Spoils of Victory Read Online Free

“Yeah, you did good.”
    They exited the bar. Crowds of people looked on as the German police and five American MPs sorted out the arrestees. Mason scanned the German bar patrons, but didn’t see Volker. Then he noticed with alarm that Giessen, Bachmann, and Plöbsch were not there, either. And Olsen was not among the arrested Americans. “Damn it.” Mason grabbed the leading MP sergeant, turned back to the bar, and said to Abrams, “Some of them escaped out the back.”
    They ran through the bar and out the rear exit. A cluster of surrounding buildings formed an inner courtyard of mud and snow, where garbage and rusted junk had been piled haphazardly. Laundry hung from a web of lines suspended from the buildings and swayed in the biting wind. Mason silently pointed out the footprints in the snow. Groups of prints went down the three narrow passages that accessed the surrounding streets. He signaled for the MP and Abrams to take the left and right alleyways, while Mason took the one running straight from the back door. He drew his gun and moved forward with long strides. Halfway down the alley, he came across a jumble of footprints. It appeared that a large group had stopped at the double doors of a dilapidated, corrugated-tin garage on his right. The prints showed that the larger group went inside but then a smaller group remerged and headed for the street behind the bar. The flimsy doors banged with gusts of wind that felt suddenly very cold.
    Mason raised his gun and, as silently as he could, pulled open one of the doors. He swung inside, gun up, and tried to peer into the darkness. Weak sunlight poured into the holes and gaps in the tin walls.The smell of urine and putrid mud assaulted his nostrils. It seemed empty except for some rags and broken crates piled in the corner of the dirt floor. But when his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he saw two bodies lying facedown among the rags. They had both been shot in the back of the head and dragged into the corner. Mason squatted and turned them enough to see their faces. They were two of Giessen’s bodyguards who’d been standing by the rear entrance.
    When he stood and turned, he saw three other bodies on the opposite side of the shed. They lay in a row, arms and legs akimbo. Mason approached them and used his cigarette lighter to view their faces. He cursed under his breath. He whistled for Abrams and the MP, then squatted and checked each of them for a pulse. When he heard footsteps coming up the alley, he called out, “In here.”
    Abrams and the MP sergeant entered the garage and came up to Mason. “All three of the gang leaders,” Mason said. “Giessen, Bachmann, and Plöbsch. A single bullet in each of their foreheads. Then two in the chest. Shot at close range. Killed, execution style.” He picked up a spent shell casing. “Nine-millimeter,” he said and put the casing in his breast pocket. “Giessen had three bodyguards covering the back entrance. Two of them are over there, in the corner.”
    â€œThat leaves one and Olsen,” Abrams said. “Do you think they did this?”
    Mason shook his head. “I can’t see two guys getting the jump on five armed professionals. There had to be more. More than likely we’re going to find Olsen’s body in the woods somewhere. And there’s one other guy . . .” Mason paused, then said more to himself, “I swear he was there, either with Giessen or the Italians.”
    â€œWho?” Abrams asked.
    Ignoring the question, Mason stood and turned to the sergeant. “Have our guys go over this crime scene, and start canvassing the area. Make sure that gets done first, then notify the German police that they’ve got five dead bodies back here.”
    When the MP left, Abrams said, “Who was this other guy you’re talking about?”
    Mason just shook his head and charged for the doors. With Abrams