual?” Suspicious vibe. Carnivorous staring. Touching one’s self inappropriately while standing next to Mitch.