The Thieves of Heaven (42 page)

Finster’s eyes took on a feral quality. Michael couldn’t help but flinch as the older man reached through the thick bars; his long manicured fingernails trailed lightly against Michael’s cheek. “
If
I was who you think I am, do you think I would take this insolence from someone so insignificant as you? No. Think about it. If I were who you think I am, I would hurt you where you are most vulnerable. Her soul would be lost to me. I would make her my bride for all eternity. Ah, the fun I would have, fucking your Mary senseless. Is she a
limber
girl, Michael?”

Finster leaned in as close as the bars permitted and hissed, “If—I was that whom you feared most.”

Michael stood there, ashen, silent, defeated.

The stench assaulted his senses again, rousing Michael from his sleep. He had no sense of time; there were no clocks here, no windows. The cell block was dead quiet, not even a stirring rodent could be heard. The two naked bulbs provided barely enough light to see. His thoughts and dreams had run to Mary. How long since he’d last seen her? He couldn’t remember. He had to get out of here; he had to speak to Mary, to hold her in his arms. He had to finish what he came here for.

The crashing gate startled him, its metallic clang echoing and reechoing off the chill stone. Another cell door screeched, then slammed shut. Ten quick strides reverberated and then Ivan Crusick, the Interpol officer who had processed Michael, stood on the other side of the bars. Crusick pulled out his jumble of keys, finally locating the right one and unlocked the cell. “Your extradition papers have been completed,” he said, his English thickly accented.

“You’re too kind,” Michael sneered.

Crusick did not reply.

Michael followed Crusick down a long dank hall to the first of several large gates. He had no idea what papers Ivan was referring to but as long as they got him out of here, that was fine; he wouldn’t miss this place. As they walked, he noticed not a single cell was occupied. Surely the night before, he could have sworn he heard several other prisoners. At no time had he heard the loud clang of the gates releasing them; it was a sound you couldn’t miss. He didn’t want to know the others’ fate. He wished them peace, whatever their crime. This was no place for anything human. Up the stairs they went, Ivan’s flashlight leading the way. The passage was narrow, reflecting the building’s ancient heritage. There was no light in here, the stone was obviously too thick to run wiring. It was a long climb, far more flights than Michael expected. It was two minutes before he began to see light flooding down from above. He and the silent guard finally emerged into a modern facility abuzz with activity. As old as the lower level was, this was clearly modern: computers, cameras, electronic gates, all attended by a twenty-first-century police force.

Michael was escorted to a holding desk. There he was given his clothes and the few personal possessions he arrived with. He signed for everything, and they allowed him a private changing room. Then, with Ivan at his side, he walked through several more gates, arriving at the last one between him and freedom.

“Please turn and face the wall.”

Michael was used to the routine as he was frisked. Not that he could have picked up a weapon in the last thirty seconds, it was just a routine precaution.

“Face me,” the guard commanded. Michael turned. “Hands in front.” The handcuffs slammed shut about his wrists, the metal biting cold against his flesh. Ivan opened the last remaining gate and mutely directed Michael out the door into a long narrow vestibule, then slammed the gate shut behind him. He said nothing as he left Michael, heading back once more into the bowels of the station.

If Michael was confused before, he was baffled now. Here he stood, handcuffed, outside a police station in the very heart of Berlin. Protocol dictated that he would be escorted to the airport and back to the U.S. But then again protocol dictated that he be told what was going on. There were only two doors to the vestibule: the iron gates behind and the main door ahead. If Hell was behind him…Michael figured he’d go for a walk, at least to the door—and that’s when it opened. Standing in the doorway was Busch.

A heavy rain fell. Umbrellaless, Busch escorted a handcuffed Michael through the enormous, rain-swept police parking lot. Both men were instantly soaked to the bone. Visibility was down to a few feet—not that either man was looking around at the scenery; they weren’t even looking at each other. Not a word had been spoken.

“Why’d you run?” Busch finally asked.

Michael said nothing. Instead, he looked at his cuffs. He was just as trapped as he had been in prison.

“I was going to help you.” Exhaustion crept into Busch’s voice. The only available flight to Berlin was an indirect which had taken him through London; his trip had been over twelve hours long.

“Spare me, will you, Kojak? Mr. Law’s-the-law.”

The silence continued. Busch was conflicted already, he was putting everything—his job, his integrity, his life—on the line for this man and he had the nerve to lash out at him? “How could you put Mary through this?”

“Don’t go there.”

“Oh, I’m going there, whether you like it or not. She’s back home fighting just to stay alive and you’re screwing around over here. Wake up, pal—her life is slipping right through your fingers.”

“Fuck you.” Michael turned without warning and snarled, “
Fuck you.
You have no idea what I’m dealing with.” He slammed Busch against a car, hitting him hard with his cuffed fists. Busch took it, his size absorbing the impact. The blows kept coming until finally, friend or no friend, the parole officer had had enough. He hit Michael once, square in the jaw, knocking him backward into a ’99 Beetle.

Michael slumped back on the VW, the rain pouring down his face. “I had no choice. Can’t you understand that? No choice.
I love her.
”

And then, drenched to the bone and handcuffed, he ran.

Busch stood there, watching him vanish into the darkness and pouring rain.

And that was when the shots came.

A whole clip-full, fast and furious. Ricocheting off the wet tarmac, off the cars.

Busch tore after Michael, caught a glimpse of him, two rows of cars away, head down, moving fast. The gunshots continued. The shooter was off to the left. Surging forward, Busch yanked Michael down, covering his body with his own.

And the shots stopped.

Nothing could be heard but the storm. Busch dragged Michael between two cars, then peered out in the direction of the assailant, out across the flooded lot, seeing nothing through the sheets of rain. No one. Not a thing. At the first shot, Busch had automatically gone for his gun but he was unarmed, no way he could carry aboard the plane. “Michael—what the fuck is going on—?”

“Cut me loose,” Michael insisted, indicating his cuffs. “Cut me loose! I’m a sitting duck with these.”

Busch was desperately trying to assess their situation. If the shooter was a professional, he’d move positions, judge his prey, finish the kill. “You’ll run again,” he said.

“I’ll die if you don’t.” Michael looked at him with impassioned, desperate eyes. “Please…for Mary.”

Busch grabbed Michael and hunkering down, they raced aisle to aisle, using the cars for cover. “I see you managed to piss someone off as usual,” Busch said, still on the move.

Michael glimpsed a shadow move, ten yards off. He hit the pavement near a BMW, Busch right behind him. The whole thing smelled like a setup. They couldn’t kill him in prison, there’d be too many questions. Why not set him free, loose him in the killing fields, in close range of the hunter? He was cuffed and utterly defenseless. Busch was probably just a patsy, unaware of his purpose in the matter.

“We’ve got to make it back to the station,” Busch told him. His words were almost drowned out by the rain.

The shots resumed, this time from the right. Busch and Michael darted left, bent low, racing through the puddles, the occasional bolt of lightning illuminating their way. Suddenly, the shots shifted. They now came from the left.

There were two shooters.

They were trapped, being herded like sheep to the slaughter. Busch tried to open the door of the gray Citroën they were crouched behind. No use—locked—they couldn’t even break the window; the alarm would alert their pursuers to their location, only hastening their death.

The shots stopped again. Michael didn’t know which was worse: the rainy silence or the rattle of the guns. As the bullets whizzed by his head, his body ran on instinct, survival his only thought. But the silence…The silence created an anticipation that tore at his very soul. It was worse than any slow death. The fear of what might happen was paralyzing. The assassins knew this and were using it for the crippling psychological pressure it wrought. And the pressure was working.

Busch and Michael looked at each other; the desperation of their situation was clear. Busch hadn’t come here to die and he wasn’t about to let Michael die, either. On the threshold of death, Busch’s perspective changed. The need to survive had cleared his mind, refocused it. He knew now that Michael was right. Restrained, he didn’t have a chance.

Busch pulled out the key to the handcuffs…

As the cuffs fell to the tarmac, the shots resumed, closer now, tightening the noose. Michael stabbed a finger toward a narrow passage between some cars and they took off in unison. The ricochets skipped behind their heels, shattering car windows, exploding tires.
This must be what war is like,
Busch thought. They dove for cover by an abandoned ticket booth. The rapid-fire shots halted abruptly. Five seconds of silence…

…and then one single shot rang out.

It suddenly occurred to Busch that the rain was a blessing. These shooters were professionals. Both he and Michael should be long dead by now. Not only did the downpour shield them, obstructing the assassins’ sight, it affected the trajectory of their bullets in unpredictable ways.

“We’ve got to keep our distance from both of them. If we can do that, we just might be able to get out of here,” Michael said grimly.

“Nein.”

Busch turned. Less than five feet away, a .44 Magnum pointed right at them. The man’s dark blue sweat suit was soaked through. His long blond hair was matted against his skull; his lips were pursed in a frustrated grimace. Busch got the impression the killer lacked the muscles to smile. He took aim at Michael but before he could shoot, Busch slid in front of Michael, a human shield.

“My bullet will tear through both your hearts,” the assassin promised. He called out, “Anders?!”

Behind him there was a shuffling sound—the other assassin was approaching. They were trapped. “My brother will be disappointed. He bet me five euros that he would get the kill.”

He steadied his aim and…

A gun barrel came to rest against his temple, a choke hold around his neck. He gurgled for air.

“Nein,”
a voice whispered.

“My brother will take you down before you can pull the trigger,” the first blond threatened.

“
Nein.
Your brother won’t be taking
anyone
down.” Simon twisted the German around, forcing him to look. On the ground lay Anders, a bullet through his forehead. “Now, drop the gun.”

He didn’t and, without hesitation, without emotion, Simon shot the man through the temple, then eased his body to the wet ground. The blood ran, washing away in the rivulets on the pavement. Simon looked up and though his heart and soul belonged to God, his eyes were those of a mercenary: cold, lethal…deadly. “Let’s go,” he told Michael and Busch.

“What about the bodies?” the big cop demanded.

Simon walked into the gray, rainy night.

“What about the bodies?!” Busch demanded.

But Simon was already out of sight, engulfed by the swirling rain and fog.