Deadly: A Trio Of Crime Novels

By Alfred Bekker

Deadly: A Trio Of Crime Novels

Three gripping crime novels by Alfred Bekker.

The size of this book is equivalent to 505 paperback pages.

Crime thrillers of the special class - hard, action-packed and surprising in the resolution. Investigators on the trail of unscrupulous criminals. Exciting novels in one book: ideal as vacation reading.

Sometimes provincial, sometimes urban. Sometimes local German, sometimes American. And always different from what you first think.

 

This book contains the following three detective stories:

Alfred Bekker: City of the Pig Dogs

Alfred Bekker: The Sniper of Berlin

Alfred Bekker: The Hacker

 

Alfred Bekker is a well-known author of fantasy novels, thrillers and books for young people. In addition to his major book successes, he has written numerous novels for suspense series such as Ren Dhark, Jerry Cotton, Cotton reloaded, Kommissar X, John Sinclair, and Jessica Bannister. He has also published under the names Neal Chadwick, Henry Rohmer, Conny Walden, and Janet Farell.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alfred Bekker
• Release date: Jan 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215312889

Alfred Bekker

Alfred Bekker wurde am 27.9.1964 in Borghorst (heute Steinfurt) geboren und wuchs in den münsterländischen Gemeinden Ladbergen und Lengerich auf. 1984 machte er Abitur, leistete danach Zivildienst auf der Pflegestation eines Altenheims und studierte an der Universität Osnabrück für das Lehramt an Grund- und Hauptschulen. Insgesamt 13 Jahre war er danach im Schuldienst tätig, bevor er sich ausschließlich der Schriftstellerei widmete. Schon als Student veröffentlichte Bekker zahlreiche Romane und Kurzgeschichten. Er war Mitautor zugkräftiger Romanserien wie Kommissar X, Jerry Cotton, Rhen Dhark, Bad Earth und Sternenfaust und schrieb eine Reihe von Kriminalromanen. Angeregt durch seine Tätigkeit als Lehrer wandte er sich schließlich auch dem Kinder- und Jugendbuch zu, wo er Buchserien wie 'Tatort Mittelalter', 'Da Vincis Fälle', 'Elbenkinder' und 'Die wilden Orks' entwickelte. Seine Fantasy-Romane um 'Das Reich der Elben', die 'DrachenErde-Saga' und die 'Gorian'-Trilogie machten ihn einem großen Publikum bekannt. Darüber hinaus schreibt er weiterhin Krimis und gemeinsam mit seiner Frau unter dem Pseudonym Conny Walden historische Romane. Einige Gruselromane für Teenager verfasste er unter dem Namen John Devlin. Für Krimis verwendete er auch das Pseudonym Neal Chadwick. Seine Romane erschienen u.a. bei Blanvalet, BVK, Goldmann, Lyx, Schneiderbuch, Arena, dtv, Ueberreuter und Bastei Lübbe und wurden in zahlreiche Sprachen übersetzt.

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A CassiopeiaPress book: CASSIOPEIAPRESS, UKSAK E-Books, Alfred Bekker, Alfred Bekker presents, Casssiopeia-XXX-press, Alfredbooks, Uksak Special Edition, Cassiopeiapress Extra Edition, Cassiopeiapress/AlfredBooks and BEKKERpublishing are imprints of

Alfred Bekker

© Roman by Author

© of this issue 2023 by AlfredBekker/CassiopeiaPress, Lengerich/Westphalia

The invented persons have nothing to do with actual living persons. Similarities in names are coincidental and not intended.

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Everything about fiction!

Deadly: A Trio Of Crime Novels

Three gripping crime novels by Alfred Bekker.

The size of this book is equivalent to 505 paperback pages.

Crime thrillers of the special class - hard, action-packed and surprising in the resolution. Investigators on the trail of unscrupulous criminals. Exciting novels in one book: ideal as vacation reading.

Sometimes provincial, sometimes urban. Sometimes local German, sometimes American. And always different from what you first think.

This book contains the following three detective stories:

Alfred Bekker: City of the Pig Dogs

Alfred Bekker: The Sniper of Berlin

Alfred Bekker: The Hacker

Alfred Bekker is a well-known author of fantasy novels, thrillers and books for young people. In addition to his major book successes, he has written numerous novels for suspense series such as Ren Dhark, Jerry Cotton, Cotton reloaded, Kommissar X, John Sinclair, and Jessica Bannister. He has also published under the names Neal Chadwick, Henry Rohmer, Conny Walden, and Janet Farell.

City of the pig dogs

by Alfred Bekker

1

I see the images of the collapsing towers. The images of September 11, 2001, when two planes were crashed into the World Trade Center by crazed terrorists. Again and again I see these images. On television and in my mind. How many times have they been repeated? It's like the mind loop of an obsessive-compulsive. The compulsion to repeat, the compulsion to look at this inconceivable event and to go through the pain over and over again.

The lunatics who did this were, unfortunately, Muslims.

Unfortunately, because I am also a Muslim.

I was still in high school when the World Trade Center towers collapsed. And I had no idea then that that moment would change everything for all of us.

There is a before and an after.

And the after is unfortunately the worse side.

In the meantime, a few years have passed.

My job is to catch lunatics like the ones who did this back then. Better yet, to prevent them from doing something similar. But you have to remain realistic. The latter happens only very rarely and with a lot of luck.

My name is Murray Abdul.

And this is my story.

I hunt crazy killers.

But it happens quite often that I think I am crazy myself.

I leave the final assessment to you. I myself see myself unable to do so in the meantime.

2

Those damn bastards!, I thought. Sometimes everything goes wrong. There are days when everything seems to conspire against you. And that's exactly the kind of day I had just had. I guess that's what you call fate. In any case, it seems to be inevitable. So I was in a pretty bad fix. More badly than I have been in a long time. But complaining doesn't make it any better.

I was just up to my neck in shit again. Suddenly in the cesspool - that seems to be the title of a very personal life novel for someone like me.

I blinked.

And heard what I was told.

Stay calm. Hands up and don't make a wrong move!

Listen!

No, you listen! Spread your legs and get against the wall!

It was cops who frisked me.

They patted me down. They took out my pistol.

Well, well, one of the guys said. Haven't you heard that carrying guns in public is illegal in New York?

Not if you have a reason for it.

Are you a cop? Are you licensed as a private investigator? Do you work for a security company?

Am I the office for questions and answers?

Better we hear a reasonable answer now, or...

Or what?

Shit, we don't like getting fucked with, you hear me?

Yeah, but I have to put up with the same from you jerks, or what?

Now the other cop interfered. A dark curly-haired man. He doesn't look like the guy we're after, he said.

Thank Allah! There is such a thing as a rational cop after all, I thought.

But there's no one else here, the first cop said.

Shit, anyway! That's the wrong one!

Oh, all of a sudden now, huh?

Yes.

Man, what's going on all of a sudden? Did you suddenly remember that the motherfucker let you smell his cocaine at some point or what? You gotta be kidding me.

Maybe you'll get excited.

But I don't want to calm down! Right now, I don't know who to punch in the face first - you, or that one! And with that he pointed at me.

Just finish searching him and shut up.

In the meantime, the first cop had reached my inside jacket pocket. He pulled out my ID. My service ID. Unfortunately, I couldn't see his stupid face.

You're a cop, too?

Agent Murray Abdul, Special Cases Field Office.

This is Muhammad Abdul.

Nobody calls me that, though.

That's not the name of a cop, the other said. I'm sure it's a fake.

Looks like it to me, too! the other said.

What idiots, I thought, while they were still staring at my ID and just couldn't imagine that someone with the name Muhammad could be a cop. They got used to basketball players and boxers with names like that. Even to a president whose middle name is Hussein. But a cop named Muhammad? No, that's just going too far.

I turned around. This moment of astonishment in my counterpart allowed me to do so.

Hey, did I say anything about being done? asked the first cop, who took that as some kind of majesty insult.

I'll say this, I replied. My gun!

Excuse me?

Now!

I stretched out my hand.

That needs to be verified first, the first cop said.

Because you think people named Muhammad Abdul are more likely to be terrorists than cops?

That's why. But someone with red hair isn't usually called that either.

There's a photo...

That doesn't prove anything.

My mother was Irish who married a Syrian immigrant!

Nice story. Who are going to call your field office to see if you even exist, Mister Abdul.

The cop reached for his cell phone.

I grabbed with both hands, gave him a push that we both instantly fell to the ground.

The second cop tried to reach for his gun, yanked it out. Then his body jerked. A red laser dot danced. A sound like being hit with a newspaper was heard. Twice, three times, four times.

The second cop had several holes in his head and torso. He slumped lifelessly. There was a clean hit to the head. Not even a Kevlar vest could have saved him.

I took my gun back from the cop I had fallen to the ground with. I grabbed it and fired in the direction of the shadow I had seen.

A shadow at the end of the narrow passageway between two Brownstone houses on the Lower East Side. That's where the two cops had stopped me.

I shot.

The shadow was gone.

And I noticed that the cop I had pulled to the ground had gotten some, too.

A shot had entered his heart from the side.

His eyes were fixed.

Damn!, I thought.

What a fucking bummer!

I squatted there - with two dead colleagues on the pavement. Their blood was now mixed with the dirt of the street. You don't forget a sight like that. It stays. Forever.

This day deserved a better start, I thought.

But - how many times have I said that?

And how often nothing has come of it.

Bloody hell!, I thought.

3

Director Jay Chang Lee was the chief of the Special Cases Field Office New York, a special unit of the FBI, for which I have been working for quite some time. A man so pore-deep pure and respectable that it was almost unbearable.

Virtue personified, that's what he could have been called.

Absolutely correct.

Absolute integrity.

Absolutely balanced.

And absolutely prudent.

And, of course, he was absolutely the best in everything in the whole department and was always absolutely right.

You guessed it.

This type of supervisor also has significant disadvantages, as you can easily imagine.

My partner Lew once summed it up by saying, You always feel kind of dirty and imperfect next to him.

But that's just the difference.

The difference that makes is that people like Lew and I are on duty on the street and someone like Director Lee is just the boss.

However, I don't think Director Lee will go much higher.

Why not?

Quite simple. From a certain hierarchical level onward, the more unsavory, greasy types are in demand again. And an ultra-clean guy who makes Master Propper's bald head look like an oily puddle of grease doesn't stand a chance.

Lee fixed me with his gaze.

His unmoving face scrutinized me as I sat in his office giving him a verbal report of events. His dark eyes examined me in the usual way. Actually, Asians are said not to stare at you so directly. But Director Lee only looked Asian. He was born in the U.S. and was as American as one could be. Maybe even more American than someone with a long nose and round eyes had to be. I often had the impression that Director Lee felt he had to compensate for something in terms of patriotism.

But you better not say anything like that.

On this point, Director Lee was certainly not ready for the truth, however unflinchingly he was wont to look facts in the face.

As far as the darker side of his own person was concerned, that did not apply.

But he probably had that in common with many of us. So he could count on my desire on this point.

Up to a point, at least.

But more about that later.

Just so you know, he crossed that famous point at one point in a way I never thought possible.

But one after the other.

You think it's the same one again? he finally asked after listening to me in silence for a while.

I shrugged my shoulders.

We'll see.

Sure.

To be honest, I'm pretty stumped. How many times do you think I've racked my brain about who this lunatic could be?

Obviously not often enough, Director Lee said matter-of-factly.

Well, that may be.

Keep thinking about who might have such hatred for you...

I raised my eyebrows and completed his sentence, which I actually knew Director Lee didn't like. ...that he makes several assassination attempts on me?

Lee was excellent at hiding his annoyance at this. It was impossible to know what was going on behind his smooth forehead, which never wrinkled, and what that uniform facial expression meant, which always left one in doubt as to whether it was really a smile or something else entirely.

Who have you stepped on lately? asked Director Lee.

I shrugged my shoulders.

Too many.

Somebody from that is now presenting you with the bill.

It had been only one of several attempts on my life that I had survived. Sometimes the perpetrator took his time before striking again. Sometimes for years. So long, in fact, that you would have thought he had given up on his goal of putting a bullet in my head. But he hadn't. And he never would. I had a feeling that he would.

Sir, may I speak frankly?, I said.

Director Jay Chang Lee raised his eyebrows, which were as straight on him as if someone had drawn them with a Kayal pencil and a ruler. But with him, it was just a freak of nature.

Please, do that, Murray. What's on your mind?

Our eyes met. I then often had the feeling that he could read my thoughts, but I could not read his. Of course, it was all just imagination, but the feeling was still real.

I finally said, What I'm about to tell you may sound crazy.

Director Lee did not seem to be deterred by this. He looked at me with his usual motionless face.

Spit it out anyway, he demanded.

I rubbed my chin. An embarrassing gesture. And I was annoyed that I had made it, because I knew that my boss knew how to interpret it correctly. But it was too late to stop this movement in the middle of it. That would have looked even more ridiculous.

Quite as you think.

So? This So had the tone you'd expect in an interrogation. Seemed to be an occupational disease of our director's that he just couldn't shake. But then, maybe that's the same with me. So. He said it with the sharpness of a razor blade and a subliminal sub-message that said nothing more, but nothing less, than that there would be some dire consequences if one dared to withhold any relevant information. Director Lee had it down pat. The intimidation, I mean. Envy had to hand it to him. And it didn't just work on suspects. It worked at least as well on subordinates. And I was unfortunately no exception.

The really good tricks work even if the opponent sees through them.

If you are the one who falls for it, you get even more annoyed - and yet you can't do anything about it.

Unfortunately.

Is Kismet.

Destiny.

I'm not sure this lunatic really WANTS me, if you know what I mean, I explained.

Director Lee shook his head vigorously.

Honestly, no.

What I meant to say is, it could also be that he's just trying to scare me...

The impenetrable features of Director Jay Chang Lee did not reveal what he thought of my words. Eyes are windows of the soul, they say. In this respect, Mister Jay Chang Lee's eyes were completely blind. Windows through which one did not even need to look. They were so completely covered, like those of my Syrian grandparents, who always seemed to think that no one had to look into their home and that their own four walls were something like a sealed-off sanctuary.

Sir, the killer has only ever killed people around me. He's a good shot. He doesn't bother to disguise his perpetration by using different weapons.

He wants people to identify him as the same perpetrator? Is that what you think?

Yeah. But you know, if this guy really wanted to put a bullet in my head, I think he would have done it by now.

Jay Chang Lee rubbed his chin.

A sign that he was thinking.

And a sign that he didn't want to say anything at the moment, but just wanted to think for a moment. It was better not to disturb him during his deep thought processes. It was best to simply wait until these deep thoughts finally came to a result that could be expressed verbally.

Director Lee took a deep breath and dropped his hands into the wide pockets of his flannel pants.

Then my boss suddenly said, Maybe you're right, Murray.... He wants to show you how powerful he is. That he can take you out whenever he wants.

I nodded. Something like that.

He's showing you with every one of these perverse actions that he absolutely commands your life, Murray. He could kill you at any time. He hasn't done it yet, but you know, of course, that you wouldn't have the power to stop it at all, Murray.

Yes, unfortunately... I muttered. And exactly this point made me almost furious.

Director Lee continued, He picks places where you really shouldn't expect to find him - and then he strikes mercilessly.

All the innocent dead..., I muttered.

Does that bother you?

I raised my eyebrows.

What do you think, Director Lee! Do you think I'm made of wood?

Of course not.

Do you perhaps think Muslims are born with an explosive belt on their bodies and a few more or fewer deaths don't bother them?

Murray...

I made a dismissive gesture with my hand. It's true, I growled, and it was probably unmistakable how irritated I was.

Director Lee took note - and remained as cold as a fish. Exactly as expected of him.

He said, Now you're getting nonobjective, Murray. This thing does seem to be getting on your nerves more than you might be trying to make us all believe.

Now let's not get carried away.

Why exaggerate? You're as charged as a high-voltage line. If anyone gets too close to you, they'll get a hundred thousand volts and be fried like the electric chair.

Nonsense, I'm perfectly calm.

You're not.

The calm itself!

A walking nuclear bomb.

Shit, I was beginning to suspect where this was going. And the more I got excited about it, the more clearly Director Lee would decide the matter in his favor.

And I didn't like that.

After all, I was neither insane nor incapacitated or anything else. There was no reason to suspend me or put me on leave. I just wanted to keep doing my job. Routine, that seemed the best thing at the moment.

Whereas my job actually hardly allows for routine. But that's another topic. A completely different one.

I first had to blow out a whole load of pure air. Air that had somehow accumulated inside me and that probably would have simply burst me at some point if I hadn't had the opportunity to get rid of it at that moment.

The bad thing was: Director Lee was right. This thing was getting to me more than I wanted to admit. More than many other unpleasant things I had experienced in the past years during my service in the Special Cases Field Office of the FBI.

And that was probably ultimately the reason why I reacted so absolutely sensitively, although I can certainly say that this is otherwise not my kind at all. My mother, for example, still considers me a real phlegmatic. There are always different facets.

A pause followed.

And then came the hammer.

Lee raised the point that the whole conversation was probably meant to go to from the beginning - at least if Lee's direction was anything to go by. And it always went after that. In everything that happened within the department. There wasn't a fart that wasn't controlled and approved by him.

Can you work? asked Mister Jay Chang Lee.

So now it was out. Can you work? A question that already sounded like a verdict. A verdict that read: Ripe for the madhouse.

I answered and tried to feign inner conviction. But that actually always goes wrong. You can only lie well if you find your own lie believable. At least for a short moment. Or at least imagine that this lie could also correspond to the truth. But it couldn't work out that way. And I knew that.

Sure, I asserted.

Convincingly, it does not complain.

Not at all.

Director Lee literally pierced me with his gaze.

I mean, under these conditions, he added.

These conditions! To hell with these conditions!

I shrugged my shoulders. Why not? I'll probably have peace from that guy again for a while now?

Don't be too sure...

I guess he'll take a little time...

No, that's not what I mean.

I looked up. No?

I meant it's a guy. You shouldn't be too sure about that.

I see.

I was actually expecting him to say something now about rest, leave, suspension, inside service, psychological treatment, and so on.

But he didn't.

He obviously wanted to save this level of escalation for later. Or he considered me stable enough to continue the service normally.

Taken that way, Director Lee's silence on everything else was perhaps even a kind of compliment. The kind of compliment one could expect from a perfectionist like Lee. He didn't really come across as warm and heartfelt.

Perhaps in the depths of his soul he also suspected that perhaps he himself needed all that he had not suggested to me much more than I did. I wondered not for the first time whether this smooth, hard facade of perfection and virtue was perhaps really nothing more than a facade. And that there was nothing more behind it, or anything soft and maybe even lazy. You just don't want to believe things that are too good to be true.

You can go, Murray.

Thank you, sir.

Before I left the boss's office, he asked me something after all. I had just touched the door handle to leave the room. Director Lee really had an extraordinary sense of timing.

How are you getting along with your partner, Murray?

With Lew Parker?

Yes.

We get along great.

Pleased to meet you.

I had already stepped through the door with one foot when I turned around again.

Did you ask that because Lew is Jewish or because he is gay?

Director Jay Chang Lee had already taken a seat behind his desk.

He looked up.

For a brief moment, I thought I could see the look of surprise on his face.

Or at least something like the inkling of surprise.

Maybe it was just imagination.

I asked because I wanted to know how things were going with you two.

And I had already believed that the reason you were asking was because you believe that anyone who is a Muslim or has even half a drop of Arab blood flowing in their veins is intolerant, anti-gay, and anti-Semitic or anti-Zionist, and that having a gay Jew as a partner might be something like the ultimate tolerance test for me. Whether I'm really more grounded in the U.S. Constitution than in the Koran.

Your faith is your private business, Murray.

Oh really, is that him?

Yes.

Then why are you asking me this?

Because I ask that of everyone, Murray.

Well then...

And by the way, I'm not in the habit of letting anyone tell me what to do when I ask questions. Not even from you, Murray. And if I've hit any sensitive spots with you, I'm not sorry at all.

Mister Jay Chang Lee remained as cold as a freezer set too high.

That hit it very accurately.

And it was by no means the first time he had looked like that to me.

No, that was just his way.

To put it kindly, one could also have said 'factual'.

One could have...

But why should I have been friendly, Director Lee wasn't, after all. At least not during the time I was in his department. They say opposites attract. But they don't. I'm telling you, they really don't. The truth is, they repel. Sometimes more and sometimes less violently, but usually noticeably so. And that's exactly what happened between Director Lee and me.

Lee raised his eyebrows. I didn't like the way he did that. Lee was one of those people who didn't have to make extra words to show their counterpart: I'm a thousand times smarter than you.

There are people who only need their eyebrows to make their disdain clear.

And Lee was one of them. And with him, it also made a lot of sense to use the eyebrows. After all, he didn't have any facial expressions worth mentioning.

You can go, Murray.

Actually, I'm already gone.

So much the better.

Well, look!

You're incorrigible, Murray.

I know, sir.

Lee looked at me.

Long.

Very long.

And unpleasant as usual.

A look I would not forget.

4

Let's pull it off!

Okay.

One of them belched.

Maybe he had eaten the wrong thing before this important thing. Sometimes big coups can fail because of trivial things.

Shit, he said.

As long as you're not still farting.

Why?

Then afterwards everyone identifies you by the putrid gases you leave behind and we're screwed.

By all means, stay on topic.

Huh?

Digestion.

The men were wearing blue overalls and had toolboxes in their hands. One was tall, had short-cropped blond hair, and his face looked angular and brutish. The other guy was dark-haired, broad-shouldered and stocky.

The blond had sunk his right hand into the pocket of his overalls. His fist clutched the hard steel of an automatic with attached silencer.

The two men exchanged a brief glance as they exited the elevator. Then they walked down the corridor toward the apartment door of a penthouse.

A huge guy stood in front of the door. His bodybuilder figure almost burst the gray flannel suit.

The face was a contourless mask that remained completely motionless.

He raised his arms, and the bulge that appeared under his shoulder as he did so showed that he was carrying a gun under his jacket.

Stop! said the giant, and the two men in overalls stopped a few steps in front of him.

We want to see Mister Ugarimov, said the blond. About the heater...

The giant's eyes became narrow slits. His face contorted a bit. His features expressed slight mistrust.

They're early, he commented.

Mister Ugarimov is expecting us.

Oh, yeah?

Yes.

Then please put your hands up so I can pat you down.

Am ticklish.

Your loss.

If you touch me like a faggot, you'll have no head in a minute.

Take it easy. Very slowly set the toolboxes down on the floor and open those things up.

The blond frowned.

What are you doing?

Order of Mister Ugarimov. No one gets in here who hasn't been thoroughly searched! So, don't make any trouble.

The blond took a deep breath, while the squatty one already put down his toolbox and started to open the buckle fasteners. Stupid motherfucker! What a fucking pompous ass! This thought buzzed through his head. He couldn't stand being held up.

The giant at the door watched him closely.

At that moment it happened.

The movements of the blond overall wearer seemed to explode, he pulled out the automatic, was at the giant in front of the door with one step and pressed the silencer under his chin even before the bodyguard could react.

The giant froze into a pillar of salt.

His eyes grew wide. Fear was written all over his face.

He was professional enough to know that at this moment he had no chance and now it was best to do nothing at all.

The squatty man had now also brought out his gun. He also approached the giant, reached under his jacket and brought out his pistol.

For a split second, it occurred to the giant to kill the blond with a well-aimed hand edge blow. He could do it, had trained it for a long time. But the risk was too great, there were two of the others, the stocky one would shoot immediately, and you wouldn't even hear the shot inside the penthouse. Drops of sweat formed on the giant's forehead.

You lead the way, the blond overall carrier ordered, and his voice was like the hiss of a cobra.

The giant slowly turned around.

Almost provocatively slow, considering the position he was in. The silencer was now pressed into his neck.

Whatever you're up to, it's a mistake, the giant said, but his voice sounded brittle as he did so, because he knew he didn't stand a chance. He was dealing with professionals and that meant they would certainly not let him live. That was the way the game went. The giant had played it himself.

Shut up! the blond replied coldly.

You can talk about anything and Mister Ugarimov...

Shut up!

Yeah, all right.

And open door!

Can't argue with you, huh?

No.

Shit, I thought so...

5

The blond pushed the giant in front of him, still pressing the gun into his neck.

Quite rough, even.

And painful.

The squatty man closed the door behind them.

The light-flooded penthouse apartment with the fantastic view of Central Park was very spacious and had several rooms.

In the reception room there was a modern sitting area.

Futuristic design. Lots of plastic in curved shapes, but little upholstery. An apartment designed to look as if it came from the century after next.

A man sat there, he could have been the twin of the giant, at least in terms of physique. However, he was red-haired.

Hey, Joe. What's...? He looked up from the paper he'd been reading, then jumped up, reaching under his jacket.

He reacted quickly, but still not quickly enough.

He had not yet pulled out the gun when a noise sounded like a forceful sneeze.

The shot of a silencer weapon.

Short and final.

Like a closing.

Over and out in a split second.

A red dot formed on the redhead's forehead, and the bodyguard was thrown back into the futuristic chair.

His arms fell to his sides, the gun slipped from his powerless hand and fell to the floor, the soft carpet cushioning the impact.

The eyes were fixed.

And so were the giant's.

From horror.

Frozen horror that turns his face into a mask.

Then - a voice like clinking glass.

Where is he? the blond asked the giant he was still holding at gunpoint. He whispered it so softly it could barely be heard. His crony, the stocky black-haired man, had shot the other bodyguard. The thud of the body on the ground sounded like someone dropping a wet bag.

Nothing had been heard of the shot.

The weapon of the second killer also had a silencer.

Where is he? the blond repeated.

His voice had taken on a cutting tone.

You didn't have to be a telepath to guess his thoughts. Answer already, you ass, or you'll regret it!

Who? asked the future victim, who also guessed the thoughts, indeed, could see them as clearly as if a thought bubble hovered over the head of this blond bringer of death.

Don't fuck with me.

Ugarimov?

Who else do you think?

Don't... don't know.

Oh, really?

Yes.

You could almost smell the fear the giant felt.

You do want to stay alive, the blond said, and his voice sounded like distant thunder.

The giant swallowed.

His Adam's apple danced in the process. Went up and down. Twice.

Did he still have a chance?

He seemed to answer this question for himself in the negative.

Fucking shit!, he thought. What a goddamn mess! This was the end of him. It was more than a hunch. It was almost a certainty. Cold sweat stood on his forehead. His eyes were glistening. A vein in his neck pulsed violently.

He said, You are going to kill me anyway.

It was a statement. His own voice sounded strange when he said that.

Foreign and weak.

Fucking weak.

The vein on his neck pulsed more and more unhealthily.

Just wait and see.

I know how these things go...

Oh, really?

Yes.

Just tell us anything we want to hear and we'll all be happy.

The giant took a deep breath. I... I think he's in the bedroom. With that, he pointed with his left to one of the doors that branched off from the reception room.

Thank you.

Again this sneezing sounded. Twice in quick succession.

And the giant slumped, remaining motionless on the ground while a pool of red formed around him. His eyes were wide open.

The blond climbed over the body to the bedroom door, while his accomplice remained at the apartment door, gun in hand.

With a massive kick, the blond made the bedroom door burst open.

A man in his fifties, gray-haired and with a mustache, sat upright in a wide double bed, a sumptuous breakfast on a tray in front of him. He flinched, looked up, and a cup slipped from his fingers. The coffee spilled into the bed. Brown. Like liquid shit.

Ugarimov sat upright.

His jaw dropped.

He looked pretty stunned.

He had one second to form this face. A whole second of shock. Nothing more.

He didn't even have a chance to cry out before two shots literally pinned him to the bed. His frozen gaze now expressed astonishment. The bullets punched through his body, making him twitch like an already lifeless doll.

The mouth was half open, the eyes fully open. It looked as if he still wanted to say something. A last silent scream. That was all it was.

Ugarimov was a thing of the past.

The blond took a deep breath. Scum, he muttered. He would have liked to spit. But of course he was smart enough not to. After all, he didn't want to leave any unnecessary DNA behind. Times had changed in that respect, unfortunately. You could no longer give free rein to your feelings on the job.

The muffled sneeze of a gun with a silencer made him suddenly spin around. A woman in a bathrobe had stepped out of one of the other doors. She was blond and rather garishly made up.

She looked good.

At least before she was hit by the bullet.

The shot had made her fold like a pocket knife, and now she too lay lifeless on the floor, eyes staring.

She... She came out of the bathroom so suddenly, the squatty man said almost apologetically.

It's all right, the blond replied tonelessly. She was scum, too. Or do you see it differently?

No.

There you go!

Come now.

Okay.

You're not losing your nerve now, are you?

No.

Well, hopefully. I can't stand unprofessionalism.

It's okay.

6

I knew that look.

This very particular look full of advantages and suspicion.

Who are you?

Here!

What?

Well, look! Or don't you have your reading glasses on?

Well listen...

Murray Abdul, Special Cases Field Office! I showed my badge to the uniformed cop who had the thankless task of keeping trespassers from entering the scene.

If you're under the impression that I'm in a bad mood, I am.

Still...

He was shot at today, Lew Parker interjected. Sounded like a weak excuse for my verbal lapse.

Heard about it, the cop said.

Well, then you know why my partner is in such a mood.

I can understand.

Look!

That would get to me, too. No, no, lunatics exist...have nothing better to do than target cops. The uniformed man looked at me. And quite differently than he had earlier. Like I said, I can understand you.

I usually don't like this I-have-so-much-understanding tour at all.

That's why I said, Doesn't mean I want to chat about it now.

The cop turned to Lew. I hope for your sake he's in a good mood for a change!

Well - sometimes this way, sometimes that.

He should go to anti-aggression training.

Helped you, too?

Exactly.

I don't think it's anything for Murray.

Why?

That would just make it worse with him.

My friend and colleague Lew Parker grinned. He did the same, showed his ID card and the uniformed man nodded, letting us pass.

We were the last ones at the scene of the crime, a posh penthouse address on South Central Park. An apartment in a dream location, with a view for which you certainly had to shell out a lot of money.

Now it looked like a battlefield.

I saw the crumpled bodies of a woman and two men who had apparently worked as bodyguards for the owner of this penthouse.

In the middle of the room stood a man in a gray wool coat, his collar turned up. He turned to us now, and I saw that his face was quite furrowed. He was giving us a disparaging look.

Who are you? What are you doing here? he asked somewhat gruffly.

Special Cases Field Office, Lew said. This is Agent Abdul, my name is Parker.

Like this? the man in the wool coat asked back thoughtfully, taking a deep breath. His eyebrows drew together into a serpentine line.

I wondered why the guy was so irritable with us. Allah, what a puke! Not to be endured! I saw the Police Department badge hanging from his belt through his open coat and jacket, which was also open.

We showed him our IDs, but he didn't seem interested.

Are you Captain Webbs?, I asked.

There was a sound in response.

One