Echo of the Reich (26 page)

In fact, that was something he could check, he hoped. Bronson gripped the binoculars and took two cautious steps to his left, moving just far enough to enable him to see up the track, while keeping most of his body hidden in the undergrowth. He raised the binoculars and started looking at the land in front of him. In the dark, the instrument was less help than he had hoped, and at first he was unsure what he was looking at; everything just appeared to be different shades of gray.

Then he managed to identify the edge of the wood on the right-hand side of his field of view and slowly moved the binoculars to the left, looking for the more or less straight line of the track. Then a faint glint appeared in the eyepieces, and Bronson immediately focused his attention on that. There was a dark square shape just about visible some distance away, and what he’d seen was the faint reflection of the moonlight off one of the headlamps. He had no idea what type of vehicle it was, or how many people were inside it, but it was definitely some kind of car, and just as definitely it hadn’t been there when he’d arrived.

That was at least a confirmation, albeit an unwelcome one, that his tactical analysis had been fairly accurate. What he had to decide now was what to do about it, and as far as he could see, only one option made sense. There was no point in trying to sneak into the clearing to tackle the men hiding there while another group was sitting in the car in the lane, waiting for him to make a move.

He had to sort out the people in the vehicle first. And
as he decided that, another thought struck him. Something that could actually turn the situation around in his favor. The only question was what he should do about it.

What he couldn’t do, quite obviously, was to continue walking up the track. That would just ensure that he was either captured or killed within a matter of minutes. Instead, he had to make use of the large open field that lay over to his left.

But for several minutes, Bronson just stood beside the tree and waited, because there was one other factor he’d noticed that might give him a tiny advantage. There were a few small and more or less circular clouds in the sky, all drifting slowly northeast, and a couple of them were soon going to obscure the moon.

The moment the first cloud blotted out the faint light, Bronson stepped back onto the edge of the track, keeping as close to the trees and bushes as he could without actually touching them, and began retracing his steps.

He didn’t go all the way to the end of the track, because he was very aware that the moon would reappear any moment, and he needed to get into the large field as quickly as he could. As soon as he reckoned he was out of sight of whoever was waiting in the car, he turned to his right and started jogging toward the center of the field. The ground rose toward the north, and he was reasonably certain that he was now effectively over the horizon as far as the people waiting for him were concerned.

Then he started heading east, this time much more slowly and cautiously, trying to get his bearings and, more important, hoping to spot the position of the waiting vehicle before the watchers inside it could see him.

A brief wash of pale white illumination swept across the field as the moon reappeared from behind the clouds, and Bronson immediately stopped moving. From his different perspective, looking across at the track from one side rather than along it, and from the slightly higher ground near the middle of the field, the vehicle was clearly visible.

It was a dark-colored saloon, possibly one of the BMWs he’d seen previously being driven by members of the group. It was less than a hundred yards in front of him, facing down the track, but in the poor light he had no idea if the car was empty or filled with armed men. That was something he needed to find out before he got too close to it.

The moon vanished again, this time behind the larger cloud, and the landscape was plunged into darkness once more. Bronson knew he had perhaps four or five minutes before the cloud moved away, a brief enough timescale for what he had to do.

He moved quickly down the gentle slope, angling slightly over to his left so that he would be able to approach the car from the right rear quarter. All mirrors have blind spots, and he hoped that the car’s occupant—or occupants—would be concentrating on the view in front of them, straining to see their victim as he walked up the track toward them. They probably wouldn’t be expecting him either to carry the fight directly to them or to approach them from behind.

He stopped moving the moment he could discern the bulky shape in the darkness in front of him, and eased slowly down to lie full-length on the ground. He guessed
the car was only about twenty-five yards away. He still had no idea how many men were inside it, and that was vital information. He raised the binoculars to his face, adjusted the focus and stared at the car.

It was too dark to see anything clearly through the windows and obviously no lights were switched on in the interior of the vehicle. But as his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he saw a faint movement in the front seat, on the driver’s side, but no sign of anybody sitting in the other front seat, or in the back of the car. And that, he supposed, made sense. It looked like there was just a single occupant. The ambush in the clearing was where they expected to trap him; the man with the car was just an insurance policy in case something went wrong.

And if Bronson’s plan worked, it would certainly go wrong for them.

He slowly rose into a crouch, and then backed away until he could no longer see the car, which meant that nobody in the car could see him. The field was hard-packed earth mostly covered in grass and presumably used for grazing cattle or maybe sheep. But there were a few low stumpy bushes dotted around the edge of the track, and one of those might help him.

Bronson moved about fifty yards behind the car, staying inside the field, and began tugging on the stems of the small bushes he found growing there. Most were firmly anchored by their roots, but within a couple of minutes he’d found one right at the edge of the field that wasn’t. The stem moved slightly when he pulled it.

He reached around to the belt on the right-hand side of his trousers and snapped open a small holster that contained
the folding multi-tool that he never traveled without. He opened it and, working by feel, selected the knife blade and locked it into place. Then he worked the blade around the base of the bush, digging it into the ground to cut through some of the roots. It gave way suddenly, and he found himself holding the bush with a couple of pounds of earth still attached to the roots. It was just what he needed.

He folded up the multi-tool and replaced it in his holster, then walked cautiously back toward the car, approaching it at an oblique angle, hopefully staying out of sight in any of the rearview mirrors.

He stopped about twenty feet behind and to one side of the car, measuring the remaining distance by eye, then acted. He swung the bush back, and then lobbed it underarm toward the vehicle. It was another BMW, as he’d guessed, this one a 3-series.

The bush with its cargo of earth described a parabola, landed with a dull thud almost directly in the middle of the trunk lid, then slid off it and fell to the ground behind the car. The impact wasn’t enough to damage the vehicle, but Bronson was sure the man inside would have heard and felt it. And would want to investigate the cause.

For a few moments nothing happened, and he wondered if he’d been wrong, if the car was empty, if he’d been tricked by a shadow and hadn’t seen anyone in the driver’s seat. Maybe the car had simply been used by the men waiting in the clearing as a means of transport.

Then he heard a click, and immediately closed his eyes to preserve his night-sight, because the driver’s door of the BMW had just swung open, triggering the interior
light. Bronson knew that the bulb was very low powered, just a few watts, but in the blackness of the night it was like a searchlight snapping on.

He stared down at the ground before he opened his eyes, but then the light was extinguished as the man closed the door again. Bronson looked up and watched as a dark, bulky figure stepped around to the back of the car.

As soon as the man looked down at the bush, he muttered a single word—“
Scheiße
”—which Bronson didn’t need to be a linguist to translate.

But by then, he was already moving.

24 July 2012

Bronson covered the dozen or so feet to the other man in a few swift and silent strides, then stopped right behind him. He reached forward over the man’s left shoulder and wrapped his hand around his mouth. At the same moment, he hit out with his right fist with all the power he could muster. The blow connected with the other man’s back beside his right kidney, exactly where Bronson had been aiming. It was an incapacitating, not a killing, blow. The man loosed a sudden muffled grunt of surprise and pain as he arched backward.

Bronson was already pulling him in the same direction, and the man tumbled helplessly to the ground, cracking the back of his head on the hard-packed soil as he did so. But Bronson hadn’t quite finished with him, and swung his right fist again, this time aiming for the solar plexus, driving every vestige of breath from the man’s body. And he followed that with a sharp uppercut
to the jaw to complete the process. The man’s head snapped backward as unconsciousness claimed him.

It was a rapid and brutal demolition job, and had offered the man no possible chance of responding, which was precisely what Bronson had intended. For about half a minute he stood where he was, staring down the track into the darkness and listening intently. He doubted if the noise of the assault could have been heard more than a few yards away, but he needed to be certain nobody was approaching him. But he heard nothing, no sound of movement.

Then he bent down and quickly searched the unconscious man. He found a Walther pistol—this one a PPQ model, very similar in appearance to the smaller Glocks—in a shoulder holster and with two spare magazines in a belt pouch. A metal tube in one of his pockets turned out to be a suppressor for the weapon.

Bronson shrugged, pulled off the man’s jacket, and took the lot. He took off his own jacket, donned the shoulder holster and the belt pouch, and screwed the suppressor onto the threaded barrel of the Walther. He pressed the magazine release and hefted it in his hand. It felt full, but he had no time to check it. Bronson replaced the magazine in the pistol and eased the slide back just far enough to confirm that there was already a round in the chamber.

That was the first part of his plan completed. Now all he had to do was get past whoever was waiting for him in the clearing further down the track.

Bronson still needed a car, and had realized that it might make sense to “borrow” the BMW, rather than
even try to retrieve the Hyundai. BMWs, after all, were as common on the roads of Germany as Fords were in Britain, and he would stand out less driving that than the British-plated vehicle.

There was nothing in the Hyundai he needed to recover, and it couldn’t be traced to him because he didn’t own it. And despite the addition to his armory, Bronson still wasn’t happy about tackling the men in the clearing. He knew there were at least two of them, and even they would be a handful. If there were three or four waiting there, he’d almost certainly come off worst. In all respects, taking the BMW and getting the hell out of Dodge made sense.

He walked round to the driver’s door, slid into the seat and closed the door. The keys were in the ignition, and he immediately started the engine and switched on the lights, selecting main beam. There was no point in trying to be sneaky, because not even Harry Houdini could have managed to spirit a four-door saloon car past the men waiting in the clearing.

He lowered the door window and placed the Walther on the seat beside him, where he could easily reach it. Then he engaged first gear and began driving slowly down the track.

He was watching where he was heading, making sure he kept the saloon on the track, but most of his concentration was directed toward the wood on his left, waiting to see what would happen when he reached the entrance to the clearing. Would one of the men step out to stop him and ask where he was going, or would they just assume he’d been recalled to the house by Marcus?

A squawk from the dashboard made him look down, and he spotted a small two-way radio on the front of the transmission tunnel. The noise was followed by a short burst of German, so he guessed that somebody, presumably one of the men in the clearing, wasn’t waiting for him to reach them, but was asking him what he was doing.

Clearly he couldn’t reply to the question, so he just kept on driving, but picked up the Walther in his right hand and rested it on his lap, just in case they tried to stop him. Then he saw the two large trees on his left, and knew he’d almost reached the clearing.

The radio barked another string of words at him, which he again ignored.

Then a figure wearing camouflage clothing emerged from beside one of the trees, a pistol held in his right hand, but pointing at the ground, and his left hand raised.

Obediently, Bronson slowed down the BMW slightly and dipped the lights. He lifted the Walther off his lap and rested the end of the suppressor on the door, aiming the weapon at the man as the car approached him.

The figure stepped forward a couple of paces, then seemed almost to recoil as a spark of recognition crossed his face. Immediately he began to raise his pistol, but Bronson was a whole lifetime faster.

He adjusted his aim slightly and squeezed the trigger of the Walther. The pistol coughed in his hand, the suppressor doing its job, and the man beside the car fell backward, the front of his camouflage jacket suddenly turned crimson.

Bronson didn’t wait around. He flicked the lights back
to high beam and floored the accelerator pedal. The BMW leaped forward, tires scrabbling for grip on the loose and rutted surface of the track. There was no point in him watching his mirrors, because the night behind him was impenetrably black, and the first warning he’d have if he was being shot at would be the arrival of the bullet.