Chapter 8 - The Shadows Approach
The neon lights of the underground parking garage buzzed with a low,
irritating hum,
casting long,
sickly yellow shadows across the damp concrete floor.
Heinrich von Stein,
his once impeccable silver hair now disheveled,
his expensive suit wrinkled from a night spent in a federal holding cell,
leaned heavily against the hood of a sleek,
black town car.
His eyes,
bloodshot and burning with a toxic,
uncontrollable rage,
were fixed on the three heavily scarred,
imposing men standing before him in the dim,
flickering light.
These were not private investigators,
they were not legal consultants,
and they certainly were not men who carried standard,
regulated police badges.
They were fixers,
mercenaries who had cut their teeth in the darkest,
most violent corners of Eastern Europe,
men who specialized in making massive,
impossible problems quietly disappear for the right price.
"My son is sitting in a federal maximum-security block,
denied bail because some self-righteous judge deemed him a flight risk,"
Heinrich spat,
the words dripping with absolute,
venomous hatred.
The leader of the mercenaries,
a massive,
bald man with a jagged scar running down his left cheek,
simply nodded,
his face entirely devoid of emotion,
pity,
or moral hesitation.
"We saw the news,
Herr von Stein,"
the leader rumbled,
his voice sounding like gravel grinding against rusted iron.
"The entire country is talking about the video,
and your family's assets are currently being frozen by the state prosecutors."
Heinrich slammed his fist furiously against the hood of the car,
ignoring the sharp,
stinging pain in his knuckles.
"I don't care about the frozen accounts,
I have offshore funds in the Caymans that the feds will never trace in a million years,"
he snarled,
reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a thick,
heavy envelope bursting with untraceable,
high-denomination euros.
He tossed the envelope onto the hood,
where it landed with a soft,
heavy thud,
a desperate down payment on a highly illegal,
incredibly dangerous mission.
"I want Thomas Brand,
and I want that treacherous,
lying whore of a wife he is hiding."
The mercenary leader picked up the envelope,
weighing it carefully in his massive,
calloused hand,
his dark eyes calculating the immense risks against the massive,
undeniable reward.
"Brand is former military intelligence,
a highly decorated,
lethal operative who specialized in counter-espionage,"
the mercenary warned,
sliding the money into his dark tactical vest.
"If he has taken her off the grid,
he will be expecting company,
and he will be heavily,
expertly prepared for an assault."
"That is why I am paying you three times your usual,
exorbitant rate,"
Heinrich countered fiercely,
stepping closer,
his breath reeking of stale coffee and desperation.
"I have a contact inside the telecommunications grid,
a very expensive,
very corrupt contact who managed to catch a microscopic,
split-second ping from a satellite phone."
He reached into his pocket again,
pulling out a small,
crumpled piece of paper with a set of GPS coordinates hastily scribbled in black ink.
"The ping originated deep within the Bavarian forest,
near an old,
abandoned logging road that hasn't been used in decades."
The mercenary took the paper,
memorizing the coordinates instantly before pulling a silver lighter from his pocket,
burning the paper until it was nothing but gray,
floating ash.
"We will leave immediately,
utilize thermal drones to pinpoint the exact structure,
and move in under the cover of total,
pitch-black darkness,"
the leader stated,
motioning for his two silent,
heavily armed companions to get into their unmarked,
matte-black SUV.
"What do you want us to do with them once we secure the location?"
he asked,
pausing with his hand on the car door,
waiting for the final,
gruesome execution order.
Heinrich smiled,
a twisted,
sickening expression that held absolutely no humanity,
no mercy,
and no remorse for the grandchild growing inside my womb.
"Brand is to be eliminated immediately,
make it look like he resisted a home invasion,"
Heinrich commanded,
his voice dropping to a cold,
deadly whisper.
"As for Beate,
I want you to bring her to the private airfield on the edge of the city,
intact,
but terrified."
He turned away,
walking toward his own waiting car,
his mind already crafting the perfect,
sinister narrative.
"She is going to sign a full,
legally binding confession stating she doctored the video,
May you like
and then she is going to have a very tragic,
very fatal accident."
