Without Options

WITHOUT OPTIONS

A Jake Adams International Espionage Thriller #7

Trevor Scott

SALVO PRESS
An Imprint of Start Publishing LLC
New York, New York

Also by Trevor Scott

Fractured State (A Novella)

The Nature of Man

Discernment

Way of the Sword

Drifting Back

Fatal Network (Jake Adams #1)

Extreme Faction (Jake Adams #2)

The Dolomite Solution (Jake Adams #3)

Vital Force (Jake Adams #4)

Rise of the Order (Jake Adams #5)

The Cold Edge (Jake Adams #6)

Without Options (Jake Adams #7)

Boom Town (Tony Caruso #1)

Burst of Sound (Tony Caruso #2)

Hypershot (Chad Hunter #1)

Global Shot (Chad Hunter #2)

Strong Conviction

The Dawn of Midnight

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictitious and not intended to represent real people or places.

WITHOUT OPTIONS
© 2012 by Trevor Scott.
This edition of
WITHOUT OPTIONS
© 2013 by Salvo Press.

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Salvo Press, 609 Greenwich Street, 6th Floor, New York, NY 10014.

Published by Salvo Press,
an imprint of Start Publishing LLC
New York, New York

Please visit us on the web at
www.start-media.com

Cover image of shooter by SCM Studios.
Berlin cover image by Paul Prescott.

ISBN: 978-1-62793-456-5

Visit the author at:
www.trevorscott.com

1

Berlin, Germany

A few minutes before midnight, in an isolated area along the eastern bank of the Spree River, Dominik stepped silently toward the water, a consciously subdued spring in his step. He could smell it already, a pungent odor of industrialism, the result of urban expansion and overindulgence. Chemicals mixed with dead fish and aquatic bird feces. He loved it all now. In the last few days he never felt so alive.

Dominik laughed inside as he thought about all the reports of climate change and environmental shock and horror, yet the people still threw their cigarette butts, fast food wrappers and urinated on the streets when they couldn’t find a better place to relieve themselves. They drove cars like maniacs on the Autobahns, spewing exhaust into the air and polluting with sound. And all of that ended up somewhere on the Earth. Probably in the Spree, Dominik thought. He normally mused of these things when he had nothing else to do—when he was bored and alone like now—but he knew he should have been concentrating more on this meeting and the result. It wasn’t every day that a man got rich, especially a man who had struggled all of his life growing up in a small town in northern Poland. After six years in the army, he’d gone from job to job until he realized what he did best was shoot a gun. Not much calling for that in the private sector. . .until recently. One million Euros was a lot of money. More than Dominik Gorski would expect to see in a lifetime. And now he’d earned this much in a few days. He loved capitalism.

As he stopped at the edge of the river, a light breeze picked up, bringing more of the odor and a chill to his exposed skin. He flipped up the collar on his wool jacket and shoved his hands into his pockets, his right hand grasping the handle of his Glock 19. He’d cut out the backside of his pocket allowing easy access to his gun. Didn’t expect he’d need it. But with that kind of money, who knew?

He heard the car coming before he saw it. Cruising in slowly, a dark Audi A3 came to a stop about twenty feet from Dominik, lights off. He’d never met anyone involved with this whole case until now. Everything had been handled over the internet. And that had been a concern to him. What if it had simply been a joke by some thirteen-year-old boy who was mad at his father? Just have him killed. Perhaps worse, it could’ve been the German Polizei setting him up. No. They wouldn’t have allowed the man from Mainz to die like that.

When the driver’s door opened, Dominik’s grip on his gun tightened. Settle down, he pressed into his mind. All is right. The man getting out of the Audi had described himself perfectly, right down to the watch cap and the cast on his right arm. He said on the phone he’d fallen from his bike and broken his arm. The man’s left hand held a briefcase with the money. Both hands were occupied. A good sign.

Letting out a deep breath, Dominik stepped forward a few feet and stopped as the man came around the front of the car.

The contact smiled and in German said, “Hope you didn’t have to walk too far from the U-Bahn station.”

That was their code phrase. His answer? “The shadows of Berlin are darker than any on Earth,” he said in his best German.

“Glad you found the spot,” his contact said. “I’d shake your hand for a job well done, but. . .” He tried to raise both hands.

“I understand.” On the phone Dominik had tried to guess the accent of the man, and now in person he knew this one was a Russian. He’d served in the army with many Russians.

“Tell me about the man you killed,” the Russian said.

“It was no problem,” Dominik answered. “He was right where you said he would be. Walking home from Sunday mass to his apartment near the Rhine. I drove up, asked for directions, as he leaned toward my open window, I put five rounds in him. People are easy. What did he do?”

The Russian smiled. “It’s not so much what he did, as what he used to do. It’s not important.”

Dominik was confused. He’d speculated all along that the man he killed was a businessman or someone who owed this man money. He was sure a man didn’t have a hit out on him unless he’d done something to deserve it. But a million Euros. That dissolved all questions. His anxiety now was his anticipation to see the money. He’d never seen more than a thousand Euros at one time.

“Could I see the money?” Dominik asked excitedly.

The Russian nodded his head. “You’ll have to help me open the case, though.” He raised his broken arm, which looked thicker than most casts.

“Sure.” Dominik took hold of the bottom of the case with his left hand and pulled his right hand from his pocket to unlock the latch.

As the case lid rose up, Dominik’s eyes first went to inside the briefcase. When all he saw was newspapers, his gaze went toward the Russian, whose right arm, the one with the cast, pointed directly at Dominik’s head, just a foot away.

●

The bullet struck the Pole in his left eye. He wouldn’t hear the sound. Wouldn’t feel a thing as he dropped to the gravel like a bag of rocks.

The Russian smiled broadly and closed the case. Then he checked to make sure the Pole was dead. Truly was. Next he walked back to his car, unstrapped the fake cast and set it onto the floor of the passenger side, slipped on latex gloves, and went back to the dead man.

He searched the man, finding the gun, which he flung into the river, and took the man’s identification. He grabbed the man by his feet and dragged him to the river, trying not to get any blood on himself. Mustering great strength from his muscular body, he flung the dead man, and with a final kick, the man’s limp body slipped over the bank and into the river. By the time the plop from the water struck the Russian’s ears, the body had slipped out of sight, swallowed in the murky liquid like a stone into a pool of oil.

Taking a moment to assess his work, the Russian gazed out at the river, the cold October breeze caressing his face. He loved the fall. There was death everywhere—the smell in the air and the fallen leaves whisked about his feet. Even the bugs had died by now. Everything dies in the fall, he thought, a slight smile at the corner of his lips.

Now the Russian got back into his Audi and sat for a second, thinking again if he’d gotten everything right. He took off the latex gloves and made a quick call on his cell phone.

“It’s done,” he said in Russian. Then he hung up.

Satisfied, he lit a cigarette and started his car. Just as slowly as he’d come there, he cruised away below the speed limit, wondering where that body would finally show up.

2

Innsbruck, Austria

With great deference to
The Wasteland
, Jake Adams thought that October was the cruelest month. Everything must die in October. Leaves turn from various shades of green to bright orange and yellow and red, before falling to the wet ground and starting the decaying process before being covered by a heavy layer of snow. Cruel and beautiful is how Jake always considered the changes of Autumn. Dichotomous change.

Yet this October was even more cruel for Jake Adams. He’d spent nearly two months in the Austrian hospital—a visit that should have lasted no more than three weeks, but which he had no great desire to cut short—so they could patch his bullet wounds and build his strength from massive blood loss. The worst of it was the infection that nearly kicked his butt into the ground. Unfortunately it wasn’t his first time in a hospital recovering from bullet wounds.

Now, dressed in clothes purchased for him, Jake shuffled out the front door into the crisp morning air, his gait hampered by his new synthetic left knee. He stopped and took in a deep breath, his dark, intense eyes glancing about at cars passing by on the road. A raven swooped across the Inn River and landed in a maple tree. He loved the smell of fall. Fresh death.

He thought about his years in the CIA, and how he had been shot only twice during countless missions. Since retiring from the Agency years ago, he had been shot twice more. And both times in relatively tranquil Austria. Part of that unequal equation had to do with resources, he knew. With the Agency he had almost endless back-up and intel. But as a private security consultant, he was mostly on his own.

The sun touched his face, warming him instantly. He considered the last time he and Anna had ridden horseback in the mountains in the heat of August, she the reluctant equestrian and he the enthusiastic teacher. That was just two days before the shooting. He tightened his jaw and forced away the tears. Growing up in Montana, young men learned not to cry from birth. He learned to ride horse, play football, be tough. There were no men who cried in Montana. Not officially. His tears for Anna came when he was either in extreme pain from the bullet wounds or while alone at night in the darkness of his private hospital room.

Somewhere deep within his mind he had successfully compartmentalized his feelings for Anna in the past week. His singular thoughts were not on her loss, but on those who had killed her. And he sure as hell wouldn’t cry for them when they finally met their maker. But Jake guessed those who had shot Anna didn’t believe in a higher power. Regardless, they’d wish they believed in something when he caught up with them. Then, perhaps, he would properly mourn the loss of Anna. Not before.

Laying in bed so long, he’d also thought of his siblings back in Montana. Neither had come to see him. Not his younger brother, Victor, a lawyer in Missoula, who had called a few times, but was right in the middle of a big trial. And not his baby sister, Jessica, who owned a river guide service and was occupied with her busiest season. Truthfully, Jake had specifically told them both to stay at home. He was fine. No need to get any of them involved in his business. Again, his training. When Jake worked covertly in the CIA, he’d never even acknowledge he had a family. It was better that way. Since his parents died in a car accident years ago, his siblings were all he had left.

Jake was mesmerized by the passing traffic. Where was he going? What would he do now? He had a lot of questions for himself, but few answers. Maybe he didn’t care. He’d had a lot of time to think, only time to think and nothing more, as he lay in that damn hospital bed. At first he’d hated the physical therapy—the pain and the initial futility—but later he came to look forward to the daily sessions. At least he’d gotten out of the bed and moved his muscles. It had taken his mind off his real pain. And then in the past two weeks he’d been allowed to work up a sweat, lifting weights and riding the recumbent bike. He couldn’t run on the treadmill, though, since his left knee had been shattered by a bullet and had to be rebuilt. The downward pressure on the knee was too painful. It still hurt him more than he’d told the doctors and nurses. He knew if he’d complained more they would have kept him for another week or two. No, he’d wasted too much time in there. Time to think. True. But now he needed to act. His body was nearly built back up to its normal muscular nature, but his dark hair was longer than it had been in years and he was even more prone to forget to shave for days. Who was he trying to impress?