The damn thing flew on, dropping below the far rim of the big white bowl he’d just crossed, flying right down on the deck and headed straight for him. The thing was flying in out of the sun, juking this way and that, hotshot stuff. A pilot with attitude.
Suddenly the pilot banked hard left, swung around, and flew even lower. They were examining the fresh tracks in the snow. Satisfied, the pilot pivoted and got the big bird back on course. His heading would take him right over Stoke’s head to the helipad at Zum Wilden Hund.
Stoke looked up at the chopper as its skids barely cleared the trees, roaring over his head. It was black, all right, just like the one he’d seen in the South of France. Had the same letters, VDI, painted in bright scarlet red on the sleek flanks and the belly below the cockpit. Only now Stoke knew what those letters stood for. Von Draxis Industries. Stoke scrambled to his feet and started running through the dark woods as fast as he could. He wanted to get to Jet first.
He didn’t.
When he got to the gasthaus and the clearing in the woods, the chopper was on the pad, the sagging rotor still whirling listlessly. Nobody remained inside the helicopter that he could see from this distance. There were fresh tracks in the snow all around the bird. Stoke, guessing by the deep depressions in the snow, made it to be two crew, the pilot and one passenger. There were some other tracks around the skids, too, as if an animal had been there earlier. A fox maybe. Or, judging by the tracks, maybe a big wolf.
The house was quiet. There were long carrot-shaped icicles hanging down off the roof, dripping in the warm sunshine. Jet was nowhere in sight. Keeping the helicopter between him and the gasthaus, he moved quickly to the nearside of the chopper. Leaning against the fuselage, he spent one minute trying to get some more frigid air into his lungs. When this thing was over, he was going to go someplace warm and get his ass in serious shape. This heavy-breathing shit was for beginners. Yeah. He’d go to Miami, Key Biscayne, see his true love by the sea. The beautiful Fancha. Hell, yeah, he would.
His fingers were numb with cold. He banged his arms to his sides to get the blood flowing. He slipped out of the backpack, let it drop softly to the snow. He fumbled with the flap but finally got it open. No sounds coming from inside the house. He pulled Viktor’s Schmeisser out of the bag and slung it on his shoulder. He had the feeling that this was the gun the old boy had carried during the war. Back in the day when he was a handsome young Alpenkorps officer. And Irma was a semibeautiful Fräulein just busting out of her dirndl. Damn, he thought, looking at the Schmeisser machine pistol in his hand, should have given the gun to Jet.
Running for the house in a low crouch, he heard Jet cry out. A warning? No. Worse. Pain. Have to be some scary shit going on inside to make that girl cry out in pain. Been there, felt that.
He ran up the six steps leading to the front door, not worrying now about how much noise he was making busting icicles. The door was slightly ajar. He pushed it open with his left hand, stepped inside, entering the room sideways to present less of a target, and low, with the lethal-looking Schmeisser out in front of him. I’m home!
He swept the room left to right. Empty, except for poor old Viktor, who was still slumped over at his silent piano with his hands on the keyboard. Viktor, his head smashed sideways under the piano lid, had a little icicle of blood hanging from the tip of his nose. It was cold as an igloo inside.
He and Jet had shut the furnace down in the hope of preserving the proprietor and his daughter until somebody found them up here. Now he could see his breath as he moved quietly through the living room. The little red leather guestbook was on the reception counter right where he’d last seen it. Thinking that he was just crazy enough to forget it again, he picked it up and jammed it into one of the side pockets of his parka.
He heard noises coming from the very rear of the house. That would be the kitchen. That would account for why nobody had seen or heard him coming.
He moved as quietly as he could along the empty hallway leading to the rear of the gasthaus. At the end, sunshine poured into the hall. The kitchen door was open. Two male voices shouting angrily in German. And a low menacing growl. What the hell could make that kind of noise? He kept going until he got to the door and peeked inside.
The kitchen was large and sunny with pretty red-and-white checked curtains on all the windows. He couldn’t see anybody at first, had to step softly around the big wood-burning stove that was blocking his—
Christ. It was the two Arnolds. They were wearing black VDI Security uniforms that bore a frightening resemblance to the old SS outfits Stoke had seen Nazis wearing in the movies.
They hadn’t heard him. Their backs were to him and they were both talking at once, shouting in German, stepping on each other’s lines.
Stoke knew just enough vocabulary to know they’d found the two bodies and they were really pissed off about it. “Tod! Tod!” Dead! Dead! The Arnold on the left had a stubby little automatic. The Arnold on the right had one end of a steel chain leash in his hand. The fabric of his uniform, stretched tight across his big shoulders, was about to rip wide open. He was struggling to control a vicious, snarling animal that looked like it could rip his arm right out of his shoulder socket.
At the other end of Arnold’s shiny leash was a huge black Doberman pinscher, just dying to sink his teeth into Jet, who was on the floor in the corner. Blood was trickling out of her mouth and running down her chin. Otherwise, she looked okay. The Doberman was rearing on his hind legs, straining at the chain, his paws scratching at the air, his head whipping back and forth, loopy white saliva flying from his snapping jaws in all directions. Stoke figured it was high time to put an end to all this melodrama.
“Ah-nold’s in the kitchen with Dinah…”
He sang just that much of his old favorite and the Arnold on the left swung on him, bringing the muzzle of his gun up as he spun.
“Was ist los?” the blond guy said, and Stoke put one in his forehead. He crumpled to the floor, spraying bullets that luckily didn’t hit anyone except some little gnomes up on a shelf.
“Remember me?” he said to the remaining Arnold, who was staring at him with his mouth wide open. “The Valkyrie party?” Stoke added, helpfully. “The big black guy, remember?”
“Was gibt hier?” That was the best the poor guy could do under the circumstances. Stoke raised the Schmeisser. The guy’s eyes went wide. He had no desire to join his fraternal twin pumping blood for a living on the floor. Not to mention his own sidearm was securely snapped inside a leather holster that didn’t allow for the quick-draw approach.
“Here’s the problem, Arnold,” Stoke said. “I shoot you, the dog eats her. See what I’m saying? So maybe I’ll shoot your dog and then shoot you, okay? Sound good?”
Arnold said something that was probably unprintable in German. Stoke ground the Schmeisser’s v-and-blade gunsight into his right ear and said, “Call him off now or you and your dog die.”
“Don’t shoot the dog, Stoke,” Jet said.
“What?”
“Tell him to release the dog.”
“Are you completely nuts?”
“Just do it.”
“Maybe you’re suicidal, but he isn’t going to let this dog go long as I got my gun in his ear.”
“Then take the leash away from him with your other hand, Stoke. Then you’ve got control of the dog and him.”