Andrew Gross - Reckless

No one.

Then something with the force of a bus collided with the back of his head.

Hauck went down. His brain grew all fuzzy. His eyes glazed over and the next thing he knew he was on his knees. He knew something was deadly wrong, then a second later he felt another rattling blow to the back of his ribs.

The air went out of him. His face hit the ground.

“Who the fuck are you?” a heavily accented voice demanded. In English. Which, through his haze, worried Hauck even more. There was a knee dug into his back and the attacker dragged him up by the collar. “I know you. I’ve seen you somewhere before. Who are you? You’re not from around here.”

To Hauck, the words had the feel of a distant echo, slamming around in his dulled head. Not to mention the pain radiating in his ribs. He pushed himself up off the ground, trying to clear himself, knowing that how he replied and what happened next might mean his life.

How had Thibault found him? How had he been made?

The Serb reared back and kicked him again, this time in the stomach. Hauck doubled over and fell again, the air shooting out of his lungs. Thibault flung him against the brick wall.

“Who are you?” he shouted again. He patted Hauck down before Hauck could fully regain his senses. He found the Sig tucked into Hauck’s waist. The Serb removed it, chuckling a derisive laugh, then pulled back the bolt and thrust the barrel against Hauck’s head. “I don’t forget a face. I know I’ve seen you. Where? Who sent you? You’ve got three seconds to fill me in, or I spill your brains all over this alley.”

“I’m an investigator,” Hauck said, ribs exploding, more of a gasp.

“An investigator? For whom?”

Hauck took a look behind him. He saw no one in sight. Thibault had spoken to him directly in English. Not even a pretense that he was from around here. He now realized his mistake had been made back in New York. At the restaurant he had followed Thibault to. That was where he had first been spotted. Not here.

And he knew he’d better say something that would buy him some time. And fast. “From back in the States.” He sucked in a breath. “I’m looking into the death of Marc Glassman.”

“American?” Thibault turned him around and looked directly into Hauck’s face, more of a sneer. “How did you find me?” He pushed the barrel of the gun into Hauck’s head. “There’s no cavalry here in Serbia, Mr. Investigator. How did you know I was here?”

Hauck knew he had to come up with something. Thibault was an ex-Scorpion. Trained at this. If he had shown no qualms about shooting dozens of innocent townspeople in a ditch, surely he’d have none about pulling the trigger here, with his survival at risk.

“Bank records,” Hauck gasped, straining for breath. He looked the Serb in the eyes. “You sent money here.”

The answer seemed to shock him. Hauck stared, weak-kneed, into the Serb’s glowering eyes. “Bank records, huh?” He sent another hard blow into Hauck’s ribs. Hauck gasped, air rushing out of him, his ribs seeming to cave in.

Thibault yanked him up again by the collar and forced him farther down the alley, away from the street. He flung Hauck over a railing above the river as Hauck desperately tried to catch his breath. He could hear the whoosh of the water rushing below. Thibault took him by the back of his head and cocked the gun against it. Hauck’s insides froze. He looked down. There was some kind of mill close by, and a waterfall. A drop of maybe thirty feet. Hauck realized the roar of the current would conceal the sound of any blast.

He knew he couldn’t fight him. He was defenseless, still reeling from the blows. Any resistance would only earn him a blast from his own gun.

Thibault forced him farther over the edge. “Who sent you, Mr. Investigator? Who else knows I’m here?”

“No one,” Hauck said, the spray from the rushing water splashing onto his face.

“Don’t lie. I smell lies, the way I smelled you. Are you ready to take a swim? You may make it through the current, but I wouldn’t recommend it with a bullet to the back of the head.”

A winch of fear began to tighten in Hauck’s gut. He knew he had only seconds, and whatever he said, it better be the right thing. It better buy him some time.

“Franko Kostavic,” Hauck yelled, shutting his eyes as he waited for the hammer of darkness to bludgeon his brain.

It never came.

A few seconds passed. Thibault jerked him back up. He turned him around, pressing the gun sharply into Hauck’s ribs. His eyes smoldered with determination and anger. “How do you know that name?”

“I traced it. I took your DNA. I followed you in New York. To a restaurant. Alto.” Hauck thought, What does it matter now if it buys me a few seconds? “That’s where you saw me before.”

As it sank in, Thibault smiled. His face had a certain submission and resignation in it. He dug the gun in deeper into Hauck’s gut. “Then you know this is like a walk in the park for me; isn’t that what you Americans say? A slam dunk. Tell me why you’re here. Tell me what it is that has brought you all the way to Serbia. What it is you are about to die for.”

A final fear rose up in Hauck. But not for him. For Naomi-whom he had left helpless. He prayed he hadn’t put her in danger. Two other faces came into his mind. It was strange, he thought, who came to mind.

Jessie. A feeling of such terrible sadness. Would she even ever know?

And April. The glint on her proud face. See, I was there for you, he thought.

I kept my promise.

“I’m here to make you pay for what you’ve done,” Hauck said, looking back at him. Over Thibault’s shoulder, he saw two people come into the alley. He looked in his assailant’s eyes and smiled.

“In another life, perhaps,” the Serb said, raising the gun. “But in this one, your job’s done.”

“Not just yet,” Hauck said.

The two men approaching from down the alley stepped closer. Unsteady, bantering loudly in Serbian, they were probably drunk. Maybe they had come down there to take a piss. Or puke into the river.

Hauck didn’t care. They were the cavalry to him.

Thibault glanced around when it was clear there would be witnesses to what he was about to do. Annoyance crossed his face. They came to a stop about ten feet away when they came across Thibault, who looked to them like he was roughing up a drunken customer.

One of them was short and squat, barrel-chested. In an open striped shirt and a black leather jacket. The other was taller, in a kind of soccer sweatshirt. A shaved head and long sideburns and a rough, Slavic face.

“Hey, what are you doing?” the shorter one muttered in Serbian, gesturing at Thibault in an animated way.

Thibault shouted something back, which Hauck took to be the equivalent of “Get the fuck away,” flashing the gun in his face.

The two men’s eyes widened. Hauck harnessed his strength. Maybe as they went away he could spin Thibault around.

But instead of fleeing, the two men simply raised their hands in a defensive manner, their drunkenness making them seem more annoyed than afraid, still not leaving.

Thibault pressed the gun sharply into Hauck’s ribs. “Don’t think I wouldn’t do it…”

At the end of the alley, another man and a woman poked their heads in to see what all the commotion was about.

Suddenly, there were witnesses. A small crowd.

The two Serbians were shouting at Thibault and waving their arms at him, cursing. Even with the gun, Thibault was no longer in control. He didn’t know what to do. If he shot Hauck, he’d have to do the same to several others. Or leave witnesses. There was no way to escape. And the last thing he needed now was to be on the run from the local police; avoiding that was even more important than killing Hauck.