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?”
“Of course. But you should also send it to Beck in Vienna, Schmidt in Steyr and to Hermann Jung in Innsbruck. Hermann is the new Kriminal Hauptkommisar in Tirol.”