Brad Thor - The Lions Of Lucerne

“Shit. Then they know about him.”

“They must know something,” said Snyder as he turned his attention back to the phone. “What happened then?”

“The target evaded the shooters, and we followed him. When we tried to close out the contract, he managed to get away.”

“He got away? Maybe I haven’t been clear. You and your associates are not being paid for him to get away. You are being paid to take him out! I can’t believe this. That’s the third time. Harvath must be eliminated.”

“He will be.”

“Do you have any idea where he is now?”

“No, but we’re working on it.”

“What about the girl?”

“She disappeared. We had to stick with our target. She shouldn’t be too hard to find, though.”

“She’d better not be. And I’d better not hear about any more failed attempts. You get that slippery son of a bitch and you take him out once and for all. Do you understand me?”

The killer didn’t have a chance to respond. Snyder had already slammed down the phone.

They rode in silence toward the Munich airport as the long mono-wiper of Herman’s Mercedes beat a steady rhythm against the windshield and the steadily falling snow. Scot was processing the information Herman had spent the last hour sharing with him.

When NATO forces had been brought in to keep the peace in Kosovo, it had been divided into several sectors-French, German, Italian, and so forth. Despite the presence of NATO, emotions and tempers on both sides still raged very hot. Serbians had hit lists of Albanians they wanted dead and vice-versa. Much of this involved the ordinary citizenry, but there were also very high ranking military, political, and business people who had extremely nasty bones to pick with their enemies, but who were being watched so closely that they didn’t dare act.

Realizing there was a need for their services, a band of highly trained killers put themselves on the market in Yugoslavia. Nothing was beneath them. They had no problem killing, raping, torturing, or maiming men, women, or children…anyone was fair game as long as the price was right. What’s more, they specialized in assignments that were considered impossible. There was no security system they could not breach. No hiding place that couldn’t be uncovered. Once they had your scent, it was said, it was time to make your peace with God.

“You’re sure the killers were Swiss?” said Harvath, breaking their silence. “And the NATO soldiers acted as go-betweens?”

“That’s what my contact told me. Remember that much like Berlin after World War Two, Kosovo was divided into sectors controlled by troops from specific countries. As Swiss, the assassins were fluent in French, German, Italian, and English. They only interacted with the people right below the top of the different military commands. The ‘seconds.’ These soldiers were hungry for profit, and the killers took very good care of them. If there was an Albanian, a Serb…anyone in their sector that needed a job done, these soldiers arranged it.”

Scot had seen it before, and it made him sick. “Those soldiers were there to keep the peace, not to facilitate murders for hire.”

“What are you Americans so fond of saying, ‘War is hell’? Most of the NATO soldiers were risking their lives daily in a country that they hadn’t even heard of or thought about since geography class in primary school. Lots of people were getting rich. Why not them? And if a couple of bad guys want to rub each other out, who cares?”

“I understand the mentality, Herman; I just never agreed with it.”

“No, but that’s not what we’re talking about.”

“You’re right. I’m getting away from the point. So, we know that the hired killers were a group of Swiss. Do we know where they were from in Switzerland? Were they military? Police of some sort?”

Herman pulled at his large nose. “My contact stated that no one seemed to know where in Switzerland these men were from or what they looked like. No one knew what their background was, only that they were extremely qualified.”

“How were they contacted when a hit was to be ordered?”

“Through a series of dead drops.”

“What else did your contact tell you?”

“Apparently, the killers were known as the Lions.”

“The Lions? Why Lions?”

“I thought maybe the NATO soldiers gave the name to them to put more of a ‘face’ on the people they were dealing with, but my contact made it very clear that it was how the killers identified themselves. Just a whisper of the word was enough to send people into hiding.”

“Can you get any more information about them for me?”

“I don’t think so. The Lions supposedly stopped operating in Yugoslavia and could be dead for all we know.”

“Dead? They might be, but I doubt it. One thing is for certain, though, if they are alive and if these are the people I’m looking for, I promise you, they will be dead very soon.”

The drive back from Munich was grueling. Twenty minutes after Herman dropped Scot at the airport parking lot to retrieve his car and he was on the autobahn, a deep fatigue had set in. The psychological stress from the past several days and the physical damage to his body both came calling at once. The two cans of Red Bull he had with him and coffees at every other truck stop along his route kept him going until he got back to Interlaken and could finally drop onto his bed and slide into a deep sleep.

It felt as though only five minutes had passed before he drifted into a dream about Jackie. He could hear her concern for him in her voice, but for some reason he could not see her face. She was worried. Should she call a doctor? Was he all right? There was blood, she said. Not as much as before, but a little. Are you sure? she asked. I didn’t know what to do. Yes, I do care about him.

Her voice grew louder, but Scot still could not see her. A light shone and it, too, grew brighter. As he got closer to Jackie’s voice, the light grew in intensity. He found his eyelids opening of their own free will, even though all he wanted to do was sleep. Soon, he was able to see through the light and make out shapes. Jackie’s voice was still with him, but where was she? He blinked his eyes through the mist, trying to focus. There was a figure at the end of his bed. The voice continued, but the figure wasn’t speaking. The voice was coming from somewhere else. Harvath shut his eyes tightly, trying to clear his vision. When he opened them, he was terrified by what he saw.

It was her! The woman from the Ice Palace. She was sitting at the foot of his bed. Was this a dream? Some sort of hallucination? Out of sheer instinct, he reacted.

He rolled to his right and reached for the nine-millimeter Beretta that Herman had given him before saying good-bye last night. His hand fumbled clumsily along the nightstand. It was gone. But how? He had placed it right there before he went-

“Looking for this?” said the woman, holding up the pistol. “Or maybe, this?” she said as she raised the replica Glock. Now Harvath knew he wasn’t dreaming. “Please tell me you didn’t carry a toy to the Jungfraujoch yesterday. It will only make me think less of you,” said the woman.

Scot was trapped. There was no way he could spring from where he was and get to her before she got a shot off. The situation seemed hopeless.

From out of the corner of his left eye he saw a hand approach his face, and automatically he reached out and grabbed it by the wrist. He twisted it hard.

“Scot! Stop it. You’re hurting me. It’s me, Jackie. It’s okay. Calm down.”

“Jackie?” he said, confused. “I don’t understand. Are you okay? She didn’t try to hurt you, did she? If she did, I’ll-”