Chapter 19

Wolfgang bent his knees, squatting to retrieve two brass shell casings and slipping them into a small ziplock bag from his pocket. He tugged at the nylon stocking covering his head, both to obscure his features and minimize the amount of trace evidence he might leave behind. There would be some, that was inevitable, but there was little sense in making it any easier for investigators than he needed to. After he was finished, Wolfgang would lose all of the clothing he wore, dump his weapon, and with luck, disappear forever.

The early morning light filled the spacious apartments. Friedrich Dubert lived well and enjoyed his comforts, among them the modern penthouse located in the old section of Hamburg. The large sitting room offered a wonderful view of the many canals crossing the predominantly commercial district. It's an odd fact that Hamburg has more bridges than Amsterdam and Venice combined, although in all fairness the German city lacks much of their old world charm.

Wolfgang cared for none of that as he crossed the sitting room quickly and quietly, the rubber soles of his shoes sinking into the thick carpeting. Behind him, inside the foyer and slumped against the wall, Dubert's bodyguard stared sightlessly down at his feet. Rudolf had been entirely too predictable in his morning routine of buying the morning paper, a pack of American Marlboro cigarettes, and a box of strudel. On this particular morning it had cost him his life.

Outside the closed door of the master bedroom, Wolfgang paused, tilting his head and listening intently. From the other side he could hear the faint sounds of a bed creaking, a low moan followed by a soft, high-pitched giggle, and the deep murmur of a man's voice.

"Like that ... Bitch ... Yes..."

The bitch would be Dubert's companion from the evening previously, a long legged blonde who worked one of the local clubs. Wolfgang had spent a week watching, making his plans and waiting for the best opportunity. He had little doubt that Dubert was under surveillance by the German Bundespolizei and so the risks were not small. Killing the man would be the easy part, getting away with it would be more problematic. Until recently that might have made a difference, perhaps even have saved Herr Dubert's life, but not anymore. Not since Eva's much publicized funeral in Berlin.

Wolfgang no longer cared what might happen after he killed his sister's murderer.

He tightened his gloved right hand around the pistol he carried, a Glock 19 fitted with a long suppressor. It was the "compact" version of the Glock 17, the standard issue firearm for GSG-9, and Wolfgang was very familiar with the weapon. The only real difference between the two being a shorter barrel and grip. He'd used two 9mm rounds on Rudolf and the thirteen remaining bullets would be more than enough for Dubert. Wolfgang's index finger tightened until he felt the faint sensation of the trigger safety disengage through the thin latex of the surgical glove. At the same time he turned the doorknob slowly, keeping the door itself tight against the jam.

Dubert and his girlfriend were naked on the bed, facing away from the door. He had the woman on her back, with her legs over his shoulders while he knelt between her thighs, driving his swollen penis in and out of her cunt. This made it easy for Wolfgang, who stood in the open doorway pointing his pistol at the oblivious pair from less than three meters away. He wasted little time admiring the view, but crossed to the bed quickly, grabbing Dubert by his thin black hair and yanking the man upright so that he sat awkwardly between his ankles.

"Don't talk," Wolfgang whispered, pressing the cold steel of the suppressor against the back of Dubert's neck.

The blonde, flushed and panting with the exertions of sex, blinked in confusion as her long legs fell away from her lover. She appeared not to realize, or at least comprehend, that they were no longer alone. She stared at Wolfgang's dark, distorted face for a full three seconds before she opened her mouth as if to scream.