Don Pendleton: Justice Run

Hell, yeah, Gruber could look into it.

Idiot.

He’d be lucky if he lived to spend his retainer.

When he reached the sprawling parking lot at the back of the hotel, he heard footsteps pounding against the pavement behind him. Pumping his arms and legs harder, he darted between a pair of parked cars.

His first inclination was to turn and fire on his pursuers. A warning shot over their heads might make them back off. He dismissed the idea. If he was still a U.S. federal agent, he’d do it and hope he could avoid any legal problems. As a private detective he had no authority, including the authority to carry or discharge a pistol in a foreign city. He’d bought the gun from a contact here in Monaco. When he asked the guy whether the gun was hot, the man had just smiled, knocked fifty dollars off the price and told Gruber to stow the questions.

Gruber heard something slap against one of the cars. He glanced down and saw a spiderweb had formed on the rear window of the vehicle, followed a heartbeat later by second bullet sparking off the car’s roof and zipping into the darkness.

They had sound suppressors.

Gruber dropped to one knee an instant before a storm of bullets pounded into the cars on either side of him, drilling holes in the bodywork. Slugs pierced tires, flattening them, as other rounds lanced through the windows.

Jesus, if he didn’t fight back, they were going to kill him right here. He hadn’t expected this. But either he was dealing with true believers willing to go to jail for their cause or they had enough money to buy their way out of trouble.

From what Gruber knew, it was a little of both. He was dealing with fanatics and they had money.

Moving in a crouch, he backed away from the shooters, sticking as close as possible to the silver Mercedes to his right. The cars were parked nose-in, so the bullets were piercing the trunk lids, the rear quarter panels and the roofs.

When Gruber reached the Mercedes’ front bumper, he saw it was parked a couple of feet from the front bumper of another luxury sedan. Rounding the car’s front end, he sandwiched himself between the two vehicles and popped his head up in time to see one of his pursuers—a guy built like a pro wrestler with the long, bleached hair to match—closing in on the car. He had his pistol extended forward in a two-handed grip, and Gruber could see a wisp of smoke coming out of the sound suppressor.

The guy was so intent on looking at where he’d last seen Gruber that he failed to see the former federal agent from his new position. Resting both arms on the car’s hood, Gruber drew down on the man, exhaled and squeezed off a shot.

The Glock roared and the shooter jerked back, as though hit by an invisible baseball bat. Releasing the pistol from his hands, he grabbed at his throat and collapsed to the ground.

To the former Fed’s right, a second thug togged in a loud Hawaiian shirt popped up from behind a parked car and squeezed off a couple of shots. The PI felt one of the bullets zing past his left ear. He folded down between the cars again, grinding his teeth as slugs pelted the Mercedes.

After a couple of seconds the shooting ceased and Gruber guessed his opponent was reloading. Rising slightly, he peered over the Mercedes’ pocked hood and saw the guy had dropped out of sight.

It also occurred to him that three guys had followed him from the hotel.

In the distance he heard sirens wailing and, out of reflex, he felt relief wash over him.

Yeah, he hadn’t wanted any legal entanglements. But that was before these bastards showed just how determined they were. Plus, the FBI agent and lawyer in him balked at running from a dead body, especially when he was the killer. Maybe he’d be safer in police custody. They’d contact his embassy, he’d tell them what he knew and Washington would, hopefully, swoop in to help.

They’d have to do something. Even if they didn’t help him, they had to stop the hell that was going to unfold across Europe.

He peered over the hood again and saw Mr. Hawaiian Shirt creeping across the parking lot toward him. Gruber raised the Glock and snapped off a couple of shots at the guy. The gunner flinched and darted out of sight.

The sirens were louder and closer.

Gruber heard the rustle of cloth behind him. He wheeled. A shoe sole hit him in the jaw and knocked him on his side. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth.

Another man, the third guy who’d disappeared, stood over him, his sound-suppressed weapon aimed at Gruber.

“Please to drop the weapon,” the man said.

Gruber loosened his grip and the weapon clattered to the ground.

The guy grinned.

“You can’t stop this,” he said. “It’s gone too far.”

The gun whispered once. A bullet slammed into Gruber’s forehead and thrust him into blackness.

* * *

THE ALARM ON Reinhard Vogelsgang’s wristwatch beeped three times, interrupting his train of thought as he pored over the most recent profit-and-loss statements.

Clicking off the alarm, he removed his wire-framed reading glasses, set them on his desk blotter and rose from his chair.

Crossing the office, he moved to a rectangular panel built into the wall and surrounded on all four sides by wood molding. He pressed a small stud and the panel slid away, only the slight hum of a motor audible from behind the wall. Behind the panel was a recessed area that contained a large video monitor. He snagged a remote from inside the compartment, switched on the monitor and thumbed the button that turned on the screen.

The phone call had come twelve hours ago. The news he received had left a knot in his stomach and had forced him to make a decision. Considering the stakes, it’d been an easy one. Even so, the ramifications could bring all sorts of hell crashing down on his head if he didn’t handle it correctly.

The screen was separated into four boxes. In the far right corner sat an elderly man in a dark blue suit. In a box beneath him, the image of a woman was visible. The meeting’s third participant was late, as usual, joining the call two minutes after the start time.

“I guess we can begin now,” Vogelsgang said as the latest participant, Werner Nacht, a construction-industry magnate, seated himself.

“So sorry,” Nacht said.

“It’s nothing,” Vogelsgang replied.

“I was caught in a meeting.”

“Of course. No doubt it was more important.”

Nacht laced his fingers and leaned toward the camera.

“Tremendously important,” he said. “Shall I share?”

Vogelsgang shook his head.

“I think we’ve lost enough time,” he said.

“No, really. This has more than a little relationship to our work here.”

“Oh?”

“It’s about Monaco. I think everyone wants to know about that. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Vogelsgang forced a smile. “Of course. Please update everyone.”

“A private detective was killed tonight, shot down in the streets by a couple of thugs. They accosted him in his hotel and chased him into the street. Awful business.”

“Awful,” Vogelsgang agreed.

“Would you like to tell the rest of the story, or shall I?”

Vogelsgang swallowed hard. His forced smile fading, he shrugged and leaned into the camera. “We had a problem,” he said. “Someone sent a private detective after me. The man was better than we anticipated. He figured a few things out. I had him eliminated.”

The woman leaned forward.

“You what?” she asked. “You had him killed? Without discussing it with us?”

The executive’s smile faded. “Let me assure you, it needed to be taken care of. I had no time to consult you. Frankly, I saw no reason. The decision was painfully obvious.”

Anger flashed in the woman’s eyes, but she stayed silent.