Dead or Alive (41 page)

“Taking it on the road. Better assume Anton’s a footballer like his buddies.”

“I was thinking the same thing, too. Doubtful he has a gun—Swedish laws are kind of a bitch on that count—but better safe than sorry. We swarm him, put him down hard.”

“Right.”

T
hey took positions on either side of the back door and waited. Five minutes passed. They could hear the man moving about inside. Brian opened the back screen door and tried the inside doorknob. Unlocked. He looked back at Dominic, gave him a nod, then turned the knob, eased open the door, stopped. Waited. Nothing. Brian stepped through and held the door for Dominic, who followed.

They were in a narrow kitchen. To the left, past the refrigerator, was a dining room. To the right, a short hall leading toward the front of the house into what looked like a living room. Somewhere a television was playing. Brian sidestepped and peeked around the corner. He pulled back and signaled to Dominic:
Eyes on one man. I’m going.
Dominic nodded.

Brian took a step, paused, then another, then he was halfway down the hall.

The plank floor beneath his feet creaked.

In the living room, Anton Rolf, standing in front of the TV, looked up, saw Brian, and bolted for the front door. Brian rushed ahead, bent over, and placed both hands against the long wooden coffee table and bulldozed it, pinning Rolf against the partially opened front door. Rolf lost his balance and fell backward. Brian was already moving, up on the coffee table and across it. He caught Rolf’s head by the hair and slammed his forehead into the doorjamb once, then twice, then a third time. Rolf went limp.

They found a roll of quarter-inch clothesline in a kitchen drawer and tied up Rolf. While Brian watched over him, Dominic searched the house but came up with nothing unusual, save the suitcase Rolf had been packing. “He did a quick pack job,” Brian said, sorting through the clothes and toiletries that had been shoved into the case. It seemed clear that Rolf’s decision to leave had been precipitated by his friends’ visit.

Outside they heard the squeal of brakes. Brian went to the front window, looked out, then shook his head. Dominic went into the kitchen. He reached the sink window in time to see a woman come around the corner from the driveway and head for the back door, which opened a moment later, just as Dominic slipped behind it. The woman stepped inside. Dominic swung the door shut, stepped to her, clamped his right hand over her mouth, and twisted her head so it lay tight against his shoulder.

“Quiet,” he whispered in Swedish. “Do you speak English?”

She nodded. Most Swedes did, they’d found, which seemed to be the case in most European countries. Americans were unique in that respect, having largely remained literate in English only—and sometimes then only marginally so.

“I’m going to take my hand away. We’re not going to hurt you, but if you scream, I’ll gag you. Understand?”

She nodded.

Dominic took his hand away and gently shoved her into one of the dining room chairs. Brian came in. “What’s your name?” Dominic asked her.

“Maria.”

“Anton’s your boyfriend?”

“Yes.”

“People are looking for him, you know.”

“You’re looking for him.”

“Other than us,” Brian replied. “The waitress at the Radish told us some Middle Eastern guys were asking about him.” Maria didn’t answer. “He didn’t tell you, did he?”

“No.”

“Probably didn’t want to worry you.”

Maria rolled her eyes, and Brian chuckled. “We’re kinda stupid that way sometimes.”

This brought a smile to Maria’s lips. “Yes, I know.”

Dominic asked, “Did Anton tell you why he’s hiding?”

“Something to do with the police.”

Brian and Dominic exchanged glances. Had Anton assumed the police were looking for him for another reason? Something other than his aunt’s missing-person report?

“Where were you two going?” Dominic asked.

“Stockholm. He has friends there.”

Okay, listen: If we’d meant you harm, we would’ve done it by now. Do you understand?”

She nodded. “Who are you?”

“Doesn’t matter. We need you to make Anton understand. If he answers our questions, we’ll see what we can do to help him. Okay? If not, things go bad.”

“Okay.”

Brian got a pitcher of cold water from the kitchen and dumped it over Anton’s head. Then he and Dominic retreated to the far side of the living room while Maria knelt before Anton’s chair and started whispering to him. After five minutes, she turned around and nodded to them.

 

 

 

M
y aunt filed a report,” Anton said a few minutes later.

Dominic nodded. “She hadn’t seen you. I guess she was worried. You thought it was about something else? Something to do with that plane?”

“How did you know about that?”

“A hunch,” Brian replied. “Until now. You did something with the transponder?”

Anton nodded.

“What?”

“Duplicated the codes.”

“For another plane, a Gulfstream?”

“Right.”

“Who hired you?”

“The guy—the owner.”

“Of Hlasek Air. Lars.”

“Yes.”

Brian asked, “Not the first time you’ve done this for him, is it?”

“No.”

“How’s he pay you?”

“Money . . . cash.”

“Were you there the night the Dassault came in and took off?”

“Yes.”

“Tell us about it,” Dominic said.

“Four passengers, Middle Eastern, came in a limousine. They got aboard, and the plane took off. That’s it.”

“Can you describe any of them?”

Rolf shook his head. “It was too dark. You said something about the Radish. Someone else looking for me?”

Brian said, “According to the waitress. Four Middle Eastern men. Any idea why they’re looking for you?”

Rolf glared at him. “Are you trying to be funny?”

“No, sorry.”

Dominic and Brian left Maria with Anton and stepped into the hall. “You think he’s telling the truth?” Brian asked.

“Yeah, I do. He’s scared shitless, and happy as hell we were white faces coming through the door.”

“Doesn’t change much, though. He’s got nothing we can use. No name, no faces, no paper trail—just Middle Easterners traveling incognito to who knows where. If DHS or the FBI had Hlasek or his pilot, they wouldn’t have asked Zurich and Stockholm to beat the bushes.”

“Probably right,” Dominic replied.

“What about those two?”

“Best we can do is get them to Stockholm. If Anton’s smart, he’ll turn himself in to the Rikskriminalpolisen and pray they’re interested in his story.”

 

 

 

D
ominic watched over Anton and Maria as they gathered their things. Brian left through the back to retrieve the car. He returned three minutes later, panting. “Problem. Tires on our rental are slashed.”

Dominic turned to Anton. “Your friends?”

“No. I told them not to come back.”

From outside came the squelch of brakes. Dominic shut off the table lamp. Brian locked the front door and peered through the peephole. “Four men,” he whispered. “Armed. Two coming to the front, two going around back.”

“You were followed,” Dominic told Maria.

“I didn’t see anyone—”

“That’s sort of the point.”

“You have a gun?” Brian asked Anton.

“No.”

Dominic and Brian exchanged glances. Each knew what the other was thinking: too late to call the cops. And even if it wasn’t, their involvement would bring more problems than it would solutions.

“Get in the kitchen,” Dominic ordered Anton and Maria. “Lock the door, then get on the floor. Stay quiet.” Dominic and Brian followed them there. “Knives?” Brian whispered to Anton, who pointed to a drawer. Hunched beneath the level of the window, Brian walked over, slid the drawer open, and found a pair of five-inch stainless-steel steak knives. He handed one to Dominic, then pointed to himself, then the living room, then moved that way. Dominic followed, and together they shoved the couch, the coffee table, and a side chair up against the door. It wouldn’t stop whoever was coming, but it would slow them down and, they hoped, even the odds. Though unavoidable, Brian and Dominic had, in fact, brought knives to a gunfight. Dominic gave his brother a good-luck wave, then returned to the kitchen. Brian took up station at the end of the hall, eyes fixed on the front door.

From the floor, Maria whispered, “What—”

Dominic held his palm up, shook his head.

Outside the kitchen window came a pair of hushed voices. Ten seconds passed. The doorknob on the back door turned, creaking, first one way, then the other. Dominic crab-walked around Anton and Maria, then pressed himself against the wall beside the door on the knob side.

Silence.

More hushed voices.

From the side of the house came shattering glass. Dominic heard what sounded like a rock thump against the floor. A feint, he decided, knowing Brian would have reached the same conclusion. The screen door creaked open.

Something bulky crashed against the door. Then again. The wooden jamb beside Dominic’s head splintered. On the third crash, the door flew inward. A forearm and a hand holding a revolver appeared first, followed a second later by a face. Dominic waited for his target—the soft spot just beneath the earlobe—to appear, then straight-armed the knife, burying it to the hilt in the man’s throat, then using it as a lever to bring him farther in the doorway. The man dropped the gun. Dominic kicked it down the hall, where Brian scooped it up. Dominic withdrew the knife, then reached across, grabbed the door, and slammed it shut, driving the man back outside.

From the front came two gunshots. The windows shattered. Brian crouched down and pointed the revolver at the front door. Dominic stepped around Maria and Rolf, ducked down, then peeked through the kitchen window. Outside, two men were kneeling over their partner. One of them looked up, saw Dominic, and fired two shots through the window.

On his hands and knees now, Dominic asked Maria, “Cooking oil?” She pointed to the opposite lower cabinet. Dominic ordered them into the living room with Brian, then retrieved the oil and dumped the bottle on the linoleum floor five feet from the door, then headed for the living room. As he stepped around Brian, the back door burst open again. A figure rushed through, followed by a second. The first hit the oiled floor and went down, taking his partner with him. Revolver outstretched, Brian stepped down the hall, right shoulder pressed to the wall, then opened fire. He put two rounds into the first man and three into the second, then grabbed their guns and tossed one to Dominic, who was already heading down the hall, pushing Maria and Rolf before him.

Careful to avoid the oil, Dominic stepped over the bodies, peeked out the back door, then pulled back. “Clear—”

From the living room the front door crashed inward, followed by the grating of furniture legs on the hardwood floor.

“Go for the car,” Dominic told Brian. “Start it up, make some noise.”

“Got it.”

As Brian ushered Maria and Rolf out the back door, Dominic looked down the hall in time to see a figure push through and begin crawling over the stacked furniture. Dominic ducked out the back door and sprinted across the lawn and around the back corner of the garage; inside it, Brian had Rolf’s car started and was revving the engine. Dominic dropped to his knee and peeked around the corner; the fence at his back was dark and covered in shrubbery. It would make his outline all but invisible.

The last man appeared in the doorway. Having seen his dead comrades in the kitchen, this one was more cautious, looking this way and that before stepping out. He paused again, then slid down the wall and checked the driveway before starting across the lawn. Dominic waited until his hand had almost touched the knob of the garage door, then rasped, “Hey!” He let the man turn ever so slightly, just enough for a good solid-mass shot, then fired twice. Both shots took the man in the sternum. He stumbled backward, dropped to his knees, then toppled over.