He thought about his years in the CIA, and how he had been shot only twice during countless missions. Since retiring from the Agency years ago, he had been shot twice more. And both times in relatively tranquil Austria. Part of that unequal equation had to do with resources, he knew. With the Agency he had almost endless back-up and intel. But as a private security consultant, he was mostly on his own.
The sun touched his face, warming him instantly. He considered the last time he and Anna had ridden horseback in the mountains in the heat of August, she the reluctant equestrian and he the enthusiastic teacher. That was just two days before the shooting. He tightened his jaw and forced away the tears. Growing up in Montana, young men learned not to cry from birth. He learned to ride horse, play football, be tough. There were no men who cried in Montana. Not officially. His tears for Anna came when he was either in extreme pain from the bullet wounds or while alone at night in the darkness of his private hospital room.
Somewhere deep within his mind he had successfully compartmentalized his feelings for Anna in the past week. His singular thoughts were not on her loss, but on those who had killed her. And he sure as hell wouldn’t cry for them when they finally met their maker. But Jake guessed those who had shot Anna didn’t believe in a higher power. Regardless, they’d wish they believed in something when he caught up with them. Then, perhaps, he would properly mourn the loss of Anna. Not before.
Laying in bed so long, he’d also thought of his siblings back in Montana. Neither had come to see him. Not his younger brother, Victor, a lawyer in Missoula, who had called a few times, but was right in the middle of a big trial. And not his baby sister, Jessica, who owned a river guide service and was occupied with her busiest season. Truthfully, Jake had specifically told them both to stay at home. He was fine. No need to get any of them involved in his business. Again, his training. When Jake worked covertly in the CIA, he’d never even acknowledge he had a family. It was better that way. Since his parents died in a car accident years ago, his siblings were all he had left.
Jake was mesmerized by the passing traffic. Where was he going? What would he do now? He had a lot of questions for himself, but few answers. Maybe he didn’t care. He’d had a lot of time to think, only time to think and nothing more, as he lay in that damn hospital bed. At first he’d hated the physical therapy — the pain and the initial futility — but later he came to look forward to the daily sessions. At least he’d gotten out of the bed and moved his muscles. It had taken his mind off his real pain. And then in the past two weeks he’d been allowed to work up a sweat, lifting weights and riding the recumbent bike. He couldn’t run on the treadmill, though, since his left knee had been shattered by a bullet and had to be rebuilt. The downward pressure on the knee was too painful. It still hurt him more than he’d told the doctors and nurses. He knew if he’d complained more they would have kept him for another week or two. No, he’d wasted too much time in there. Time to think. True. But now he needed to act. His body was nearly built back up to its normal muscular nature, but his dark hair was longer than it had been in years and he was even more prone to forget to shave for days. Who was he trying to impress?
As Jake stepped to the curb, deciding where to go and how to go there, a black Mercedes pulled up and the front passenger window powered down as the car stopped next to him. He held his knee as he lowered himself for a look inside. Without trying to react, Jake simply smiled at the driver.
“Get in,” the bald man behind the wheel said. No smile. The driver turned his intense gaze ahead as he took in a deep breath on his cigarette and almost immediately blew the smoke out his nose and mouth simultaneously.
Jake sighed, unsure what to do. Did he have a better choice? He could take a bus or a taxi. But he also had no place to go. His apartment in Vienna was hundreds of kilometers away. Besides, this was one person who might have the answers he sought.
Getting in, Jake settled gently into the comfort of the plush tan leather seat.
“Buckle up,” the man said to Jake. “You’ve seen enough hospitals for a while.”
Staring at the driver for a moment, Jake did as he was told and then the car pulled away slowly into traffic.
“I thought you’d be dead by now,” Jake said, breaking a long silence.
The driver huffed a laugh and pulled another cigarette from his front pocket. “You mind?”
“It’s your car and your lungs.”
Lighting the cigarette from the last of the other one, the driver sucked in the smoke, his right eye closing. He flicked the old butt out the driver’s window.
“You still on the job?” Jake asked him.
“Officially? I’m on medical leave. Chemo’s a bitch.”
“Almost didn’t recognize you without your hair or your mustache, Franz.” Kriminal Hauptkommisar Franz Martini had been one of the toughest sons of bitches Jake had ever known. At just over six feet, the Austrian Polizei man was a couple inches taller than Jake, and had always carried more beef on his bones also. And now the man had shriveled to a fraction of his former self, with his skin wrinkled and mottled. His sunken eyes were circled by puffy black rings. An air of death seeped from the man’s pores. Franz was dead, Jake guessed, but he just didn’t know it. Like the leaves of fall that refused to drop from the branches.
Laughing, Franz said, “I’m like one of those little Mexican dogs or Chinese cats. I don’t remember now. Hairless top to bottom. If you know what I mean.”
Jake let out a heavy breath. “Sorry, man.”
“Helluva way for a cop to die, Jake. Bald as a newborn.”
Jake guessed Franz was thinking about Anna’s death. The three of them had met years ago in Oberammergau, Germany, where Jake had given a lecture at an international terrorism conference. Jake was only a few months out of the Agency at that time, spreading his new wings in the private sector. Franz was representing Austria, and the young and beautiful Anna, a fresh member of Interpol’s counter terrorism unit. The three of them had hit it off, drinking more beer than Jake would admit today, and after a short period of long-distance dating, Jake had moved in with Anna in Vienna, despite his being ten years her senior. From mid-thirties to mid-forties age didn’t seem to matter to either of them. With his private business he could live almost anywhere.
“Anna was too young,” Jake finally said, solemnly.
“You’re right,” the Polizei man said, sucking in a breath from the cigarette and blowing it out in perfect rings. “Too much life to live.”
They drove slowly along the Inn River. Jake had lived only a couple of kilometers from here before moving to Vienna to live with Anna. He noticed the Alps to the south of the city already had a nice coat of snow. The ski resorts would open early this year, but Jake wouldn’t find himself on the slopes, he was sure. Especially with the bum knee.
It was a good thing Franz Martini had shown up, because he was one of the first people Jake had planned on looking up. With his connections in the Austrian state police, and having been Anna’s Godfather, Franz would be sure to keep up with the investigation into her death. Jake’s girlfriend wouldn’t have died in vain. Not if Jake had anything to do with it. Not if Franz was still breathing either.
“They find the bastards who killed Anna?”
Franz pulled out another cigarette and lit it from the butt, bringing the end to a bright orange. “You killed two of them, Jake. But we think there was a third shooter and maybe a driver.” Again he threw the butt out the window.
“That’s not what I meant. Who hired them?”
Shaking his head emphatically, Franz said, “Don’t know. As you might guess, Interpol took the lead on the investigation, considering Anna was one of their own and might have been targeted because of her work in counter terrorism.”