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

Even so, that had taken place quietly. It was not at all the same as the battles that had taken place in France and then in these hills.

Now that the wall had come down and the Iron Curtain had been swept aside, those days were over for good. The Butcher was just an ordinary citizen now. Fortunately, like most members of the Stasi, he had managed to line his pockets over the years in a way that enabled him to live in some comfort, if not exactly luxury. Mostly, he found himself bored, sometimes paying for the company of women—there was no shortage of prostitutes from places like Poland and Hungary—and drinking too much vodka. This game with Cole had been a pleasant diversion from the doldrums of retirement.

Hauer kept going up the hillside, moving cautiously. Just because he had gotten lucky so far didn’t mean that his luck would continue. As long as Cole still had a rifle, he was dangerous.

A shot rang out and Hauer ducked. He held himself still for several minutes, worried that he had miscalculated his quarry. Was he in Cole’s sights even now? He hadn’t heard a bullet come anywhere near him. Maybe it had been a random shot intended to slow him down—which it had.

“Nice try,” he admitted. “Very smart. But it is not enough to stop me.”

Satisfied that Cole did not have him in his crosshairs, after all, Hauer continued up the slope. His breathing came heavily—drinking vodka and chasing whores were not exactly the best activities for staying in shape at his age. He took his time, reading the landscape as he went.

He had spent many of the intervening years hunting with other members of the Stasi and had sharpened his tracking skills as a result.

Here and there, the bed of leaves and pine needles was disturbed, indicating that his quarry had passed this way. He spotted broken twigs left in the wake of their passage.

Finally, he saw spots of blood, rich and dark. So, his bullet had found its mark.

He squatted down and touched a spot of blood, wetting his fingertip and then rubbing the blood between his fingers.

“I am coming to put you out of your misery, Hillbilly!” he shouted.

The hills echoed back his words, but there was no answer.

Hauer shrugged and kept moving. Slowly, laboriously, he followed the blood trail and the footsteps on the soft carpet of the forest. Where the ground grew rocky, he saw places where the rocks had been disturbed. A couple of hours passed. Hauer sat down and ate a candy bar, wished for a hot cup of coffee, rested for a few minutes, and then kept going.

Finally, he reached the summit.

The view was stunning. Even someone like The Butcher could admit to the natural beauty of the place. He saw deep forests, tall pines mixed with the fiery colors of autumn leaves. No buildings. No roads. No signs of civilization at all, in fact, except a single column of woodsmoke that appeared to be several miles distant. The days were so short this time of year that the sun was already slipping low in the sky. The mountain winter was just around the corner.

He studied the trail leading down the other side of the summit. What was down there? More rocks, more forest. Had Cole gone that way? Hauer was doubtful. The only real chance Cole had was to get down to the valley again and look for the trail out. That Hillbilly was clever—it would be just like him to have left a false trail, and then doubled back.

“Where have you gone, little pigs?” Hauer wondered aloud.

After another moment of thought, he turned and headed back down the slope, returning toward the valley, confident that Cole was trying to give him the slip.

But not for long.

Back at the lodge, Hans was worried. When his new friend, Cole, and Cole’s grandson had not returned with the other hunters at nightfall, he had expressed concern.

“They have gone back to Munich,” the hunt master explained, holding up a walkie talkie by way of proof. “Hauer radioed me to say that they’d had enough and that he was driving the American and his grandson back to the city.”

“They did not tell me,” Hans said. “I’m the one who drove them here.”

The hunt master shrugged. He looked toward his companions, gathered around a fire and drinking schnapps. He seemed eager to join them, rather than to debate with Hans. “What can I tell you? That is all I know.”

“We should call the authorities.”

The hunt master groaned. “Oh, we don’t need them here! They will just have us answering questions all night, when we should be sitting by the fire drinking schnapps. If your friends were driving back to Munich, they won’t get there until much later tonight. Why don’t you wait until tomorrow morning and give them a call? I am sure that they will explain everything then.”

The hunt master gave Hans a reassuring pat on the shoulder, then moved toward the ring of celebratory hunters. Someone passed him a glass of schnapps.

Angela had been nearby, listening in. “Do you think they really went back to Munich.”

“No, I do not.”

“Neither do I,” she said. “We should go have a look at their room.”

The limited accommodations at the lodge had required that the grandfather and grandson share a room in the converted stable. However, calling it a stable was something of a misnomer because the building had been completely renovated to match the lodge in comforts. The door to the Americans’ guest room was not even locked. Not that there was anything of value in it, other than clothes. Pajama bottoms, two scattered socks, and some underwear lay on the floor near Danny’s unmade bed, evidence that he had dressed in a hurry to go hunting, and a suitcase full of disheveled clothing lay open on top of the covers. Cole’s side of the room had a military precision about it, with the bed neatly