Sniper's Justice (Caje Cole Book 9) by David Healey (best classic books txt) 📗

was this lodge forty years ago? I had to sleep in my foxhole back then. Damn near froze my ass off.”

Hans laughed. After initially being shaken by the Volvo hitting the stag, he seemed to have recovered. “You can be sure some general stayed here, or at least a colonel,” he said. “Meanwhile, you got the foxhole.”

“Sounds about right,” Cole agreed. “That’s the way of the world, ain’t it?”

Hauer greeted them as soon as they walked into the lodge. He looked like an outdoorsman in his thick corduroy trousers, chamois shirt, and sheepskin vest. The clothes looked expensive and new, as if purchased for the occasion. “You are here! I was sure that you would get lost in the dark. The roads are not well-marked.”

“Hate to disappoint you,” Cole said. Briefly, he explained about hitting the stag. The hotel sent two of its kitchen staff to fetch it—no point in letting good venison go to waste.

They found that all of the arrangements had been made, but there were only two rooms available in the lodge itself, with a single room with two beds available in a converted stable.

“The stable will be just fine for me and Danny,” Cole said. It turned out that they were staying as guests of Hauer. Cole thought about insisting on paying, but then decided that if nothing else, he could hit Hauer in the wallet.

“Where did he get the money for this?” Hans muttered. “I am telling you, he was Stasi. Every last one of them lined their pockets at the expense of good Germans while they did the bidding of the Soviets.”

As they gathered in the grand hall of the hunting lodge, Hans explained that he and his grand-niece would be sitting out the hunt. “Someone needs to stay here and keep the fire going,” he said.

Hauer took the news in stride. It was clear that his only real concern was making sure that Cole was equipped for the hunt. Boots had been found, and warm hunting clothes.

“I have a shotgun for you,” Hauer announced. “A very nice 12-gauge. It is a good weapon for boar, especially. At close range, you cannot miss! However, you do need some nerve to let them get that close when they are charging.”

“I brought a rifle,” Cole said. “I guess I won’t need that shotgun, after all.”

A scowl crossed Hauer’s face, then disappeared so quickly that Cole thought he might have imagined it. “As you wish. Perhaps your grandson can use the shotgun.”

“That’s up to him.” Cole turned to his grandson. “Danny?”

“I don’t want to hunt tomorrow,” he said. “I mean, I’ll go, but I don’t want to shoot anything.”

Hauer appeared amused. “If you go into the woods, why would you not wish to join in the hunt?”

“I don’t like killing,” he said.

Hauer laughed. “I have to say, you Americans have gone soft in two generations. The boy doesn’t like to hunt! If there is ever another war, you will be in trouble. Are you sure that he is really related to you?”

“Let the boy be,” Cole said. He felt that Danny didn’t appreciate being belittled in front of Angela, although, to the German girl’s credit, she was glaring at Hauer. If looks could kill. She was clearly in Danny’s camp. “If he don’t like to hunt, so be it. It’s a new world, in case you ain’t noticed. Besides, he can help pack out whatever we shoot.”

Hauer shook his head, still grinning, clearly amused by the thought that the grandson of none other than this famous hillbilly sniper did not like to hunt—or kill. “Suit yourselves,” he said. “Get your rest. In the morning, the hunt begins.”

Crossing to the accommodations, Danny said, “I don’t like that guy Hauer, Pa Cole. It’s not just what he said about me. There’s something about him. I can’t put my finger on it.”

“You don’t like him, huh? Join the club,” Cole said. “I guess that just proves Hauer wrong about us not being related. You’re a Cole, boy. That means you have good instincts.”

“Pa Cole, if you don’t like him, then why are we here?”

“I think Hans said it best,” Cole responded. “I’m here to fight a duel.”

Danny stopped walking. “What?”

“It’s not the kind of duel where you count off twenty paces and shoot each other,” Cole said. “I suppose we’re here to show which one of us is still the best shot.”

“In that case, I feel sorry for the deer and boars.”

In the morning, Cole and Danny were up well before dawn, eating a hearty breakfast with the other hunters in the lodge. Hans and Angela were not there. Having opted out of the hunt itself, they had decided to sleep in.

This European form of hunting was unlike anything that Cole had experienced. He was used to heading off into the woods alone. As a boy, Cole had hunted for subsistence. Anything he shot that had meat on it, they ate—like as not in a stew if it was something like possum.

He still hunted deer to fill the freezer, but the truth of it was, they wouldn’t starve anymore if he came home without a buck.

At most, Americans hunted in pairs or in a trio. Like as not, even then, they would split up to try their luck alone.

The hunt in the Vosges was nothing like that. In fact, it was more of a communal event, a group hunt carried out with help from dogs and drivers. This was the traditional way that hunting had been done for centuries.

An electric current of excitement seemed to fill the morning air and Cole felt caught up in it. The entire operation gathered just past dawn on the forest edge and received direction from the master of the hunt. Their quarry today would be stags and boars. Everyone wished each other luck, and then the “dog men” and drivers started out to get into position, with the hunters to follow. To Cole’s surprise, many of the dogs were dachshunds. He didn’t