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I stick him with a stun gun and jam the trigger.
He jerks violently and collapses.
I stun him again, then drop the device and ram the screwdriver up under the nape of his skull.
Now the thief quivers on his own, but I hold him tight, feeling the mystery drain from him and fill me once more.
But on this occasion I cannot pause to savor the moment or the sweet stillness that follows death. I’m in the open. It is raining. But I could be seen if I remain too long.
Instead, I superglue the wound, and drag the thief’s body to the riverbank. I wade out and push him into the main current, hoping that the cold rushing waters will take him deep and far away.
I get out, chilled but not caring.
I get the satchel and fling it in the back of the Mercedes. Then I drag the tarp and the carcass of my friend the computer genius to the river. I roll the bundle into the river, pull the tarp, and roll his body into the water.
The thief’s body is already out of sight.
I quickly fold the tarp and put it beside the satchel in the ML500.
I hurl the helmet into the river. I start the motorcycle, put it in gear, hold the brake, gun the throttle, pop the clutch, and let go.
The bike roars forward, flies off the bank, and disappears.
I have to hurry back to Berlin now. I can’t take it any longer. I have to check the slaughterhouse.
I have to make decisions about its future, my friends.
Terrible decisions.
CHAPTER 21
MATTIE PUT HER right eye to Private Berlin’s retina scan at six forty-five on Monday morning. She’d slept fitfully. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy. She wondered if it would affect the scan, but it did not, and the bulletproof doors hissed open.
Dawn was just breaking when she walked through the glass hallway above the park. No lights had been turned on yet. She was the first to arrive.
Or so she thought. When she entered the lounge area, meaning to start coffee brewing, she flipped on the light. Someone groaned loudly.
Mattie jumped and looked at the couch. “Who’s there?” she demanded in German.
Jack Morgan sat up from the other side and looked at her blearily. “I don’t speak German, Mattie. What time is it?”
Like many Germans, Mattie spoke fluent English. “Ten of seven,” she replied. “Jack, I’m sorry I didn’t…”
Private’s owner waved a hand at her and got to his feet. He wore a pilot’s leather jacket, jeans, and low-heel cowboy boots. A tall, lean man who always seemed in a hurry, Morgan pushed back his dark sandy hair and said, “Don’t worry about it. They say you’re better off staying up, right?”
Mattie smiled. She liked Jack Morgan. He was smart without being overbearing, and he owned the company but didn’t act like God.
He came over to her. “How are you?”
Mattie shrugged and started making coffee. “As well as you can be when you find out that your…uh, colleague and friend is missing except for a tracking chip dug out of his back.”
“It’s why I came,” Morgan said sympathetically. “The moment I heard.”
“When did you get in?”
“About an hour ago,” Morgan said. “Thirteen-hour flight.”
“You must be beat,” Mattie said, flipping on the coffeemaker. “I can bring you up to speed on what’s happened while you’ve been in transit. Do you want to go have a real breakfast somewhere?”
