“Ah!” yelled Drexler, filling the lobby with his screams.
He rolled over and clutched his side with one arm, groaning and rubbing his irritated eyes with the other. Frederich glanced at the neighbour’s apartment. The door remained closed, the person inside having the good sense not to come outside. It also meant they would be cowered somewhere near a telephone, terrified and desperate for the police to arrive. Frederich had to move quickly. He dropped his pistol the ground.
“Drexler!” he yelled, bending down and grasping Drexler’s sweaty face by his cheeks.
“No!” yelled Drexler, struggling to break free of Frederich’s grip. His eyes were teared up, and his nostrils full of mucus.
Frederich picked up his pistol again, aimed it at Drexler’s knee cap, and fired.
The metallic echoes of the bullet fire were horrifyingly loud, piecing Frederich’s eardrums. Drexler’s screaming became hysterical. Frederich put the pistol down again.
“Look here!” he yelled, grasping Drexler’s face again with an iron grip. “Eyes here, you piece of shit.”
He held Drexler’s head in place and stared into his swollen eyes. Drexler’s yells became a wail, and he was eventually able to lock onto Frederich’s face for a moment. Once Frederich was sure that Drexler could see him, he looked deep into Drexler’s eyes and poured in all the hatred he could conjure. Drexler paused, his eyes opening wide against the tear gas spasms trying to force them shut. The message seemed to have come across.
“I’m sorry!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, beginning to hyperventilate. “I had no choice. It hurt too much. It was too much!”
Drexler began weeping and howling. Frederich let go of his head and backed away, leaving the pistol on the ground. He looked on, speechless, unsure what to do next. Drexler seemed to be hallucinating, grasping at the air and talking to himself.
The flicker of the shooter’s shadow probably saved Frederich’s life. He had likely been holed up in the bathroom, waiting for the smoke to disperse. Frederich turned quickly and leapt to the side just as the man fired from the doorway. Frederich’s pistol was out of reach. Instead, he ran away at a sharp angle as the second bullet flew by, then went straight at the shooter and jump-kicked him. The two of them went tumbling to the floor, the man grunting as he collided with the surface. The shooter was still holding his pistol, and he lifted his hand to fire. Frederich took hold of his wrist, and with the memory of Elias Khartoum flickering by, he head-butted him in the nose once and then twice. The man let go of the pistol.
It came, hurtling from the beyond, and Frederich knew it was too late to catch it. Not that he ever had a chance. It came on so strongly that the blackouts began almost immediately. He knew he had done damage with his fists, and that he had used the hunting knife. The rest came in visual and audible flashes. Drexler’s horrible screams. The sound of flesh tearing. The pools of blood, as well as the dark red imprints from Frederich’s footsteps as he fled the building. There was the piercing ringing in his ears as he stumbled down the street and marched quickly to his car. He blacked out again in places, and when he came to, he was sitting in the driver’s seat soaked in blood. He took out his keys and worked them into the hole with strangely steady hands. He put the car into gear and drove away, racing to the end of the small street and making a hard left. Police sirens in the distance forced him to speed up. He did everything by instinct, following the directions he had studied, eventually climbing onto the 92 and racing westwards toward Berlin.
8
The faces of Kalakia’s Four Generals glowed orange in the candlelight, while a thick layer of cigar smoke hung above the empty weapons storage room. A chilly, early-morning breeze pushed through the cave tunnel of The League’s mountain fortress, causing the candles along the walls to flicker. Kalakia was leaned over with his hands flat on the table, inspecting the world map spread over its surface. Red crosses marked the spots where Stirner had carried out his initial attacks. Berlin was also marked. In green were the places where The League proposed to counter-attack. Each of the Four Generals possessed a portion of the list of targets provided by the Five Eyes. In the back corner, Francois was slumped on a chair with one leg crossed over the other, supporting his neck from behind with his hand.
“Gentlemen, we have decisions to make,” said Kalakia.
Marco Lessio leaned back casually on his chair and sucked on his cigar before contributing to the cloud of smoke hovering above them. The shadow of Daps Limbaba’s intimidating frame stretched over the table, where he had his elbow resting with his cigar pointing outwards, a heap of ashes piled up beneath it. He stared unflinchingly at Kalakia with absolute focus. Tamju Lau rubbed on his greying moustache and cleared his throat.
“I agree that we must act,” said Lau. “I only fear that Stirner has a greater plan which we have yet to comprehend.”
“He’s shitting his pants,” said Lessio. “He messed up the Kalakia hit, so he’s lost the element of surprise. Now he’s relying on terror tactics. We need to hit hard and finish him quickly.”
“My men await my word. They are
