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

German sniper that you’re the same old Caje Cole. He couldn’t beat you then, and he’s not going to beat you now. You’re a Cole, remember?”

Oddly enough, Cole felt chastised. It was as if the roles had been reversed so that Danny was the old man and Cole was the foolish boy at his feet.

Cole took a deep breath, letting the cold mountain air fill his lungs. Deep within him, he felt the primitive critter start to stir, awakening in the cave where it had hidden away. Danny’s words had been like poking the critter with a pointy stick, which was a dangerous thing to do.

Danny was right that he shouldn’t give up. It was time to turn the tables on The Butcher. It was time to hunt.

“So that’s how you feel, is it?” Cole said. “Your old Pa Cole has let you down?”

“You said it yourself. You’re giving up.”

“Not yet,” Cole said. “If you want to stay and fight, I could use the help.”

Danny nodded.

“But first, what do you say you and me get something to eat?”

“How are we going to do that?”

“I seem to recall that there’s an entire boar not a quarter-mile from here. The one I shot yesterday. In this cold, the meat will still be good.”

“What are we going to do, eat it raw? Won’t Herr Hauer see the fire?”

“Let him,” Cole said. “Let’s show that son of a bitch that we’re not afraid of him. The smell of that roasting meat will drive him crazy.”

His grandson grinned. “Sounds good to me. Do you think there’s any bacon on that boar?”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Hauer scanned the forest ahead. He had the American and his grandson right where he wanted them. On the run. He knew it was only a matter of time now, with Cole wounded and his grandson being nothing more than a weak boy.

He smiled. The time had come for a reckoning. The American sniper would be losing this last fight.

His plan for revenge on Cole had been loosely conceived, and if Hauer had to admit it, it wasn’t much of a plan at all. It was more how a sailor might experience favorable winds and smooth seas. Everything had simply fallen into place.

Back at the museum opening, he had invited Cole on the hunting trip on a whim. But the possibilities presented by getting Cole alone in the woods had soon presented themselves in his mind. Of course, he hadn’t even been sure that they would end up hunting alone. He had taken a few small steps, such as making sure that he had the walkie talkie and flashlight. Hauer was no criminal mastermind, but he was an opportunist. He always had been, all the way back to the day that he had pushed that old witch of a nun down the school stairs. In this case, all the circumstances had been in his favor and had led to this moment.

He had managed to get himself and Cole assigned to the same hunting spot. Then, he had deliberately wounded the stag that had run his way. Hauer used the walkie-talkie to communicate with the larger group of hunters. It had been a simple matter to relay that they were not only heading back early on their own—but that they were returning to Munich.

The other hunters wouldn’t be expecting them back at the lodge.

Hauer had all the time in the world now to stalk his prey.

Eventually, he would emerge from the woods with some story about getting lost and losing track of Cole and the boy. If and when their bodies were ever found, it would be chalked up to a hunting accident.

He had even gotten lucky and wounded Cole during their exchange of fire. That shootout had been just like the old days! For once and for all, Hauer was going to have a chance to settle the score against the American sniper.

He looked up at the slope ahead of him, knowing that Cole was up there somewhere. It was Cole that he was after. The boy posed no threat, having made it clear that he did not care for hunting. The boy did not even carry a weapon. When the time came, Hauer would dispatch him along with his grandfather. Collateral damage. Hauer grinned at the thought. There could be no witnesses.

“Run, little pigs, run,” Hauer muttered, smiling to himself. “The Butcher is coming to find you.”

The Butcher. He had earned this nickname because Hauer really had been a butcher, slaughtering goats and sheep and cattle, before the German invasion of Poland. His previous vocation had proved useful whenever the troops had a windfall of livestock to supplement their rations. The choice cuts of meat he provided to officers ensured their favor. And of course, Hauer’s casual brutality, honed in the slaughterhouse, had served him well as a soldier. His nickname had come to take on a different meaning, a different sort of butchery. Most of Hauer’s fellow soldiers looked the other way. The few who spoke up did not last long—war had a way of quickly winnowing out honorable men, leaving the real business of war to soldiers such as Hauer.

His only regret was that the war hadn’t gone on for a while longer. Hauer had never quite gotten his fill.

He knew that Cole still held those incidents from the war against him, not only killing the villagers at Ville sur Moselle, but also the incident at Wingen sur Moder here in these very mountains at the end of what the Americans called the Battle of the Bulge.

In his mind’s eye, Hauer could still see the nun that he had shot in his crosshairs. He could still hear the satisfying smack of the bullet hitting home. Some memories did not fade over time.

“If she chose to help the Americans, then she was the enemy,” he said aloud to the trees. He shrugged. He had no regrets.

In East Germany, employed by the Stasi, he had managed to continue his share of killing.