Peter Leonard - Back from the Dead

He pushed the jeans over his hips and grabbed a fistful of Colette’s hair. Now the fabric was loose and she pulled them down, bunching at his ankles, keys jiggling, and got a whiff of him, the sour stench of unwashed man.

He had to sit on the bed to get out of the black combat boots. This is what Colette was hoping for, pictured it going this way, get the man thinking with his weenie. She made her move, got up, went to the dresser, grabbed the pistol. Stefan stood up, tried to take a step and fell, rolled on his back and pulled up his jeans. When Colette racked the pistol, he stopped moving, looked up at her. “Cuff yourself and get on the bed.”

Stefan grinned. “You’re never going to get out of here. Give me the gun before you get hurt.”

Colette bent her knees slightly, holding the gun with two hands, barrel pointed at Stefan’s head. He sat up, reached for the handcuffs and clamped them on his wrists.

“Give me the key.”

He unhooked the key from the ring and tossed it on the floor at her feet. Colette crouched and picked it up, never taking her eyes off him.

“How many are in the house?”

“You’ll find out.”

“Get over on the other side of the bed.”

He did without saying anything. Colette opened the door and went down the stairs. Figured she had a few seconds to get out of the house, moved past two Blackshirts sitting in the salon, reading the newspaper. Heard Stefan open the bedroom door, yelling from upstairs. “She’s getting away. Stop her.” Colette ran to the front door, opened it and took off. Heard the explosive discharge of a gunshot, glanced over her shoulder and saw two Blackshirts running after her. The tree line was thirty meters. Twenty-five. Twenty. She was almost there when the big sedan skidded to a stop in front of her. Two more jumped out and charged toward her. Colette aimed the pistol at them, but now the others had caught up and surrounded her. Franz Stigler said, “Are you going to shoot us all?”

At 3:30 they put her in the back seat of an Audi sedan sandwiched between Stefan and the big man, Riemenschneider, a hood over her head. Where were they taking her? She felt the bumps on the dirt road that went through the woods, and then a smooth ride followed by stop-and-go traffic, the sounds of a city around her. When they were parked the hood was lifted off her head, eyes squinting in the bright afternoon sun. They were in the shadow of the Frauenkirche. Colette saw Harry walking toward the car with Franz Stigler. Her eyes met his and then the car was moving. Stefan pulled the hood over her head. Everything was over in a few seconds.

“You see, Herr Levin, Fraulein Rizik is alive and well.”

Stigler steered Harry to another sedan parked just down the street and frisked him, moving his hands under Harry’s arms, behind his back and between and down his legs.

“Okay.”

Stigler opened the front passenger door and Harry got in next to the Blackshirt driver, who glanced at him but didn’t say anything. There was a second Blackshirt behind the driver, and Stigler got in behind Harry. They took off. Harry saw his rental car at the end of the street, but no sign of Cordell and now he was concerned.

“Lean forward, Herr Levin, and place your hands behind your back.”

Stigler cuffed him.

They drove through Altstadt, heading west, and a few minutes later were on the highway to Dachau. Harry glanced in the side mirror, didn’t see a car in sight. Where the hell was Cordell?

Two Blackshirts brought Harry into the house, removed the handcuffs, escorted him upstairs, unlocked the door and pushed him in the room. Colette was sitting on the bed. She got up and Harry put his arms around her. She looked at him and started to cry. He brushed the tears away and kissed her. “Harry, what are you doing here?”

“You think I was just going to let them take you?”

“You shouldn’t have come.”

“I didn’t have a choice.” Harry noticed Colette’s cheek was swollen, looked like she’d tried to hide it with makeup. “What’d they do to you?”

“I tried to get away. One of them didn’t like it.”

“Point him out.”

“What are you going to do, Harry, beat him up?”

He didn’t say anything but that’s what he was thinking. Colette sat on the side of the bed and he sat next to her.

“They’re going to shoot us, Harry, and bury us in the woods.”

“I’m going to get you out of here.”

“How’re you going to do that?”

“Cordell’s out there.” Harry hoped he was. “He’ll make a move when the time is right.”

“What do we have to trade if he isn’t?”

Cordell ducked down as the car passed by and went left at the first street. He followed, hanging back through the city, losing them in heavy traffic, nervous all of a sudden, thinkin’ they were gone. He sped up, driving like crazy, cutting between cars, people honking at him, Cordell thinking they must’ve turned somewhere back there. Then he saw them up ahead getting on the highway and let out a breath.

He followed for ten minutes and lost sight of them again. Floored it and got up to 140 kph, the Benz solid as a bank vault, drove two kilometers, didn’t see ’em, now thinkin’ they couldn’t’ve got this far. He pulled over, did a U-turn and drove back, looking for a road, a place to turn. Drove about a kilometer, saw it on the left, dirt road or someone’s driveway cutting through the woods. He turned and went half a kilometer and came to a clearing. There was a house in the distance.

He put it in reverse, backed off the road into the woods. It was getting dark. Cordell reached under the seat, grabbed the .45 and slid it in his right coat pocket. Harry’s .38 was in his left. He got out, popped the trunk, picked up the Mauser and slung it over his shoulder. He walked uphill through the trees.

He could see the house now, two floors, walls made of plaster with wood beams. The two cars he’d seen at Frauenplatz were parked in front. Cordell unslung the rifle, rested the barrel on a branch that had cracked and fallen but was still attached to the tree. He brought the stock to his shoulder, adjusted the scope and moved the rifle across the front of the house, left to right, could see someone in the left upstairs window, a shape back in the room that could’ve been Colette. There was a group in the lower window on the right: Harry and four others.

Cordell couldn’t cross the open ground to the house without being seen, so he doubled back to where the car was at, crossed the dirt road, went up through the woods and approached the house from the back. There was a garage behind it, a van in one of the stalls. Two Blackshirts came out, smoking cigarettes, Cordell put the crosshairs of the scope on one then the other. The Blackshirts smoked and talked, flicked their butts toward the tree line and went back inside. The sun was over the trees now and lights were on in the house.

He saw them bring Harry in a room with a long table and sit him down with Hess and another guy, three Blackshirts standing around the room, holding guns. One of the cars that was in front came around the house, high beams on lighting up a section of woods, and parked next to the garage. Two Blackshirts came out the back door of the house with Colette, holding her arms. The driver got out and popped the trunk. The Blackshirts took Colette to the back of the car and tried to force her in. A guy with tatted-up arms grabbed her hair.

Cordell brought the Mauser up, put the crosshairs on his head, pulled the trigger and felt the rifle buck, and blew the guy off his feet. The Blackshirts drew their guns, looking around, and pushed Colette back toward the house. Cordell shot the one on the left. The man dropped and didn’t move. The other one pushed Colette through the door into the house.