Terror Bounty (5 page)

In the heart of Luxembourg City was the
Place d’Armes. Nicknamed the Parlor of the City, it was a vibrant square in the
old part of town which, according to the guidebook Rick had perused, had once
been the parade ground for the military.

It was supposedly one of the busiest
places during the summer but in spite of the cool weather – it had to be in the
low 50s right now – there were a considerable number of tourists already. There
were cafés and restaurants all around and some people were out on the terraces
having drinks and snacks.

Rick had his hands in his pockets as he
walked around. He was simply strolling, looking like all the other tourists,
minus the camera. He was looking for something specific, something that didn’t
quite belong.

He found it on the western end of the
square.

There was a tall pillar, some sort of
monument with engraved statues. At the bottom was a small fountain running
around it. Rick could see that this would be a popular spot in the summer to
cool down but right now there were only two people.

The shorter of the two was wearing track
pants, golden sneakers, and a green leather jacket. He was in his late teens or
early 20s at best and seemed in a perpetual state of fidgeting. The other guy
was older, dressed business casual. He looked left and right, clearly nervous
about being here.

The short one offered his hand, as if for
a handshake, and the older man obliged him. It was an exchange of some kind and
it certainly wasn’t smooth. The customer walked away swiftly while the kid
turned a little bit to count the euros he’d just been given.

Drug dealers were the same everywhere,
Rick thought. He’d witnessed the same thing back when he worked mall security
years ago.

Making sure the police wasn’t about to
sweep in, Rick headed toward him. He sat on the edge of the monument, pulling
his hands out of his pockets so he wouldn’t appear menacing.

“Hi, you speak English?”

The drug dealer squinted, first with
annoyance and then with professional curiosity.

“You are tourist? You want party?”

He surveyed Rick from head to toe. Could
he be a cop?

“I want to do some business with you,”
Rick said.

“I can get everything.”

“I want a gun.”

Rick was looking ahead as he spoke, it
was to appear stealthy as much as it was to convince himself that he could do
this.

The dealer shook his head and also
avoided looking at his new customer, even sitting down next to him. “I don’t
sell that.”

“I thought you said you could get
everything.”

“Yes, everything you smoke, sniff, or
shoot.”

Rick grunted. “You can shoot a gun.”

“Not my job. Too dangerous.”

Carefully, Rick produced €100 and set it
on the edge of the fountain between them, keeping a finger on it so it wouldn’t
fly off.

“This is yours. You will get another one
when you deliver it to me. I want the thing loaded.”

“Look,” the dealer began. “I don’t know
where…”

“If you say no one more time I’m leaving
to give the job to this other guy on Hollerich Street who does the same job you
do. You really wanna give away business to the competition?”

“But…”

“You have five seconds to pick up the
money. Five, four…”

In a flash, the dealer snatched the money
away.

~  ~  ~  ~

It was with a feeling of shame and
embarrassment that Rick had McDonald’s for dinner. He had always been one to
condemn American tourists who wouldn’t sample the local delicacies when abroad,
and now here he was doing the same.

In his defense, he was too hungry and
jetlagged to go hunting for fancy Luxembourg cuisine. There was something to be
said about the convenience of American fast food.

Also convenient was that this particular
McDonald’s was a perfect rendezvous point and it was located just off the Place
d’Armes. Rick had wolfed down his Big Mac in near record time and he was now
finishing off his fries. It was astounding how it tasted exactly like it did
back home.

“I have it.”

Rick looked up at the young drug dealer.
He was standing out like a whore in church with his green jacket but it was a
necessary evil.

“Sit down.”

Not very subtly, the kid reached under
his jacket, beneath his sweatshirt, and retrieved a parcel wrapped in what
looked like a rag.

“You see the bag on the seat next to you?”

Rick pointed to his laptop case with his
chin as he finished the last of his drink.

“Yes.”

“Put it inside.”

“Where’s my–”

“Put it in,” Rick said, interrupting him.

The young dealer complied.

There were butterflies in Rick’s stomach.
This was getting real. He stood up as he wiped his hands on a napkin and
pointed at his plastic tray.

“I got you a cheeseburger, hope you’re
not on the anti-gluten bandwagon. Then be sure to clear the table of the trash.”

As he set the napkin down, he moved the
tray half an inch to the side to reveal a €100 bill underneath. He grabbed his
case and walked away.

Now he was armed.

The decision to arm himself hadn’t been
easy to make for Rick.

On the one hand, he would have preferred
not to. Having a concealed weapon in Europe was a definite risk. They didn’t
have the same relaxed attitude about guns as they did in the United States. If
he got pinched, he’d likely be in a heap of trouble.

On the other hand, Rick was tracking down
a fucking terrorist.

Seen under that light, it was a
no-brainer. He had to stay safe. He couldn’t run after a known murderer with
nothing to defend himself. It was a pipe dream to believe that he could call in
the authorities if he ever managed to locate Greenwood and just wait for the
cops to show up. He wasn’t willing to take a chance on something so important.

However, knowing what he knew now, Rick
wondered if he’d made the right decision. He’d had to rely on a shifty drug
dealer and, although he did come through, the result wasn’t ideal.

The weapon which was now shoved in the
back of Rick’s pants was a Smith & Wesson 686, a revolver nearly as big as
Mack truck. At least it was fully loaded even if it was only chambered in .38 Special.

Who the hell still used this prehistoric
gun these days anyway?

The answer came shortly after. As Rick
walked through town, biding his time until the first real part of his plan, he
came across an electronics store. The window display was bright and soon he saw
why. There was a dozen LCT TVs, all tuned to a different station.

One of those flatscreens was playing the
news and it caught Rick’s attention. A police officer was being interviewed.
Although there was no sound outside of the store and that the captions were in
French, Rick could follow the narrative.

Everything became crystal clear when the
cameraman zoomed in on the cop’s empty holster. The man was miming being
assaulted from behind and put in a chokehold. Then he was apparently hit over
the head before his service weapon was stolen. The guy bent forward to make
sure that viewers at home didn’t miss the bump on his head.

“Shit,” Rick muttered under his breath.

He looked around, realized no one had
overheard him, and he continued walking down the sidewalk.
Jesus
, now he
had a stolen
police
weapon in his possession? He was essentially
responsible for the cop being attacked?

He wondered if he was already in over his
head. Maybe this whole endeavor had been wrongheaded all this time. It wasn’t
too late, he could always put the revolver inside a mailbox and go back to
Washington.

Then again, fortune favors the bold
.

Screw it, he was going through with this.
Going back to a cubicle wasn’t an option.

~  ~  ~  ~

The Schwarzer Bär was dark. The furniture
was black, the walls were painted black, and there was so little illumination
that for a moment Rick wondered if the place was one of those pretend-you’re-blind
experiences.

But it wasn’t. Once his eyes adjusted, he
realized that it wasn’t that bad. There were some black lights strategically
positioned throughout the bar that made the place almost inviting.

It wasn’t too late yet – which Rick
refused to believe because of how tired he was – so it wasn’t especially
crowded. The music was contemporary top 40 material. The most offensive thing
about the Schwarzer Bär was the two John Mayer songs within ten minutes.

He sat at the bar and ordered a Tuborg.
While sipping his beer, slowly so he wouldn’t dull his senses, he scanned the
crowd. A lot of older men. He wondered for a moment if this was a gay bar, but
it wasn’t.

This was confirmed when he headed to the
men’s room and found no shenanigans. There was only one man at the urinals and
Rick washed his hands in order to wait until he was gone. In the meantime, he
spotted a small window on the back wall.

When he was alone, Rick hurried to the
window and forced it until it slid upward. The window opened on an alley which
was empty save for a dumpster. He closed the window again and pushed the gun
down the back of his pants before it fell off.

He exhaled loudly. He now had an escape
route if his plan went sideways.

He returned to his seat at the bar but
didn’t touch his beer again. What if somebody had  roofied it? Anyway, he
closed his fingers around the green bottle to pretend like he was interested in
it.

Spinning on his stool, he went back to
scanning the crowd and stopped when he found what he was looking for. The
Russian.

He had read dozens of articles this
afternoon about the Russian mob in Luxembourg and while details rarely
dovetailed, there was one constant: this guy. Even though he’d never been
convicted of anything, he was renowned enough as a “prominent Luxembourger
businessman” that he’d had his picture published quite a few times.

This Russian, who had a neatly trimmed
beard, hair slicked back and dressed as if Ed Hardy was still in fashion, was
speaking to another guy at his table.

That’s when the Russian caught him
staring. For long seconds, Rick didn’t budge. It was part of his plan. Then he
motioned the bartender over.

“Excuse me?”

The burly man came over. “Yes?”

“I’ve been told great things about this
bar.”

The guy frowned, obviously skeptical. “Really?”

“Yeah, I’ve been told this is the best
service in town. I’ve been told this is the place to go when you have special
problems. Do you offer special help?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

Rick nodded, no harm no foul. “I must be
mistaken then.”

He paid for his drink and headed for the
exit, glancing one last time at the Russian on the way.

Just after stepping outside, he turned
north on the cobbled street. He saw through the window that the Russian was now
at the bar talking to the bartender. They were both looking at Rick.

Rick may have been walking down the
sidewalk in a confident stride but he felt absolutely no confidence whatsoever.
This feeling was increased tenfold when he noticed that the Russian was
following him 20 yards behind.

He had thought he was being shadowed as
he turned onto Rue des États-Unis and caught sight of the badly dressed giant.
The street was narrow and Rick became claustrophobic. It seemed like there was
nowhere to run to if something happened, which was a strong possibility.

He paused in front of a bakery as if he
was just another tourist considering getting himself a strawberry strudel. But
since it was night and the display was dim he was able to use the glass as a
mirror.

The Russian was gaining on him.

Taking a deep breath and reassuring
himself that the gun was still in place, Rick continued walking. There were
lights up ahead and a small crowd gathered in front of a building, smoking and
laughing. There was thumping music.

Getting closer he discovered that it was
a nightclub. There was no waiting line and he headed inside. The Russian was
coming for him.

The Eurobeat music pounded through the
club. People were dancing, jumping, grinding. Lights were flashing, Rick could
feel the vibration in his chest. He’d never been much of a club junkie but
right now he could see the appeal. It was like entering a trance, all you
wanted was to get close to a woman, to feel the heat of her body.

Shaking these emotions away, he made his
way through the crowd and went to the bar where he ordered a €9 Coke. He
figured a glass in his hand would be of great makeshift weapon if he couldn’t draw
his revolver. He was handed a plastic cup instead.

He started to sip his beverage when the
Russian reached him. He motioned for the bartender to leave him alone and
nodded at Rick who had no choice but to nod back.

With a wave of the head, the Russian
invited Rick to follow him. The American compulsively looked around for some
kind of ambush and when he couldn’t find one he submitted.

He followed him into the ladies’ room and
shockingly none of the women seemed to mind. They were either fixing their
makeup in front of the mirrors or they were on their way out from the stalls.
One young woman was making out with a guy in the corner while some teenagers
were sharing a joint.

The Russian opened the handicap stall and
Rick headed in. The giant closed the door once they were both inside.

“Can you help me with my problem?” Rick
asked, mustering every ounce of courage he had.

“Who are you?”

His English was serviceable.

“I’m nobody.”

Without hesitation, the Russian threw
Rick against the wall and began to frisk him.

“Hey!”

He found the Smith & Wesson
immediately and shoved it down his own pants. He continued searching him,
lifting his jacket and shirt looking for a wire, and finally pulling down his
pants.

“The hell?”

The Russian ignored him and checked his
legs for wires. There was no telling whether or not he was surprised to find
none.

“Okay. Who are you?”

“You can call me Hoover,” Rick answered,
pulling up his pants. “I have a project and need some specialty items.”

He found his FBI-related pseudonym quite
clever and had spent considerable time coming up with it.

“What kind of specialty items?”

“Rocket launchers, miniguns, laser
sights, stuff like that. Should I make you a list or…”

Rick was starting to relax as he tucked
his shirt in. At least he wasn’t dead yet.

“I’m just middle man, I don’t need a
list. There is a lot of police pressure right now, I can’t get involved at the
moment. What do you need it for?”

“That would pretty much defeat the
purpose of secrecy, now wouldn’t it? My organization has needs and I’m here to
fill them.”

Getting bolder, Rick grabbed his gun from
the Russian’s pants and shoved it back into his own. He had to show him that he
wasn’t scared and that he wasn’t an amateur.

“Will you help me?”

There was a long pause before the Russian
spoke again.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Rick came out of the ladies’ room with
his head held high. He felt like he had made progress by leaps and bounds. His
story would absolutely arouse the curiosity of the Russian and his people. They
couldn’t pass up this opportunity to make money.

But what Rick couldn’t possibly know was
that a third party was in the club at the moment. A man was watching his every
move.

~  ~  ~  ~

The one-bedroom was small, it had to be
with the going rates for apartments in Europe. It seemed even smaller because
the place doubled as an office. Hertz couldn’t wait to get back to America. He
loved working overseas, in the field, but you got homesick after a while.

You always did, no matter what people
said. He’d been in the game for almost 25 years and there was no way you could
remain away from home for so long without feeling the consequences.

He was thinking about what he’d do once
he returned to Michigan. He missed fishing the most. Oh he had done some
amazing fishing at the four corners of the earth, whether off the coast of
Africa or trolling for swordfish in the Caribbean. But there was nothing like a
nice quiet lake in Michigan.

He was on the bed, lying straight in the
middle, the covers not even pulled down. It was his favorite method to fall
asleep, thinking about home, about fishing. But he couldn’t let himself go right
now.

Tonight he was working.

He was dreaming about a Coney, a big
juicy hot dog with gooey meat sauce. He liked his with extra onions. Closing
his eyes, he could almost taste it. The four-tone ring of the secure telephone
unit on the nightstand made the thought vanish like a wisp of smoke.

He sat up and answered. “Yeah?”

“Somebody made contact.”

It was Jemiolo. There was annoying dance
music in the background.

“And?”

“It sounded like an American.”

Hertz groaned. “Goddamn it.”

He stood up and started pacing through
the small apartment.

“You think some police force is trying to
bogart our lead?” Jemiolo asked.

“I don’t know, maybe. Or maybe that’s the
break we’ve been waiting for.”

“I keep tailing the dude?”

“You goddamn skippy. I’m not sending out
some half-ass report. We need info. And when you find out where the guy’s
staying, bring me back raspberry jam. We’re all out.”

He hung up. This American could fuck
everything up.