The Lure of the Pack (10 page)

Swiftly, efficiently, two further members of Team Echo
smashed into the lounge, dodging the licking heat of the fire now careering
across the furniture and bookcase. They moved assertively, with more following
as another four hurled further stun grenades through different windows.

With an increasingly tumultuous cacophony of sound further
explosions ripped through the farmhouse, its rooms filling with smoke and the
strong, heavy stench of cordite. “COVER ME!” Unexpectedly, two grenadiers were
immediately caught in a cross fire of death, their bodies incapable of movement
after the impact of three flashbangs had jolted their senses into dumbfounded
confusion.

“TIM, BEHIND YOU!” Piper only just noticed the combatant
behind his friend, but it was too late, the grenadier’s right arm tightening
around Winters’ neck as they both fell to the floor, writhing in savage
hand-to-hand combat. Swiftly, with his mind racing, Piper raised his MP5 but to
no avail, Tim was directly in the line of fire!

With the continuing cacophony of combat echoing all around
him and fearfully choking from the pressure across his windpipe, Winters rolled
over. With as much force as he could muster he elbowed the grenadier in his
stomach then turned swiftly, head butting him directly in the face. Blood
flowed openly from his assailant’s broken nose as Winters blocked the hand
suddenly lunging with a large bladed knife, the look on the grenadier’s face
one of pure hatred. Now thought Piper, running across to his friend, viciously
kicking out at the grenadier’s ribs. The man screamed in agony, dropped the
knife and sprawled across the floor, his body contorted in pain as Piper aimed
and fired, shredding his enemy’s chest.

All around came further yelling and explosions, the last few
remaining grenadiers fighting as if possessed. Another Team Echo trooper fell
screaming, a bullet smashing into his thigh, his colleagues returning fire
amidst a welter of blood and gore.

“GOLF INDIA REPORTING! NORTH WING CLEAR!” It was the voice of
the main GIGN team’s Lieutenant. They had smashed their way in and fell about
the grenadiers with savage brutality, their hearts burning with revenge after
the sickening murder of their colleagues.

Bescann thought Piper, where the hell is Bescann? “TIM, WITH
ME!”

Panting heavily, Claude Bescann ran down the main hallway of
his farmhouse, his face contorted, cut and bleeding from flying fragments of
glass and plaster. Coughing harshly from the surrounding smoke whisping its way
through his once beloved home, he forcefully flung his office door open. This
will be over in seconds, he thought! Turning to his computer hard drive Bescann
placed a new ammunition clip into his Glock then aimed and fired, the computer
shattering into pieces as six rounds destroyed the last vestiges of evidence of
the New Totenkopf’s training facility. Then, amidst the discord of battle he
heard footsteps running down the hallway. It’s over, he thought! For himself,
but not for the Fuhrer…and the cause.

With their eyes set firmly on their prime target, the
helmeted, body armoured figures of Ash Piper and Tim Winters stood in Claude
Bescann’s office doorway, their MP5s held level. Their orders had been clear!
Take Bescann alive if possible, but Piper and Winters had never expected to
witness the heart stopping sight now in front of them.

The shooting and screaming across the farmhouse had ceased.
Only the sound of crackling flames and the smell of burning wood now engulfed
Piper’s senses as his blue and amber eyes gazed in horror at Claude Bescann.
“Don’t do it Claude,” Piper kept his voice low, talking calmly, using Bescann’s
first name to hopefully calm the man in front of him. The man with the barrel
of a Glock 17 held in his mouth, his finger pressed tightly on the trigger.
“Claude,” again he spoke softly, gently, “put the gun down. You know it’s over,
we can work things out!” It was the look in Claude Bescann’s eyes that told
Piper he was wasting his time.

He was right!

“NOOOOO!” Tim Winters’ yell echoed in Piper’s ears as Bescann
pulled the trigger, blowing the back of his skull and brain tissue over the
rear office wall, his body hurtling backwards then slowly sliding down the
room’s crimson stained interior.

As Tim Winters cast a look of dire hopelessness across to
his friend, Piper shook his head in dismay. “Fucking shit”, he said kicking out
in sheer frustration at Bescann’s desk, “FUCKING SHIT!”

Minutes later, with his face set like stone, Ash Piper stood
outside the late Claude Bescann’s wrecked farmhouse as several Team Echo
troopers attended to their casualties. Despondently, Piper noticed the bodies
of Captain Estelle Rinise and her colleague being covered over with a black
plastic sheet. He sighed, his gaze still fixed on the bodies near him, the
smells of burnt wood and cordite apparently everywhere, vividly assaulting the
wolf’s senses.

“Ash,” Tim Winters’ gritty voice came from Piper’s left. He
was standing by the van previously loaded by the grenadiers, “come at look at
these.” The rear doors of the van had been prized apart, with two members of
Team Echo dragging one of four large wooden crates out into the open. “MP44s,”
said Winters, “fucking unbelievable!”

“I know, I discovered crates full of them in the VKE
warehouse near Aachen.”

“What the hell is going on?” Winters couldn’t believe the
sight of the newly manufactured Waffen SS assault rifles. “These have been
modified to take a nine mill round,” he said as Piper’s gaze focused on the
crates. “Where the fuck are these shits getting this sort of gear?”

Inquisitively, Piper looked inside the van and noticed a set
of target boards which had been used for shooting practice. He turned back to
his friend, “St Petersburg, or at least that’s what we think.”

“So that’s why you asked me about the leads on the DVDs?”

“Yes Tim.”

For a few seconds Winters stood speechless as sirens from
the local fire brigade and ambulance service echoed in the distance. “You’d
better make your report,” he said. Piper looked fixedly at his friend, nodded
and walked away. He had a great deal on his mind. “SO HOW’S THE HEADACHE?”
Winters shouted.

“IT’S GONE!”

Otto Von Kurst and Helga Zeist stood at the top of the
portable stairway attached to the VKE Learjet at Dusseldorf International
Airport. “I do hope you will accept my apologies Sonia, I didn’t mean to be so
rude.” Von Kurst felt genuine regret after yelling at his stewardess. 

Smiling, Sonia ran her hand through her wind swept hair,
“it’s no problem at all Mister Von Kurst. I could see you were plainly worried,
I’m just glad Ms Zeist feels better. I shouldn’t have interfered!”

“Nonsense Sonia,” said Helga, “that’s why we enjoy having
you with us. It’s nice to know VKE have such attentive staff. Again, thank you
for all your help.” Sonia’s ever-present smile never left her as Von Kurst and
Helga made their way down the metallic steps and walked across to the main
terminal.

It was over an hour later as the couple briskly made their
way to the airport’s main car park, but something was wrong! They both growled
in unison and stopped, the hairs on the back of their necks becoming stiff,
rigid! Helga Zeist quickly looked at the man she loved, her eyes once again
heavily bloodshot. So too, were Otto Von Kurst’s. “Do you sense something
Otto,” she said, “something threatening?”

“Yes my love, we are being followed!” They walked on.

“Otto!”

“Yes Helga.”

“You must tell me what is happening, and why you are so
worried about Claude. I need to know. You can trust me!”

“As soon as we are back at my house Helga, I will tell you
everything!” Von Kurst halted, let go of his luggage trolley and pulled Helga
close to him, passionately kissing her.

She smiled and whispered, “why are we being followed Otto?”

“You will know soon enough, my love.”

“Does it bother you?”

“No, not at all!” The two slowly walked on as Helga heard a
low, intense growl emanating from Otto Von Kurst’s vocal chords.

5

WAR

With the intended prey focused firmly in his blood red field
of view, Jurgen Falck peeled back his slavering snout. Slowly, silently, he
lowered his furred, canid body and large pointed ears, his wild eyes gazing
steadfastly at the magnificent red deer stag chewing lazily on the dew soaked
grass. He scanned the prey again, every meat laden part of it. With its ears
twitching from left to right, the stag raised its head slightly and ceased
chewing. Food, thought Falck. At last, sustenance, and it was weak! Yes, the
rear left leg, the stag was limping, probably a damaged or arthritic joint. The
two of them could easily outrun and outflank it!

Both Jurgen Falck and Fritz Kempler had travelled through
the forest for nearly two days, enjoying the freedom of the wild, once again
relishing the strength of their senses and the feeling of power within their
overly large wolf forms. But of their wild brothers and sisters there was still
no sign, no trace…nothing. The wild wolf pack they had lived with in this area
for many, many years had quite possibly moved on. Yes, they had seen many of
their wild friends come and go over the years, the feeling for dispersal being
natural in both the males and females, especially in the omegas. But their own
feelings of strength and kinship, of being at one with their wild companions
had been strong and most of all…everlasting. Both he and Kempler had been
waiting to hear their pack-mates’ calls reverberating through the dense forest.
But there had been no reply to their own, mournful howling.

It would come thought Falck, he was sure of that. He turned
his head slightly to the right, to his fellow Were and issued a low growl.
Fritz Kempler instantly understood the meaning of his friend’s lupine
communication. Split up and circle! A pincer movement, cut the stag off at an
angle and make it dash through the thickest, tree-laden part of the forest.

Ah, the joys of the hunt thought Falck, the planning, the
tactics, the taking of the prey! Yes, the hunt reminded him of his past, of his
days with Fritz and his beloved Karl Von Kurst, the man who had led both of
them through the darkest days of World War Two, and to the memories of kinship,
of battle hardened loyalty and honour. The memories of combat in the Waffen SS
were still so vivid, still so very strong.

In reality, during those dark, brutal, bloody days, the
three of them had truly become…the dogs of war!

There was movement! The stag had sensed them. Run wild one,
thought Falck. Run for your life! With a defiant bellowing snort, the stag
bolted. Falck growled and leapt forward, utilising the strength and power of
his lupine body with hasty intensity. From the right, Fritz Kempler joined the
chase, snarling with savage ferocity. To the left thought Falck, run to the
left, now, quickly, to the right, push it hard Fritz, tire the stag! The chase
intensified, the overly large, powerful wolves closing rapidly on their prey,
for they could smell its fear, its panic.  Their speed increased. There it was,
in their blood red field of vision, faltering, tiring, struggling through the
undergrowth. Falck growled again, this time much louder. He heard the reply,
Kempler was closing in, faster, faster, ever faster, his jaws open, saliva
dripping onto the forested floor, his canines ready to tear and rip the prey
asunder, ready to shred the stag’s throat into meat laden strips of flesh. The
forest rushed past them as the chase continued, thrilling the two Were with a
mass of adrenaline. How they lived for times like this! For the hunt…and the
kill! The stag bellowed in panic, its muscular form still running, but
haphazardly, sprinting, darting through the undergrowth, its eyes wide with
uncontrollable panic. Kempler closed quickly then rolled to the right, just
missing the savage hoof of the stag as it struck out in defence. With its body
rippling in muscular dominance the stag halted, its nostrils flaring, stamping
its right hoof heavily in the soil, lowering its majestic, solidly antlered
head in a gesture of bold defiance. Seizing its only opportunity for a
defensive posture, the stag faced the two overly large wolves now confronting
its deadly antlers, its defiant snorting and bellowing echoing through the forest.
The stag was not prepared to run any further, now the regal, majestic animal
would stand and fight! Growling menacingly Kempler lowered his body, ready to
pounce but as always, just out of range of the stag’s deadly defences. Again,
the stag stamped its hoof into the ground, its rack of mighty antlers pointing
downwards, ready to stab and pierce as Jurgen Falck ran swiftly through the
undergrowth, leapt from behind and bit savagely into the large deer’s rump.
With Falck desperately holding on, as if clinging onto life itself the prey
bellowed in pain, turning quickly, trying to face its second opponent. As his
snout became covered in his prey’s blood, Falck growled with ferocious
intensity. Now is the time! The throat Fritz, attack the throat! Panicking, the
bloodied prey lowered its head, twisting its neck to the right, the slash of
its antlers just missing Fritz Kempler’s eyes and snout. He had dodged just in
time, now it was his turn to attack! With a snarling roar the overly large wolf
leapt at the throat of its prey and bit deep, not letting go. Still snorting
and bellowing, but now struggling for air, the stag threw itself around in a
circle, in a futile attempt to throw off its terrifying assailants, the wolves
clinging on for dear life, their lethal, razor sharp canines incising ever
deeper into its bloodied flesh. With every pain-laden movement, its heart
beating rapidly with fear the stag’s blood flowed quickly, leaving the hapless
animal’s tired body, its strength ebbing, dying, fading away. There was further
growling. The wolves were communicating again. Any time now! The stag is
tiring! With their razor sharp canines carving ever deeper into the prey’s body
Falck and Kempler continued to hold on, their jaws maximising incredible
pressure, tearing into sinew and bone.

Dropping to its knees, the once majestic deer’s bellowing
ceased. Now just a muffled grunting emitting from its crushed, bloodied larynx,
its body rolling gently onto its side, its eyes wide open as it began its wild
death throes. Ever so slowly, life began draining from the once proud master of
his herd as Fritz Kempler released the stag’s bloodied, crushed throat. The
wolf pulled back, its bloodstained jaws slavering at the thought of the coming
feast, its blood red eyes focusing intently on its pack mate. Slowly,
carefully, Jurgen Falck released the pressure on the stag’s rump, unlatching
his canines from the flesh of his victim, his bloodied snout, like Kempler’s,
peeled back as a deep resonant snarl left his vocal chords. It was another
message for his friend, a simple message. Leave it…let it bleed to death!

Licking their lips in triumph, the two extraordinarily
powerful wolves circled their hapless prey, prudently eyeing the areas they
first needed to eviscerate…once the prey’s life had been extinguished.

The de-briefing had been as expected, another link to the
New Totenkopf having been routed out and extinguished, but at a price. The loss
of a key figure from the New Death’s Head was troubling, thought Piper, as so
much information could have been gained from Claude Bescann, but even more
troubling was the sacrifice the grenadiers had made. They were all prepared to
die for their cause, typical of the ideals of the Waffen SS. With the same
haunting, disturbing thoughts still preying on his mind Ash Piper let loose
another volley of rounds from the MP44 as his shoulder jolted from its recoil.
“OKAY, HOLD TARGETS,” he shouted through his internal Com-link.

“Excellent stopping power, I’d guess even at five hundred
metres, yes, it’s a fine weapon Sergeant and very professionally modified, we
could do with a few of these for Team Echo.” Pierre Anray, CEATA’s Chief
Armourer thoughtfully rubbed his hand under his chin, “modified to a powerful
variant of 9 millimetre ammunition, easily outclassing the stopping power of
the standard NATO round for close quarter combat. Yes, an excellent weapon and
well manufactured.”

“I agree,” muttered Piper, “what do you think Tim?”

“The same,” Tim Winters put his own MP44 back on the table
to the side of his colleague’s. “The magazine is easily changeable, it loads
quickly and fires smoothly, so who the hell is manufacturing them?”

“That’s what we need to find out! As you already know our
strongest connection so far is a link to St Petersburg.” Piper slowly shook his
head, a look of dismay furrowing his brow.

“What’s the matter Ash?” asked Winters.

“I’m trying to follow my instincts as to what we do
regarding Von Kurst and Oratz. Part of me says let’s pull them in now, but the
other part says don’t, it’s far too dangerous at the moment!”

Winters looked quizzically at his friend, “so which part of
your…instinct, do you trust?”

“The latter part, c’mon, let’s get over to the
Communications Room, I want to catch up with what’s happening regarding today’s
marches. Thanks Pierre!”

“Anytime gentlemen, anytime!” As the two CEATA field agents
left the shooting range Pierre Anray picked up one of the MP44s, loaded a spare
magazine clip and with a broad smile prepared to fire at another set of
targets.    

“I want you to be honest with me Jeanette,” Charles Mann’s
face was stony, ashen, with not a hint of emotion, “do you have feelings for
Sergeant Piper?”

Jeanette Descard looked both angry and a little embarrassed
as she sat across from her superior, in his own office. “Colonel, I find your
question both intrusive, and offensive.”

“Answer the question, Doctor.” The Colonel’s tone of voice
left a distinct message in Descard’s mind; he was not in a good mood.

“When you say feelings Colonel,” there was a hint of sarcasm
in Jeanette’s voice, “I take it you mean, am I having…heartfelt feelings for
Sergeant Piper?”

“Precisely!”

“No sir, I am not ‘falling in love’ with Sergeant Piper and
I am not some silly little school girl with childish fantasies!”

The Colonel sat back in his chair and folded his arms.
“Fine,” he said, “but I’ve been observing you closely over the last few days
Jeanette and especially when Piper was fighting in the Ardennes,” he paused,
carefully watching Descard’s facial expression. “At that time you showed, how
can I say…an overly emotional response to Piper’s predicament. I saw the look
in your eyes Jeanette, when the Eurocopter was firing at him, and that look is
still there when he is near you!”

Descard fell silent. Don’t push your luck Colonel, she
thought.

“I’m sorry I have to bring this matter to your attention
Doctor, but you know as well as I do, emotional involvement of any kind between
members of staff in CEATA, is strictly forbidden.”

“DON’T BLOODY WELL PATRONISE ME, COLONEL!” Descard’s outburst
caught Charles Mann by surprise as she quickly stood up, her face like thunder.
“I DO NOT HAVE FEELINGS FOR SERGEANT PIPER AND PERSONALLY, I THINK WE HAVE
ENOUGH TO WORRY ABOUT AT PRESENT!”

“Sit down Jeanette.”

“NO SIR, I WILL NOT!”

“SIT DOWN, DOCTOR DESCARD!” She did so. “Yes, you are
right,” the Colonel continued, his eyes narrowing, “we do have a great deal on
at present, and this New Totenkopf business is taking its toll on all of us,
especially with losing Bescann, however, the fact still remains, I am not
convinced you are telling me the truth.”

CEATA’s Chief Criminal Psychologist sighed as she realised
the Colonel was only doing his job. Now she felt ill at ease with her superior.
“Colonel, I apologise for my emotional outburst and yes, in a way, you are
right,” the Colonel nodded his head. “I admit, I find Sergeant Piper
fascinating in the context of his psychological make-up. He is an interesting
man and of course…he is a werewolf. That means a great deal to my studies and
to my role in CEATA.”

“Very well, I will accept your comments on this matter, but
just remember what I said!”

“Thank you sir, now if you don’t mind, we both have a great
deal to do!” Hurriedly, Jeanette got up, walked to the office door and let
herself out.

The mobile phone call had been brief and straight to the
point. At the time, upon his arrival at Dusseldorf International Airport,
Wilhelm Oratz knew exactly what his Fuhrer was suggesting. “…and don’t forget
Wilhelm, keep a ‘lookout’ for any new business opportunities while you are in
St Petersburg.” From now on, both he and his close friend were being…followed.
The codeword was simple enough and had been discussed several times during the
planning stages of Project Amen. Now, that same word had been spoken in a seemingly
innocent telephone conversation. ‘Lookout’! In other words, watch your back and
plan all your movements carefully and with precision. The Fuhrer was taking no
chances. You pathetic fools thought Oratz, follow us if you wish. It will do
you no good…no good whatsoever!

“This is indeed a wonderful, historic day for the British
people,” Jonathon White, the self proclaimed leader of the far right British
National Party seemed genuinely flushed with pride. “I am truly delighted with
the turnout for this march. As you can see by the massive support we are
receiving for this event, the message from the British people is clear!
Immigrants go home, get out of our country and stay out.”

“This guy is a nutcase,” mumbled Nick Lucas, “he’s relishing
every minute of this free publicity on all the news channels.” Worriedly Nick
shook his head and turned to Ash Piper and Tim Winters, the two of them keeping
quiet as the news reporter for the British Broadcasting Corporation continued
his interview.

“But you do realise Mister White, you are stirring up a
great deal of trouble and racial tension with this march?”