Without Options (4 page)

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 drinking 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.

5

They drove through Austria to the west until they reached St. Anton, a ski resort town that Jake and Anna had frequented often during their two years together. St. Anton sat within a short drive of Germany to the north, Liechtenstein to the west, and Switzerland and Italy to the south. By car Jake could be in any of those other countries within a half hour. A little longer by bike.

Jake had Franz pull over on the outskirts of town, and while Jake put his bike back together, the two of them stood at the back of the Mercedes. They hadn’t talked much in the hour it had taken to drive from Innsbruck.

“Did you get a good look at the guy who got away?” Jake asked him.

“No. He was back in the shadows at the far side of your door. One man went into your apartment. The one you shot. The other went down the hall to the back exit of your building. I think I might have hit him. Are you sure you want to do this, Jake? I can be of help to you. I’ve proved that.”

“I think we both got lucky back there. I was a step behind my normal with this damn knee. You need to get back there and explain what happened.”

“I should stay with you, Jake.”

“I shot a man. He’s laying dead in my apartment. You’re part of the Polizei. They know you. You can tell them what happened.”

Franz smiled. “I could.”

“Hey, don’t pull that crap. You will.” Jake sat onto the curb and pulled off his cross-hiker shoes. He quickly shoved on his bike shoes and strapped them on with Velcro.

“What about your security system? Are your videos stored?”

“Yes, but off-site. I have them load to an internet server in Luxembourg. They hold twenty-four hours and self delete unless I save them. Which I will do right now. There’s a cybercafe a few blocks from here. I’ll take care of that and send you the digital files. You still have your Polizei e-mail?”