How long ago was that last mission? Five years. Gosh, it didn’t seem that long ago. He sighed. I’m getting too old for that life. Why the heck did I do it in the first place?

This is better. A steady job. A house that needs some repair but is almost paid for. Grandkids. Only a few years away from my last child support payment. Maybe we can have some real money then. There’s never enough. I’d like to take Diana to Europe like she wants. To England and France. But not Germany. No. Not Germany.

Diana yelled from the patio, “Rick! Are you coming out?”

He went to the back door, stepped out, and smiled to his many family and friends who had come to celebrate his getting an MBA degree. The small area behind the house and next to the garage was filled with chairs and tables adorned with food, drinks, and jolly guests. Most of his family was here, as well as Uncle Jim and his kids and grandkids. At one table he saw a half dozen fellow employees of Smithson Corporation. Even his grandma and Aunt Nancy from California were here. Almost everyone he loved.

He wondered why his friend and office buddy Antony hadn’t come yet. Antony was often late, so this was not unusual.

Rick felt still all too sober for such a memorable event, even after two beers, so he walked to a table near the garage door to get another out of a cooler and turned.

There on the far edge of the crowd, out on the driveway, was a strange man. He looked closer. Even at this distance, he recognized the figure. It wasn’t a man, but a woman disguised as a man. Short hair, cap, thin jacket zipped up, small moustache. A woman he never thought he’d see again.

She stared back into his eyes. Then slowly, she raised her left hand—and tugged on her ear lobe.

He dropped his beer.

It was Karla Steüben, his old handler in the CIA.

Is it another mission? Part of him hoped not, for he was not sure he’d be up to it. Besides, he made it very clear last time that he was through with the Company and wanted nothing to do with them ever again. Being beaten almost to death by a bunch of fanatical neo-Nazis and left alone in a cold cell to die at dawn was not his idea of a glamorous career as a spy.

But another part of him was curious. His missions had been exciting, even if they were frightening at times. He sighed. It wouldn’t hurt to talk.

He got some sawdust out of its bucket and sprinkled it on the puddle of beer. He tossed the empty can into the recycle bin near the fence.

“Hey, Rick!” shouted his Aunt Nancy. “Your grandma wants to ask you something.”

He grabbed another beer and popped the tab on his way over to the table with the umbrella. He patted his grandmother’s shoulder. “Give me a minute. I have to check on something.”

Rick made his way to the other side of the back of the house and looked behind him. None of his family or guests were looking his way, so he quickly opened the gate, placed the beer on the ground next to the house, and made his way toward the street, well hidden from his guests.

Karla sat in a brown Dodge SUV across the street. With a wave of her head, she motioned for him to get in. She drove around the corner and parked two blocks away.

Without saying a word, she pulled a manila envelop out from the door side pocket and opened the flap. With a quick motion, she withdrew a photograph and handed it to him. It was a shot of the upper body of a man standing behind a parked car, looking down at something across the street.

The nose. Something about that nose made Rick frown. He recalled the camera shop, then the poor shopkeeper lying on the sidewalk, his lifeless eyes staring at him. Rick remembered the fear he had felt and how he ran the other way, only to have the man with the crooked nose chase him. His heart had beat rapidly and he was afraid for his life like never before.

You do not forget such moments.

He looked up to his CIA handler. "He's still out there?"

She handed him another photograph. What happened next burned an image into his memory. Maybe it was because his emotions were already heightened. Who knows?

His friend—and fellow secret CIA agent—Antony sat in a chair, his mouth taped with a wide piece of gray tape, the same colored tape that held his legs securely to the chair. Antony's hands were behind his back, probably taped there also. His eyes stared back in a hollow fear. The appearance of his friend in such dire straights was bad enough. But what he saw behind the chair stopped Rick's breathing.

A flag with a swastika.

“They’ve given us only another eight hours to exchange you for him or they’ll burn him alive and send us the videotape.”

Rick could feel his heart banging away in his chest, his senses on full alert. He remembered how Antony had rescued him from that dank cell just hours before the Nazis were going to execute him. Now the damned CIA wanted him to go back to Germany!

“Of course,” she assured him, “we won’t let anything happen to either of you, but we need to arrange an exchange so we can figure out where the bastards are holding him. You see, we have another problem. We have to rescue Antony before he reveals details of his mission. He knows the identities of our undercover operators in the Neo-Nazi organization.”

She added, "These guys are not skilled interrogators and it's possible Antony hasn’t told them much yet. We’ve got to get him out of their hands as fast as possible.” She tapped the photo. “We received this less than two hours ago.”

Rick had always thought of himself as a man of discipline, but he realized he was breathing shallow and his hands were shaking, if ever so slightly. A strong sense that the end of his life might be near was hard to shake off. He never thought he’d go back.

He faced a dilemma. If he refused, he was sure those assholes would torture and execute his friend. Could I live with that? He wasn’t sure. On the other hand, if he agreed, his own life would be at risk. He would be back in Germany on the Nazis’ own turf. Again.

He sat in thought, his chest rising and falling rapidly with his short breaths as he stared into Antony’s fear.

More than ever before, he wanted to get back at those bastards for what they had done to him.

#

"What's wrong, honey?" pleaded Diana.

"Nothing."

"Don't you lie to me! I can tell something's wrong. You're shaking!" With wide open eyes, she looked up to him. "What is it? Tell me!"

“Antony’s in trouble. He needs me.” He looked up at the crowd of party people, laughing and smiling. “I have to go help him.”

“Right now?”

"I can't enjoy the party knowing he’s in such trouble. I can't think of anything else. You don't know what it's like!"

"What's what like?" She stomped her foot. "Tell me, dammit!"

Oh how he wanted to. But Karla was very clear on the consequences. Twenty years in Leavenworth. No, thanks. He looked down briefly. “I have to go.”

She sighed and raised one eyebrow. “How long will you be gone?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Damn it, Rick!” She shook her finger at him. “If this is another one of your bullheaded stunts, I promise you, you’ll never hear the last of it.”

It took all his skills at diplomacy as he told his family and friends that he had an emergency to handle and he’d back as soon as he could.

#

Karla drove him about a mile way and pulled into a farm field where a black military-looking helicopter waited, its rotors already turning. Rick recognized the silhouette—an Apache attack helicopter. He was strapped into the lower front seat and in seconds he felt the lurch as they lifted off.

From there, they flew to nearby Willow Run Airport. As soon as they landed, two guys in green coveralls rushed him into a room. The taller guy ordered, “Strip down to your skivvies and put that on.” He pointed to a pilot’s pressure suit. Then the stepped back and crossed his arms.

“Don’t I get a little privacy here?”

The guy shook his head. “No time for that!” He pointed toward Rick’s pants. ”Now strip!”

Rick did as he was told and pulled the one-piece suit on. Both of the guys quickly zipped him up and fastened his Velcro wrist and ankle seals for him.

“Let’s go!” order the tall guy as the two grabbed both his arms and pulled him toward the door. Beyond it, they kept their hands on him and ran to a dark green Hummer. They pushed him inside and climbed in after him.

Rick was pressed back into his seat as the Hummer turned and sped on the cement runway up to a mean-looking gray F-14 Tomcat supersonic fighter jet, its twin engines already lit.

Everything happened fast and in less than thirty seconds he was in the back seat of the two-man plane. One guy lowered a helmet over his head and fastened it. The canopy closed and in seconds the plane tore down the runway and up into the air, pressing him hard in his seat. He struggled to breathe under the pressure but he was not about to complain. Despite the tight fitting helmet, he could hear the powerful engines, one behind him on each side.

“We’ll be going well over Mach 1, the speed of sound,” said the pilot in his helmet earphones. “We’re in a populated area, so in order to avoid making too much noise with our sonic boom, we’ll fly at 45,000 feet, well above the level of commercial airlines and the clouds.”

Rick had flown many times but never at this altitude.

When they leveled off and the mach meter passed 1.0, he didn’t feel a thing. It got quieter too. “Where’s the shock wave?”

“Contrary to most people’s view, you don’t experience a thing when crossing the sound barrier. The shock wave is behind us.”

Rick smiled at the thought that he had never moved this fast in his life. The gauge topped at 1200 mph. He looked out the window at the rapidly receding clouds below. We’re really hauling ass. This is cool!

He followed the pilot’s instructions and opened a small screen of about the size on a laptop and plugged his helmet into the sound port. He watched and listened to more details of the mission.

Then he pulled out the envelope that Karla had given him. With his thick gloves, he removed the set of photos. On top was the image of Antony. One eye looked different. The faceplate on his helmet made it hard to see the smaller details, but he was sure that his friend's left eye looked swollen and bruised.

He rested the photos on his lap, leaned back, and sighed. Antony didn’t deserve all that! His mind wandered back to the last time he was in Germany. He couldn't help but think of being in that cell again, bruised and beaten like Antony. And condemned to death at daybreak.

Was that what they told Antony? Probably.

His friend had been one of the first agents to reach his cell and rescue him from certain death. He looked down at the bruised face again, took a deep breath, and sighed. It's my turn to repay you, my friend.

It was already getting dark when they arrived 350 miles later in the Washington, D.C. area. As they approached, he could see the lights of the nation's capital on his left. He had flown to Washington several times, but never in less time that it took to drive to his office!

When they finally came to a full stop at Andrews Air Force Base, southeast of the White House, the canopy whined as it opened. Two men helped him get out of the cramped cockpit onto a ladder. It turned out not to be a ladder, but a small cage on a forklift. As they pulled away from the fighter, Rick waved to his pilot.

The two cans of beer he had at the party were ready to come out.

He wondered why they were using such an unusual method of transportation and the answer became clear in a moment. The cage approached a plane unlike any he had ever seen before in person but knew about from photo images—the all-black fastest plane in America’s arsenal, the SR-71A Blackbird. The sleek plane looked like a thin pointed pencil held between two elongated jet engines. Its entire contour looked like it was born for speed. All Rick could say to himself as they approached it was, Wow! He was going to get to ride in one of those.

Two men in the cage grabbed both his arms and led him into the aircraft and down into the rear seat.

“Hey, I have to go to the bathroom!”

"There’ll be time for that once you’re airborne."

“You mean these things have a bathroom?”

One man smirked and shook his head.

Rick felt strong arms forcing him down into the cramped quarters behind the pilot. One man plugged the cord of his helmet into a hole on the dashboard. In seconds, he heard a whining noise and looked up to see the canopy closing down on him. With a thud and click, he knew he was locked in.

Next came a loud whining of engines, which turned into a roar, and movement. In less than 15 seconds, they gained speed down a runway and lifted off. Then the real pressure began on his bladder.

A voice announced in his helmet, “If you feel the need to relieve yourself, sir, don’t resist. Your suit contains a special absorbent pad. At the rate we’ll be climbing, you won’t be able to hold it anyway, so let it go. If it’s any consolation, it happens to the best of us. It’s happened to me many times. Just let it go and don’t think about it.”

Rick held it as long as he could, but the pressure as they climbed at a forty-five degree angle was too much. He found it hard to even breathe, let alone control his organs. It felt like a heavy hand was pressing down on his abdomen and he surrendered to fate.

"Ah." The guy who defined pleasure as the opposite of pain was quite correct.

When the pressure on his bladder subsided, he was able to enjoy his surroundings.

It didn't take them long to level off, then bank to the right as they headed out over Chesapeake Bay. He looked down on the lights mixed in with dark splotches. Beneath the plane was a solid blackness, punctuated only by the lights of small boats and ships on the dark water, making their way either north to Baltimore or south to the open ocean.

Soon, they passed over the lights of the east side of Maryland and out over the black of the ocean. They leveled off at 45,000 feet for a brief twenty minutes to refuel in the dark from a tanker plane, its lights blinking overhead, and then they traveled on alone into the night.

A voice came into his ears. “My name is Ramirez. Glad to meet you, sir!” The Texas accent was obvious.

“Ah, like wise, Ramirez. Rick…” He hesitated to give his full name, not knowing if it was safe to do so, “here.”

“I know, I’ve been briefed. You must be some very important person to get a flight like this, sir.”

Rick wondered if the pilot knew he was CIA. What could he say? He decided it would be better to change the subject. “How long will this flight take?”

“About three hours, sir. We’ll reach a maximum of about mach 3 in about ten minutes.”

Rick did the math in his head. Over 2,100 mph!

In seconds the nose of the plane tipped up and they rushed upward at a forty-five degree angle again for a long time before they leveled off. Rick looked at the altimeter again. 65,000 feet. Whoa! “How far are we from outer space?”

He heard a chuckle. “About one-fifth the way, sir.”

He looked up out the window and saw the deepest blackness he had ever seen. Only the pinpricks of the lights of stars were visible. He was now at the highest altitude he’d ever been!

Son of a bitch! This is way cool! I’m in a Blackbird! Oh how I wish I could tell my kids about this!

He had plenty of time to think about his wife and family. It was obvious he would miss the rest of his own party; he was sure to catch hell from Diana when he got home. Then he remembered what he was facing.

Make that IF I get home.

Ramirez brought the plane back down to just above cloud level for a refueling over northern Scotland. Then back up into the early morning sky they went for another half hour before landing at the Spangdahlem American military base in western Germany.

“Sir,” said Ramirez as they waited for the hot skin of the plan to cool down so they could exit the cockpit, “if you get a chance, visit the night lift in Cologne. It’s only 70 miles north of here and well worth the time.”

Rick gave him just a “Thanks, I’ll try if it I get the time.” Did the pilot know where he was headed next? Karla had warned him about being too chatty.

When he managed to get out of the cramped quarters of his third military aircraft, he glanced at his watch. He’d left the party less than four and a half hours ago. He was back in Germany and it was 7 a.m. here. The sense of dread and fear grabbed his stomach again. The joy ride was over. It was time to get to work.

He hadn’t eaten much at the party so he was hungry for dinner when he changed into civilian clothes provided by three men in gray suits, who then escorted him to the officer’s mess hall. They sat at a table by themselves and Rick noticed the stares of the military personnel at the other tables. They were out of place in this very military facility. He overheard one mention the word “spooks” and had to smile to himself.

To his amazement, steaks were on the menu. But perhaps some people come here from who knows where and their stomachs were still on a different time zone. Speaking of the devil, he ordered a filet mignon. What the hell, it wasn’t on his tab.

His breakfast guests cautioned him about talking too loud and reminded him he would receive more instructions later when they were alone. So the conversation was light as he ate.

They took a smaller civilian plane with only eight seats. Rick missed the speed and smooth flying of his previous flights of the night, but by now, he was getting pretty tired of being in planes.

His new handler on this mission would be Paul Stygar, until Karla arrived in Germany the next day. Apparently her presence wasn’t as important as his own this time. Rick knew he should feel special but all he could picture was he was being set up to be cooked like a Thanksgiving turkey.

It was 11 p.m. on his body clock and he wished he could get some shuteye. He had a feeling he’d need it. But the flight didn’t last long enough. They deplaned at the Köln/Bonn airport, got into a beige Mercedes CLK immediately, and took the A59 to the A559 into downtown Cologne, or Köln as they called it here.

He kept fighting off yawns and one of the guys gave him a little pale blue pill with the comment, “Guaranteed to keep you alert for the next twelve hours.”

By the time they discussed the mission plans, the pill had kicked in. Of course, Rick’s adrenaline as they approached the warehouse district of Cologne helped. As they crossed the railroad yard, memories of his last visit to this part of the city returned.

He found himself studying the pedestrians to see if one of them was his nemesis, “crooked nose.” From the dossier he had in his lap, he read the man’s real name was Klaus Öbermeyer, the son of a former Gestapo officer who had been executed at the Nuremburg trials. The guy had a real attitude towards Americans. Especially toward Rick, for whom he had said he had “unfinished business” to take care of.

Yeah, and so do I, buddy.

#

They crossed the Rhine River and took the Konrad-Adenauer-Ufer to the Maximinenstraße. Not many people were out this early Sunday morning in the warehouse district. The driver pulled into a small parking lot next to a warehouse building.

When Rick got out, he glanced at the dome over the Colonaden Hauptbahnhof Köln freight yard, only a block away. He could feel the low pitch vibrations from idling freight train engines. This was only a couple blocks from where he had been taken prisoner. Across the freight yard, he saw the tops of a church steeple, but he didn’t know the name. He couldn’t help but cautiously scan the area before they led him into the building.

#

Rick recognized the name, Schenker/Deutsche Bahn AG, on the sides of boxes. They were a regular shipper for Smithson in central Europe.

The windows were covered with wallpaper. One agent explained, “So no one can see in.” Rick counted eight computer workstations and sixteen men in the crowded office.

Paul introduced him to six guys from the German Federal Intelligence Service, the Bundesnachrichtendienst, or BND for short. This was going to be a joint operation.

The head BND guy added in flawless English, “We’ve been after these bastards for months.” He pointed to Paul, “Remember, we make the arrest, not you guys.”

Paul nodded.

While one guy taped a transmitter to his stomach, Rick listened to Paul’s instructions. Then they led him into a small restroom where he was handed some Vaseline and instructed to place the second transmitter up his anus. “Ah, remind me again why I need transmitters. I thought you said there wasn’t going to be an exchange.”

“It’s a precaution. We don’t want to lose track of you, in case something goes wrong.”

“But why one up my ass?”

“We figure they’ll check you for a wire. And they’ll be happy when they find the first one. Otherwise they’ll keep looking.”

Rick sighed and went into the small room. He finished inserting the second transmitter and walked back into the office in discomfort. It felt worse than a suppository.

Paul showed him his gun, a gray Beretta PX4 9mm. A mean looking gun. He handed it to Rick. It was also a light pistol, too, for what looked like a real man-killer. The butt of the gun was as big as the barrel. “How many rounds?”

Paul replied, “Seventeen.” He stuck out his hand.

Rick nodded with appreciation and handed the weapon back. Paul slipped it into his shoulder holster and covered it with his jacket. Rick wished he could carry something. Going into this without any weapon on him at all made his nervous. If bullets started flying, all he could do would be to lie low. Oh how he wished he could have something to go after that son of a bitch. For the umpteenth time, he doubted the wisdom of agreeing to come here in the first place.

Paul handed him something small. “Here, put this into your ear.”

Rick recognized a hearing aid. He took it from Paul and inserted it as best as he could into his left ear. He wanted his good ear open.

“It has already been adjusted,” said Paul. He pulled his lapel and spoke into it, “Testing.”

Rick heard the word clearly in his left ear.

“When you hear a loud beep, that will be your signal,” added Paul.

Rick nodded.

Then a phone rang. It was Öbermeyer.

Paul waved his hands and pressed his index finger in front of his lips to signal for everyone to be quiet as he listened.

The German’s voice came over a speaker phone. “I vish to speak vid zee Amerikaner, Rick,” demanded Öbermeyer.

Rick swallowed before receiving the phone piece from Paul. “Hello.”

“Is this Rick?”

“Yes.”

“I have somevon here who vishes to speak vid you.”

“Hello, Rick?” The voice was dry and raspy and sounded very tired, but was nevertheless that of Antony.

The danger he was facing became crystal clear to Rick. “Yes. Are you okay?”

“Not really. They want me to make sure it is really you.”

“It’s me, Antony. We’ll try to get you out of this.”

Paul glared at Rick and shook his head. He frantically scribbled something on a pad of paper.

Antony continued, “I sure hope so. Rick, please be careful. These guys mean—Ow!“

“Amerikaner, put zee CIA on,” demanded Öbermeyer.

Rick looked at what Paul had written: “Don’t Suggest Solution.” It was too late. He handed the phone to Paul.

Paul said, “Yes.” Then he wrote down something on his pad. He startled and pulled the phone away from his ear. “Well, I guess that ends that.” He placed the receiver on the phone set and added, “That’s his first mistake.”

“Why?” asked Rick.

“Because that’s where we found you last time. We figured they’d never use the same place twice, but what the heck; so we planted a few cameras and listening mikes.” Paul went over to a young man sitting in front of a monitor and patted him on the shoulder. The technician taped his keyboard and up came an aerial view of the central floor of the target warehouse.

There was no one in sight.

The technician clicked a few more camera icons, but the warehouse appeared to be empty. “Oh well, it was worth a shot,” said Paul.

“Wait a minute,” said Rick. “Is that a light on the far end?”

The technician switched views and sure enough, the small shipping office on the far end of the warehouse had lights on behind its milky-white windows.

“Hmm,” said Paul. “That’s right next to a shipping door. Maybe they’ll bring him through there.” He glanced at his watch. “We’ve got only fifteen minutes to get ready. Let’s move!”

With that, most of the men grabbed coats to cover up their shoulder holsters. Three guys carried what looked like AK-47s, but Rick couldn’t be sure. He was certainly not a weapons expert and he felt so damned naked without a gun of his own. “Hey, what about me?”

Paul turned his head his way. “You’re supposed to go unarmed. They’ll probably shake you down anyway before they risk an exchange.”

“Oh great! I get to go into a room full of men with guns and I’m the only one without one.”

“Don’t forget Antony,” replied Paul.

Rick’s shoulders slumped. “Swell. That makes it all better.”

“Lets’ go,” shouted Paul.

All told, twelve men climbed into three cars and headed out on the Maximinenstraße.

#

Two cars followed Öbermeyer’s instructions and parked in front of the warehouse. The third car drove on.

Rick tapped Paul on the shoulder in the seat in front of him. “Hey, don’t those guys know where we’re going?”

“Relax, Rick, they know where they’re going. The lighted office is at the other end of the warehouse. They’ll park a block or two away and approach on foot.”

They parked, got out of their cars, and walked in. Two agents from the BND took out their handguns as they scanned the area. Rick noticed that only two of the men had the AK-47s. The other guy must have been in the other car. Paul kept his gun in his holster and gently pushed his hand on Rick’s back to encourage him to enter the doorway.

They went down a short hallway and then out in a huge open space inside the warehouse. Their steps echoed in the empty space as they spread out, everyone alert.

“Go tvord the trucks,” said a booming voice that echoed from overhead in a distinctively German accent.

Rick instinctively looked up but saw only rafters with air conditioning ducts and electrical wiring for lights. A single metal walkway extended the length of the warehouse. No one was up there. He looked ahead and saw several forklifts in the distance. From the layout of the place, he recognized that they had entered from the farthest distance away from the shipping office. Maybe that was on purpose, to give the other agents time to get around behind the Nazis.

They left the open area and passed a tall stack of boxes but he could not read the German wording. Kältemaschine was on many boxes. Some kind of machine.

“Refrigeration equipment,” said Paul to his unasked question.

They got almost to the shipping office when two guys with AK-47s of their own came out from the left side and two guys with handguns came out from the right, blocking their progress about fifty feet ahead.

Everyone in his team came to a halt and drew their guns, almost in unison. Fortunately for Rick, who was in the middle of his guys, no one from either side fired a shot.

It was a stand off.

A tall guy walked out from the shipping office, a man with a crooked nose. He came up to the four men facing Rick and studied him closely. “Vee have some unfinished business vid you.”

Rick swallowed. He recalled Paul’s plan and waited for his cue, adrenaline putting him on full alert.

Paul stepped up beside him and touched his shoulder. “Where’s Antony?” he asked of Öbermeyer.

Öbermeyer looked beyond Rick and Paul. “Ah, I see you’ve brought zee BND vid you zis time. Very clever, CIA. Vat do you call it, a junt operation?”

“Joint,” answered Paul.

Öbermeyer nodded. “Ya. But it von’t do you any good, CIA. I brought company.”

Rick heard more footsteps behind him and instinctively turned around. Behind the last of the CIA/BND team six men with handguns and AK-47s stepped out from behind stacks. Serious men who looked like they knew how to handle their weapons.

They were surrounded and outnumbered.

Rick turned around just in time to see someone in a wheelchair being pushed out from the shipping office by two more men. It was Antony, with gray tape across his mouth.

He was focused on his friend when he heard another sound and turned yet again.

Another row of six men appeared behind the last row of Nazis. From their suits, Rick thought they might be BND. A noise from above caught his attention and he looked up. Two men wearing Nazi uniforms and holding AK-47s appeared at the top of a stairs next to the shipping office.

All told Rick counted eighteen Nazis and twenty of what he hoped were his guys.

“I see zat everyone has arrived for our little party,” said Öbermeyer. “Let zee fun begin!”

For the first time, Rick feared the exchange would indeed happen and he would be left in the hands of the Nazis. Öbermeyer was no dummy. He might have another trick or two up his sleeve.

Paul said, “Let’s get this over with, so we can all go home.”

“Ya, sehr gut, Herr CIA,” replied Öbermeyer, who motioned for the guys behind him to come forward. They wheeled Antony closer to the center of the confrontation.

Now came the tricky part. Rick tensed up. Everything depended on his recognizing his cue.

Öbermeyer commanded, “Rick, step forward.”

He did as he was told.

One of the Nazis pushed Antony’s chair forward and then retreated.

Rick was less than two feet from his friend. Antony stared back with fear and defeat in his eyes. For the first time, Rick realized that the Nazis might kill both of them right now.

“BEEP!” sounded in his ear.

He responded as he was told and lurched forward, grabbed Antony by the neck, and pushed him backward onto the floor with him. He kept his head down.

Shots rang out. Lots of them. Any second now Rick expected to feel a sharp pain from a bullet. Screams came amidst the hail of gunfire.

Then it got quiet. Rick looked up.

“There he goes,” shouted Paul as he pointed.

Rick looked in the direction he was pointing and saw Öbermeyer fleeing behind a stack of boxes.

More shots rang out and Paul groaned and curled up, falling to the floor, dropping his gun.

Rick looked around. Most of the men were on the ground, in different positions, but motionless. One man groaned and tried to sit up with blood covering his face. One CIA guy and one BND guy were all that remained standing.

The clang of footsteps to his right caught Rick’s attention and he snapped his head in that direction. Öbermeyer was making his way up a set of stairs to the metal walkway above.

Öbermeyer was getting away!

Something snapped in Rick. More than ever before he didn’t want that son of a bitch to escape. He looked around for some weapon and saw Paul’s gun. He scrambled on his hands and feet, trying to keep low, until he got to Paul.

Blood oozed from Paul’s side and he winced. He was still alive.

Rick looked up and saw that the two men remaining standing were looking around at the guys on the floor, guns out forward at the ends of their extended arms. A clang to his right brought his attention to the stairs and he saw Öbermeyer going around one flight of steps and begin his climb to the walkway.

Now was his chance.

Rick grabbed Paul’s gun and got to his feet. He examined the chamber and popped the clip out. He had almost a full clip. Paul must have been one of the first ones hit. He slammed the clip back in.

One Nazi lay on his side in a pool of dark red blood, an AK-47 nearby. Rick stooped to pick up the second gun as he ran toward the stairs. He jabbed the handgun into his waist belt and covered it up with his shirt as he ran.

He got up the steps as fast as he could, turned the corner, and looked up to where he expected Öbermeyer to be. By now the German had reached the level of the rafters and ran along rows of boxes. He was getting away.

Fueled by his adrenaline, Rick ran up the steps after him. But when he got to the top, he couldn’t see his adversary. The long path of the walkway stretched out ahead of him, devoid of human traffic.

Where the fuck is he?

“Stand vere you are, Amerikaner!” yelled a voice behind him.

Oh shit!

“Drop your weapon.”

Rick swallowed, stooped to lay the AK-47 on the metal walkway, and then stood up straight with his hands in the air. Any second he expected to feel sharp pains in his back. Is this the end of my life?

Something hard poked him in the back.

“Move.”

Relieved that he wasn’t going to die immediately, he walked forward with his hands up. He got only about ten steps when heard shots and loud pings on the metal behind him. He reflexively turned his head to see what was happening.

“Get down, Rick,” someone yelled from below.

Öbermeyer darted back the way they had come. He held only a handgun in his right hand.

Rick pulled out his own handgun from his waist and pointed it out in front of him, holding the weapon firmly. He aimed at the fleeing German and squeezed the trigger. The gun recoiled hard in his hands as it fired.

Öbermeyer screamed and fell. His gun fell off the runway and crashed below.

Cautiously, Rick approached the groaning Nazi, keeping his gun pointed out in front of him. The bastard might have another weapon on him. Blood oozed from the fallen man’s leg as he winced in obvious pain.

Sure enough, as soon as Rick got close, his adversary turned over and pointed a gun in his left hand in Rick’s direction.

Öbermeyer shot and Rick felt a sharp sting on the left side of his skull. He pulled the trigger on his Beretta. The German jerked back and a large red spot appeared on his left arm as he dropped his gun.

Öbermeyer looked up at him, wincing in pain.

“Rick! Keep your gun on him. I’m coming up!”

Rick didn’t recognize the voice but it had a German accent so he figured it must be one of the BND guys. The BND had said they wanted to put this guy on trial. Rick didn’t trust the police and courts. This bastard was too clever.

He went cold. He remembered being beaten in the face by this man. Then he recalled the look of terror in Antony’s eyes.

All this shit could happen again. Unless.

Rick raised the heavy gun. Öbermeyer must have guessed what was coming and yelled out, “Please! I von’t hurt you, I promise!”

Yeah, right.

Beyond the German, Rick could see someone coming up the steps. Time was running out. He made a decision.

He fired.

#

Karla sat across from Rick in the booth of the dark Höfenbrau Biergarten, the first chance he had had to get a taste of German beer on this trip. The bandage on the side of his head itched. They discussed the shootout and how Rick had killed his adversary.

“How did that feel?” asked Karla.

Rick pursed his lips and nodded his head slowly. “That man deserved to die.”

“Could you do that again?”

“Why? Does he have a clone?”

Karla stared back silently and nodded. “Unfortunately, there are many like him. And the world’s not safe while they’re alive.”

Rick squinted his eyes at what he thought was hidden meaning in her questions. “What’re you saying?”

Karla took a sip from her own tall mug and licked her lips. “You did a good job back there on Öbermeyer. I’m asking if you’d like to do that again.”

He raised one eyebrow. “You mean become an assassin?”

“Call it what you like. I call it cleaning up the garbage before they hurt others, people like your friend.”

Wow! He took a breath and his lips felt dry, so he took a long draw on his own mug and sat it back down. Not sure what to say, he stared at her.

“You’d receive special training.”

She’s serious. “How often?”

“Four, maybe five times a year. We’ll arrange for you to get a big promotion that just happens to require more travel overseas.”

Could I do it? Could I kill someone, even if he is a real bad ass? He thought of how horribly Antony had been beaten and tortured. He thought of his own pain at the hands of the neo-Nazis. Resolution rose in him. Yes, some people do deserve to die. He looked into her eyes. Coldness stared back. For the first time, he sensed she had killed before. “Have you?”

She didn’t even hesitate. “Of course.”

This could be dangerous. It’d better worth it. “How much?”

Did her eyes smile just a little?

“How much do you want?”

He took in a deep breath. This was a new plateau. There’d have to be limits. “I get to decide. And…I want fifty thousand, each.”

She chuckled. “No problem.” She scooted out of her side of the booth. “I’ll pick you up next week for your first training session.” She laid some papers on the table. “Your plane ticket back home. First Class this time.” She walked away.

He opened his eyes wide as he watched her go. What did I just agree to?