12
The series of computer screens showed footage of the cities and territories under Scheffler’s control. Europe was crawling with The League’s spies and scouts, all backed by an extensive web of soldiers and assassins ready to reign down justice. Some civilians strolled by along the streets casually chatting, others had their attention on their smartphones while they walked. One man with glasses stood at the corner talking on his phone while pacing from side to side. All of them were oblivious to the conflict brewing beneath the facade of ignorance they called everyday life. The continent would soon become a battlefield, and as the war heated up, the people would be forced to reckon with harsh reality. Meanwhile, Scheffler was stuck in a bunker, far away from the action. It felt wrong. He had risen the ranks because he could perform under high pressure. How was he supposed to coordinate the war without the fear and sweat of being in the field?
Gerricks was busy flicking through an endless series of scout reports. Unlike Scheffler, he was where he belonged. He had a brain bigger than Scheffler’s biceps. Scheffler mindlessly inspected his arm. Damn. He was already losing size since tapering off the steroids. How long had he been General? Two weeks? His throat suddenly felt thick and the room shrunk around him. He left abruptly and went into his office and shut the door behind him, got down to the ground and started doing push-ups. His joints ached straight away, as fatigue hit and the consequences of cutting out his steroid cycles impacted his performance. Come on. He had just completed fifty reps when his arms gave out. He rolled to his side and began panting, feeling nauseous and out of breath. A month earlier he could do over a hundred without breaking a sweat. Maybe he was not made for this General business. How would his men ever respect a weakling? He needed to get back in the line of danger, had to get his edge back.
There was a loud knock on the door.
“What?” he yelled out, rising to his feet.
Gerricks came in and paused in the doorway, looking hesitantly at the sweat-covered, out-of-breath Scheffler.
“What is it?” said Scheffler impatiently.
“Something came up in the scout reports,” said Gerricks, pushing the dreadlocks out of his face. “Do you want to come see?”
Scheffler nodded and followed Gerricks into the surveillance room.
“In Barcelona we’re tracking forty-three targets from the Five Eyes list,” said Gerricks as he returned to his workstation.
“Right,” said Scheffler.
“Well,” said Gerricks, pointing to his computer screen. “Nineteen of them have paid a visit to this building in the last twenty-four hours.”
Scheffler studied the live footage of a building with an orange sandstone facade.
“What do we know?” asked Scheffler.
“It’s in El Raval. Nightlife district. There’s an illegal brothel on the third level, so first we figured these guys were just going there for some action. But then we noticed something else. Pretty much all of them came in empty-handed then left with the same kind of backpack.”
“What else?”
“That’s it. It’s a mystery.”
Scheffler stared attentively at random people passing by along the narrow cobbled alleyway.
“What should we do?” asked Gerricks.
“Send in a scout,” said Scheffler. “I want to know what’s going on. They could be preparing for an attack.”
“Might be risky. Should we be making incursions right now?”
“I said I want to know what’s going on. Get someone in there. Tell them to be discreet.”
“Ok,” said Gerricks. “I’ll make it happen.”
“Good man,” said Scheffler and slapped Gerricks’ shoulder before marching out of the room.
Piotr Paleski dropped to his knees and rested his elbows on the bed in a steeple position, resting his forehead on his knuckles. He had no other choice left. It was either this or go insane.
“Lord,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “Give me the strength to fight. The strength to make the right decisions. The strength to…” He paused and took a deep breath. “…to kill.” He pushed his forehead harder into his knuckles. “Protect my family, spare them from what I have done and what I am about to do. Please, take their pain into your tender embrace, and shield them from the evil that is inside me. Amen.”
He lifted his head and opened his eyes, relaxed his hands, then turned his head. On the bedside table sat a Makarov pistol; all-steel with a firm trigger — a heavy piece for its size. Beside it were the knuckle dusters; dark silver and extra chunky. The dusters would make the most impact without causing death, stunning his target long enough to be taken in without a fuss. The Makarov would solve any unexpected complications.
Ralph’s snoring came through the paper-thin walls separating their motel rooms. It would be the two of them tomorrow. Piotr’s first choice for a partner would not have been Ralph. He would be far more confident with Frederich by his side. Wishful thinking. He would need to make the best of what he had. His life depended on it. Anyway, what annoyed him more than Ralph’s snoring was the guy’s ability to fall asleep any time he pleased. Piotr had slept terribly since he was a child, often waking up in the middle of the night filled with anxiety and paranoia. Now he had an extra reason not to sleep. Something big was brewing, although the information coming out of Intel was scarce. All they had was a pair of photos and an address, and all they knew was they had to break into the guy’s house at 3:00 am and take him alive, and not a minute sooner.
It was Piotr’s first mission. If anything went wrong, it would also be his first kill. His paranoia was racing, as he pictured every worst-case scenario. He wondered how a gunshot would feel, how terrible the burn would be, or how loud his scream would become in response
