James Becker - Echo of the Reich

“I think you might have seen Gunther in Germany,” Georg said, gesturing to his companion. “He certainly remembers you. Quite an impressive piece of shooting, he told me.”

“Just get on with it, Georg,” Bronson snapped. “You’ve got the Laternentrager here already, I suppose, and I’m the last loose end you need to tie.”

The German nodded, reached into his pocket and took out a small semi-automatic pistol. He took his time, extracting the magazine from the butt and then replacing it before taking a compact suppressor and screwing it on to the end of the barrel. The second man already had an automatic pistol held casually in his hand, but no suppressor.

“I need to know,” Bronson said. “It is here? Is it ready to be triggered?”

Georg glanced up and down the alley, making sure that they were still unobserved, then nodded again.

“It’s not here yet,” he said, moving his pistol until it pointed at Bronson, “but it will be arriving later this morning as the final part of the operation, far too late for the authorities to do anything about it.”

“Somebody might spot it,” Bronson said. “It might never reach London.”

Georg smiled bleakly.

“That’s not going to happen. Nobody will be able to stop it, and we already know exactly where it will be positioned. We have a reserved spot, as it were, because we’ve been planning this for five years, ever since the city was chosen to host these Games, in fact. And the best bit is that we won’t be blamed for what’s going to happen. In fact, when it’s all over, people will see that we were right all along. And because of the timing, it will literally be a broadcast that the whole world will see. And now it’s time for me to do you a favor. I’m sure your leg is hurting quite badly, so I’m going to relieve your pain, permanently.”

Timing, Bronson knew, was everything. He lifted his left hand slightly, and moved his right hand until he was touching the butt of the Walther.

“Actually, it’s not really hurting at all,” he said. “And thanks for the information.”

He twisted slightly sideways, and instantly brought up the Walther to point straight at Georg.

Shock flared across the German’s face at Bronson’s totally unexpected action, but he was committed, and both men knew it. Georg squeezed the trigger of his weapon, but even as he did so, Bronson fired.

The nine-millimeter bullet from the Walther slammed into the German’s chest, knocking him backward as his pistol discharged harmlessly, the bullet ricocheting off the wall several feet away from Bronson. The reports made by the two silenced pistols would have been barely audible outside the alley.

Instantly, Bronson shifted his point of aim to the other man, who was quickly recovering from his surprise at the turn of events, and was already bringing up his own weapon to fire at Bronson. Again, there was no option. Bronson pulled the trigger a second time, the flat slap of the detonation echoing from the alley walls, but probably not audible in the street outside.

The second man tumbled backward and crashed onto his back on the stone floor of the alley.

Bronson climbed to his feet and stepped forward, but one look was all he needed to tell him that both men were dead, which absolutely wasn’t the result he’d been hoping for. If he could have taken Georg alive, he might have found out enough about the plot to take to the authorities. But obviously that wasn’t going to happen now.

Weeks stepped up beside him and looked down at the two bodies.

“Shame,” he said. “I heard him say something, but I guess it wasn’t enough.”

“Not really. All I know is that the device isn’t here yet, but it’s due to arrive this morning. I suppose that’s some help, just not very much.”

Weeks nodded back toward the yard where he’d been concealed.

“We can put them in there,” he said. “Somebody’ll find them today, I guess, but at least that’ll get them out of sight for a while.”

Bronson picked up Georg’s pistol, slipped it into his bag, and then searched the body, removing his wallet and everything else the man was carrying, while Weeks did the same thing to the other corpse.

A few minutes later, the bodies hidden out of sight in the yard, Bronson and Weeks walked out of the alley and headed toward the main road.

27 July 2012

The moment they stepped out of the alleyway, Bronson saw a distinctive white car approaching, the lights on the roof bar flashing blue and red as it carved its way through the traffic. Unusually, the officers hadn’t turned on their siren; for most villains engaged in the perpetration of a crime, the noise simply acted as a two-minute warning and allowed them to make good their getaway before the police arrived. And on this occasion, Bronson would have appreciated that warning as well.

“Someone must have heard something, or even seen something,” Weeks said. “We can’t afford to get caught with these weapons on us.”

“You got that right. Just keep going. They might not be looking for us.”

“Yeah, and I still believe in Father Christmas.”

The police car powered past them, the driver giving the traffic his full attention. But his companion, sitting in the front passenger seat, was scanning the faces of the people on the sidewalk. For the briefest of instants, he locked eyes with Bronson, and almost immediately the brake lights of the vehicle flared into life as the driver dragged the car to a stop.

“He’s made us,” Bronson said, breaking into a run.

“Only you, actually,” Weeks said, matching Bronson’s stride.

“You’re guilty by association. Welcome to the club.”

The sidewalks were quite busy, shoppers wandering to and fro with their usual scant regard for anyone or anything around them. Bronson and Weeks were forced to dodge and weave their way through the crowds, angry shouts and spilled shopping lying in their wake.

Bronson risked a quick glance behind them. The two police officers were pounding along in pursuit, people moving quickly out of their way. One of them had his hand to his collar and was speaking into his microphone, obviously calling for backup. Somehow, they had to stop the two officers, or at the very least slow them down.

Weeks clearly had the same idea, and pulled the Colt 1911 from its holster. Without breaking stride, he swung his right arm around to point behind him, glanced quickly backward and then pulled the trigger.

The bang of the forty-five-caliber cartridge firing was shockingly loud, the report echoing from the buildings on either side of the street. Instantly, screams and shouts of alarm followed, and all around them people either dropped to the ground or ran for cover.

“You didn’t hit anyone, I hope,” Bronson said, panting from the exertion.

“Just scared them. Well above their heads.”

Bronson glanced back again. The two police officers were a lot further back, Weeks’s use of his pistol obviously having shocked them.

“They’ll keep coming, you know,” he said. “And by now they’ll have a couple of ARVs heading this way as well.”

“I know. But my motor’s parked a couple of streets away. Once we get to that, we’re out of here.”

Weeks led the way down a side street, then took the first junction on the left. The moment he reached the building that stood on that corner, he stopped, took out his pistol and waited. Within a few seconds, the two police officers appeared, still running, albeit slightly more slowly than before. Weeks waited until they’d covered a few yards, then stepped into plain view, lifted the pistol and fired another shot. The bullet slammed into the wall of the house a few feet above their heads, and both men instantly dropped to the ground.