Game of Shadows (13 page)

A quick look at his phone told him that the home he was looking for was at the end of this particular street. He put the device back in his pocket and continued walking, counting down the address numbers that hung next to the doorsills. A minute later, Sean found the address he was looking for and crossed the vacant, cobbled street. He looked up at the residence, admiring the design of it. The roof hung slightly over the third story, sheltering two windows framed in red brick. The brick stood out darkly against the cream exterior walls.

Sean stopped at the brown, wooden door and took a quick glance in both directions. He took a step closer and knocked, but when he did so, the door creaked open a few inches. His eyebrows knit together in immediate concern. He stole another look down both sides of the street, but it was still empty. His fingers quietly unzipped his coat and disappeared inside, a second later revealing his pistol. It wasn't the first time he'd found a door ajar. Usually, it was a sign there was trouble.

He crept across the threshold and eased the door shut behind, careful not to let the bolt click as it slid into the housing. He took in his surroundings: a square-shaped foyer with floors covered in a reddish tile, almost the color of clay. The walls were covered in something that appeared to be a little like stucco. A few pieces of artwork hung from the walls. Next to him was a brass coat hanger and a tall, skinny black wooden table with a bowl on top. The container looked like it came from one of the local artisans. Its clay had been glazed over in a turquoise and olive-green color. A set of keys lay inside it.

To the left was a narrow, sparsely equipped kitchen. Off to the right was a small sitting area, maybe two hundred square feet. A few vinyl sofas, a coffee table that had to be thirty years old, a tacky-looking grandfather clock, and a wood fireplace were the main features in an otherwise blandly decorated room.

Overhead, the floor squeaked ever so slightly.
Someone is home,
Sean thought, but he wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. On the one hand, he needed to talk to Wolfz. On the other, going into someone's house with a loaded weapon was hardly a way to greet someone. If there was an intruder, however, that would be a problem.

Sean decided to risk the latter and let the old man know he was there.

"Herr Wolfz?" he shouted up the stairs, assuming that's where the man was since no one appeared to be on the ground level. "Are you home?"

Silence was the only answer he received. He waited a few more seconds, listening to the grandfather clock tick tock against the wall in the living room.

Sean breathed as low as possible for a moment, not wanting to miss any sounds. Then he spoke up again, this time in Spanish. "Mr. Wolfz? My name is Sean Wyatt. I just wanted to talk with you for a minute if that's okay."

He waited again for a few more seconds. There was no response. Things were starting to get sketchy in Sean's mind. The door had been left open, signaling that someone, if not the owner, was in the building. He readied the weapon and moved over to the staircase that ascended to the second floor.

A quick look up revealed no answers, so he put one wary foot in front of the other as he went up the staircase. At the top, a light wooden banister ran along the floor, halting against the hallway wall. A few feet away, at the end of the corridor on his right, was a small bathroom, the door of which hung halfway open. A small window above the sink let in sunlight, though blunted by the blurry glass to keep wandering eyes from getting a peek.

Another door was open in the middle of the hallway. From his position at the top of the steps, Sean could see it was an office, with a small antique desk propped against the wall. He crept around the corner, keeping his back against the wall as he inched his way to the bathroom to make sure it was clear before proceeding any farther. He peered around the open door and found a white bathtub, but no one was in there.

Next, he stepped out of the bathroom and moved down the hall, padding as softly as possible on the balls of his feet as he moved. He turned rapidly, pointing his weapon into the office, back down the hallway ahead, and then again into the workroom. It too was empty, save for a few green plants and a computer that looked fifteen years old, at best.

He kept going until he reached the last door, which was almost closed. Cautiously, Sean nudged it open and let it swing on its own momentum. It was the master bedroom. The four-post Victorian bed hadn't been made, the pillows and blankets ruffled. Another door on the other side of the bed led into another bathroom. From his vantage point, it looked to be larger than the one at the end of the hall.

For a second, Sean wondered at the size of the place. It was a lot of home for one man. On top of that, Wolfz was getting older, and typically, people in their twilight years opted for one-story housing for the ease of use. It seemed the old German didn't care too much for what people thought was the norm.

As his eyes scanned the room, Sean noticed something sticking out from behind the foot of the bed. He took a step in that direction and saw it was the bottom of a shoe. He moved closer and realized the shoe was attached to a foot, and the foot was attached to the bleeding body of a gray-haired man.

San Sebastián, Argentina

Sean's senses spiked again, alert to the immediate danger lurking in the shadows. He kept his weapon steady, level, ready for action at a moment's notice. Sean didn't like to assume things, but he assumed the dead man on the floor had to be Wolfz, which meant someone got here before he did. A blizzard of troubling thoughts pulsed through his mind in an instant. He leaned over and pressed two fingers to the man's carotid artery. No pulse. He rose back up, still on full alert, and glanced back through the open door.

How did they know about Wolfz? How did they know where to look? Why did they kill him? And
who
did it?

An overhead floorboard creaked through the deathly silence. He would have his answers soon enough.

Sean put both hands on his weapon and tiptoed back into the hallway and across to a second flight of stairs. He whipped the gun around and up toward the top, ready to fire on anyone above. The upstairs area was much darker. He went up one step, and then another, putting his feet on the edges of the stairs to make less noise. It was something he'd learned as a child when sneaking around his parents' house on weekend nights after missing curfew. He always got caught because his mother and father would be waiting for him just inside the kitchen at the top of the stairs. His guilt, however, was never belied by a lack of stealth. The parents simply always knew, as parents do.

Halfway up the steps, he checked the area just beyond the banister, but no one was there. He continued the ascent, warily taking a few seconds with each step. The last thing he needed was to rush into an ambush. When he made it to the third floor landing, his eyes took in the bizarre scene.

The room opened up into a giant square, very different from the floor directly below. A few narrow windows let light in from the back of the building while a few larger ones illuminated the far side. Heavy, gray curtains hanging on either side tempered the light from both.

That explains why it's so dark up here,
Sean thought.

Foreboding shadows loomed in every corner of the large area. He stood at the top of the stairs for a few seconds to allow his eyes to adjust. When they brought more of the room into view, what Sean saw was like something out of a strange movie.

Nazi flags hung limp from poles against one wall where a glass display case contained several items. Sean couldn't make out what was in the cases from his vantage point, but he assumed some kind of nostalgic war crap.

Several portraits of Nazi leaders hung on the wall between the two windows; the middle one was of Adolf Hitler with his arm around a man Sean didn't recognize. It was like walking into a miniature Nazi museum.

He stepped farther into the room, still unable to see into the farthest corner, bathed in shadow. Light seemed almost afraid to reach into every piece of the strange area.

Sean found a light switch at the nearest corner and, while keeping one hand free with the gun, reached over and felt his way to turning on the overhead lights embedded in the ceiling.

A yellowish glow instantly brightened the room. Now he could see the medals in the glass case, along with several other items. The corner that had been so dark had retreated into the glow of the incandescent bulbs. A resounding fact knocked on the back of Sean's mind.
No one is here.

He scanned the room a few more seconds and was about to head back down the stairs when something clinked from a closet door on the far wall. Sean's reaction was immediate, and he put his gun back out in front of his body.

His first thought was to tell whoever was in there to come out with their hands up. More likely, they would come out with guns blazing, which could be problematic since there was no cover to be had where he was standing. He thought fast, and decided to feign a withdrawal back down the stairs in the hope of flushing out the killer and drawing them into the open, hopefully unsuspectingly.

Sean lowered his weapon, well aware of the fact that the person in the closet was likely watching him. He switched off the lights and started back down the stairs, attempting to look like he'd found nothing of interest. Once he was out of the line of sight from the closet door, he paused and listened, waiting in the dimly lit stairwell. A minute passed, feeling more like ten. Finally, he heard a noise from the room above. It didn't sound like a door opening. Rather, it was more like a low shuck. Then he realized what was happening.

His quarry wasn't coming down the stairs. The killer was going out the window.

Sean pumped his legs back up the steps and spun around with his gun drawn, the small box-like silencer on the end pointing at the window on the far side of the room. All he saw was a foot dangling by the window frame before it was yanked out of view.

He sprinted across the room and skidded to a stop at the window, wary that whoever went through it might just be waiting on the rooftop for him. He shifted to the right and peeked out in the direction the person had gone. Across the clay rooftop tiles, Sean saw the man leap across a gap between Wolfz's house and the one next door. The top of the other house was flatter, and the man rolled to his feet, never missing a beat.

Sean looked down to the street below. A familiar lump went from his throat down to his stomach, filling it with tension. "Why? Why can't I just chase someone through the street? Why's it gotta be three stories up?"

Reluctantly, he put one foot out on a narrow ledge beneath the window and tried to shift his weight enough to keep his balance as he brought the other leg out. He looked out across the roof next door. The man was opening a wide gap between them. Sean needed to get moving, or he would lose him.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and forced the rest of his body through the window and out onto the ledge. A moment of imbalance struck him. Terrible thoughts of falling and hitting the pavement below zipped through his mind's eye. Sean clenched his teeth and pushed off with his right foot, making the twelve-foot run to the edge of the roof. When he reached the end, he jumped hard with his left foot and soared over the span, reaching the flat roof next door with four feet to spare. Unlike the man he was chasing, he didn't need to do a rolling landing. The adrenaline and fear had forced Sean to stay upright. His eyes went back to the killer who was already on the next rooftop and gaining ground.

Sean darted ahead, pushing his feet off the ground as fast as his hamstrings and quads would allow. He kept the gun in his hand but hesitated to fire. The last thing he wanted was to start popping bullets into innocent people's homes. No way he was going to shoot unless absolutely necessary.

He reached the end of the flat roof and leaped across a slightly narrower gap to the next roof. Despite his efforts, the man he was chasing continued to increase the gap, which was growing by the second. Sean peered ahead as he pumped his arms harder. He realized that the cluster of buildings came to an end at the next block. That meant the man he was chasing would be trapped. He considered the dilemma, wondering if the killer would be able to find another way down to the street.

It was impossible to know, and Sean had to decide quickly. He could try to find a way down at the next building and head the runner off at the exit, or he could continue the chase.

He chose the latter, pressing himself to the max of his abilities. His thighs ached, and the back of his legs tightened from the effort, but he pressed on. He reached the next span between buildings and jumped hard. This time, however, the space was bigger than the others he'd covered, and he nearly didn't make it to the other ledge. The toe on his right boot clipped the tile on the slightly slanted roof as he landed, sending him tumbling forward and sideways toward the front edge of the building. Sean felt a twinge of panic surge through his muscles and he desperately clambered to keep his balance. His speed had created too much momentum, and even as he stopped rolling, he felt himself sliding toward the gutter. With a last, desperate effort, he spread his body out, covering as much surface area as possible. His inertia slowed, and he was able to use his hands and feet to stop the deadly slide only inches before his shoe slipped over.

He scrambled to his feet, almost in a panic, unwilling to look down. His body trembled, but he regained his composure and forced himself on. Ahead, two roofs over, the killer had reached the end of the line on a rooftop patio. He was struggling with a door leading into the home, which gave Sean the slimmest of chances to catch up. Sean dug deeper for a little more energy and scurried across the slanted roof. He jumped across the next gap and landed easily on a similar patch of tile work. The killer ran over the edge of the patio and glanced over the edge of the retaining wall, sizing up the possibility of a jump. It would be suicide. He knew it, and Sean knew it.

Sean sprinted hard, intent on making the final jump. He hit the last few inches of surface with his foot and pushed hard, sending his body flying through the air. The killer looked back as he saw the movement and whipped up the gun in his hands. He fired six muffled shots, but Sean was a difficult target to hit. Gravity pulled Sean back to Earth, and he rolled to a stop behind a clay chiminea. The makeshift fire pit was just big enough to provide cover. He peeked his gun around the side of it and squeezed the trigger three times, but his volley missed the target. The killer dove out of the way and flipped over a square, wooden patio table, using it as a shield.

Sean fired two more shots into the wood, but they did little to deter the other man. He'd got a good look at Wolfz's killer in the midst of the chase. He had thick, almost curly black hair. The pea coat he wore looked like something navy men would wear, just as commonly worn at many wharfs around the United States. The face was unforgettable, featuring a sharp nose and jaw with a pointy chin and deeply set brown eyes. Sean took caution as he kept his weapon trained on the barricade. He needed the man alive, if possible. This meant he should aim for legs, shoulders, feet, and arms.

The man stuck his weapon around the table's corner and fired two shots, one shattered the top of the chiminea, and the other sank deep into the stucco retaining wall behind Sean's head. He returned fire, ticking off a few more shots. One went recklessly into the wooden door just behind his target's position. He hoped no one was home, or at least not standing on the other side of the doorway. The enemy returned fire again, squeezing off several rounds until Sean heard the chamber click. This was his chance.

Sean jumped out of his hiding spot and dashed across the twenty feet separating the two men. He covered the distance in less than two seconds and dove around to the rear of the patio table to get to the killer from behind.

In the fraction of a second the two men's eyes locked, Sean instantly noted the extraordinary lack of fear in the killer's expression. In spite of that, the man's survival instincts kicked in, and he jumped out of his crouch and darted back in the direction they'd come.

"Stop! I
will
shoot you!" Sean yelled, but it did nothing to halt the killer's progress.

Sean lowered his sights and aimed at the man's left hamstring. He only had a few shots left in his clip, and that was the last of the ammo he'd been able to procure. He squinted one eye and locked in on the back of the killer's leg. In two seconds, he would be on the other rooftop and out of range. No way did Sean want to go through that chase again. Too many variables.

He fired the first shot and missed, the bullet striking the sidewall in a puff of white drywall and stucco dust. Sean let out a long breath and fired again. The metal round zipped through the man's hamstring and out the other side, sending a splattering of blood onto the patio floor. The killer yelped, and his leg lost its power, but his momentum carried him on. He reached the wall and jumped with his one good leg, but he'd lost too much speed, and the jump back to the other rooftop was at a slight elevation.

Sean watched as the man desperately reached out both hands to grasp the edge of the roof on the other side. His palms struck a metal beam just under the terracotta, and he wrapped his fingers over the thin edge as his lower body swung forward and smacked into the wall. Sean stopped at the low retaining wall and stared across at the man now desperately clinging to life. He kept his gun aimed at the killer even though he knew there were no more rounds left in the magazine. He let his eyes drift down for a moment, but fought off the natural dizzying reaction his body normally produced, subconsciously convincing himself he was safe behind the little barrier.

"Who do you work for?" Sean barked at the man whose fingers continued to slip and regrip the steel girder. There was no response.

The man tried to pull himself up, using his feet against the wall as a means to help his weakening arms, but when he reached up to grab ahold of a clay tile above his head, it slipped off, and he had to retreat to the momentary safety of the steel beam.

"I can get the fire department here to help you," Sean offered. He fully knew that there was no way he was going to make that call. Much less that the firemen would arrive in time. He figured the guy had less than two minutes before his tendons and muscles gave out. Maybe less. "Just tell me who you work for, and I'll call them. I won't even call the police."

Sean repeated the line in Spanish and Arabic; the latter was just in case, though the man was clearly not of Arab descent. He was white. And from the looks of him, from somewhere in the West. European? Maybe. But there was a more insidious suspicion in Sean's head. He believed the man was American.