Chapter 1

The sniper reached for a handkerchief. He had difficulty with this task because he rested on the hard, cold ground. Shifting his weight, he found a corner of his cloth, held it tightly, and pulled it out. He perspired heavily; sweat dripped from his forehead over his eyebrows and into his eyes while he looked to the bottom of the long hill through the powerful telescope of his long-range rifle, silencer mounted at the end of the barrel. He wiped his eyes clear of sweat, shook his head, blinked his eyes a few times to gain focus, and looked through the scope again — nothing yet.

He carefully picked the place for his ambush. It was on a hill, overlooking the terrain below him. Young pines sprouted on his left, and two old oak trees, burned down to the trunk, stood mysteriously on his right. A fire destroyed the woods on this hill a few years ago. Now new vegetation is slowly growing back, giving the surroundings an eerie feeling.

He waited — thinking about his past. It was a hard road that brought him here — addiction to alcohol and drugs — then a period of rehabilitation, and now, fortunately, he is completely cured. The suffering and the torment that he experienced during the last period of his life made him what he is today. He is on his way to becoming an all-encompassing individual, including judge, jury, and killer.

Now he saw clearly, though dusk set in, and the sniper’s body shivered. A slight breeze blew from the north. Was it the cold evening, or was it the excitement and the anticipation of what was coming? Perhaps he was getting tired of lying in the prone position for more than one hour. He wasn’t sure, but he kept looking through the scope, anticipating, waiting. He was beginning to question if the information was valid that he received from his boss a couple of days ago about the activities down there.

Finally, a limousine stopped on the gravel road in front of the old, brown, brick building in the warehouse district of Villach, Austria. The owners neglected the last building on the street but were expediently isolated from the mainstream of traffic, with a gravel parking lot in front. On the far end was a rusty wire fence useless and partially collapsed, undulating back and forth, with every surge of cold air. Someone has used the building as a warehouse since 1950. The chauffeur stepped out and quickly walked to the other side of the limousine to open the back door. A tall, well-dressed man stepped out, brown face, donned his light-colored overcoat over his shoulders, European style. He stretched and looked across the street at the hill in the distance, still covered with patches of snow. His bodyguard left the limousine, and he waited for the man. He was ready to walk from the car to the front entrance of the warehouse.

A PST sound, followed by a cracking noise, disturbed the unnatural silence.

It sounded like a person used a thick stick and smashed a rotten pumpkin filled with bone particles. The chauffeur heard that sound, turned to look for his boss at eye level, but he wasn’t there. He looked bewildered. Then he looked on the ground, and he saw his boss lying in a puddle of red slushy snow, mixed with dirty water.

“What the hell?” said the chauffeur, stepping back, unable to articulate anything else. He looked at the man on the ground. His bodyguard bent down and checked the man’s pulse.

There was no pulse — the man was dead.

A small hole was in the middle of his forehead. The bodyguard lifted the man’s head, and when he saw the back of the head missing, he went down on his knees and vomited steak and lobster tail next to the dead man. Total confusion engulfed the scene in front of the warehouse. The bodyguard looked up, ran across the street, attempting to climb the hill with his wing-tipped shoes, slipping and sliding on the patches of snow, crawling on all fours to find the assassin. He felt guilty, and he thought I didn’t do my job.

At last, he reached the top. He looked down on the other side of the hill, but he saw nothing except a dark void with a few pine trees meagerly growing on the mountain. He stood there for a while, listening. It was quiet, and then he quickly returned. The chauffeur ran to the building and knocked on the door. A big man came out and listened to the chauffeur.

“Hey, Max, someone killed Fath Abu Bakr.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” said Max, confused, “How the hell is that possible.” He ran to the limousine, checked Abu Bakr, then he nodded, “You’re right, he’s dead.” The bodyguard picked him up, and he struggled as he took him into the warehouse through the front door. While he did that, the camelhair coat slipped off and landed in the dirt. Abu Bakr was massive, about 225 pounds. The bodyguard didn’t carry him far. He laid him on an old, smelly blanket that someone used for changing the oil on a van.

And this was how Abu Bakr’s life ended. What his subordinates did with the body no one knows, but the police found him in a ravine nearby.

Four young, pretty women, sparsely dressed, ran out of the building unnoticed during all this confusion. They wore torn dresses, light sweaters, and they were barefoot. A guard took their shoes to maintain better control over the females. It was grueling for them to run down the road on gravel and cold, sharp cobblestones, but at least their running went unnoticed, and it was silent. Twilight set in, and the sniper could barely see them, just before he left on the other side of the hill. They were slim, only 120 pounds each, and they ran as fast as they could, heading for a side street down the road. Abu Bakr’s mongers held them captive in the warehouse from which the young women escaped. Just a few more steps and they should be safe, running into one of the deserted side streets. One girl cried. She cut her foot deeply, and she bled profusely. Two girls, one on each side, helped her. Finally, they turned into the side street, shaking, hiding from the line of sight of the men by the warehouse. They walked the remainder of the distance on wet grass, soothing their feet.

The sniper saw his target going down. The way he collapsed, he could tell that his victim was dead. He sighed, relieved. He succeeded in his first job. He also saw four young women fleeing from the warehouse, and from his vantage point, he saw that they turned into a side street, one limping, being supported by two women. The fourth one followed.

Though he trembled from excitement and some fear, the sniper worked efficiently. He broke down his rifle with unmatched proficiency, unscrewed the silencer, and removed the scope. Then he packed all parts in a nondescript leather bag, specially designed for this purpose. While he rose, he swept the ground to hide any evidence of him lying there. Running down the backside of the hill was treacherous because of ice and snow. It was the dark side of the mountain, and more snow was there. It had a gentle slope, but one stretch was steep. The sniper slid, but his skiing expertise helped him to stay on his feet. He went down the hill faster than he expected. The sniper quietly placed the bag in his Mercedes truck’s back seat, started it, and returned home. Sitting in his car, he felt safe. The warm air of the engine, directed by a fan, warmed his nearly frozen body. Frequently, he checked in the rear-view mirror to see whether anyone followed him.

No one was there, running or driving behind him.

In reality, following him might have been a futile exercise. It would have been impossible to follow the sniper with a car because it would take a driver forty-five minutes to drive a car around the hill. The sniper picked an excellent spot for his assassination. He looked at his watch, and he was surprised that it was already five-thirty. He drove efficiently, paying attention to the speed limit, and he arrived at home at seven. He parked the truck behind the apartment building in downtown Ferlach, grabbed the leather bag, and took the back entrance to his second floor, four-room apartment.

Finally, the sniper settled down, and he stopped shaking from the excitement that kept his adrenalin flowing. Before he made the phone call, he took a bottle of beer from the icebox, sat by the kitchen table, and took a long sip — God, I needed that.

His black phone, mounted on a wall, was within reach of the sniper. He dialed a number. After three rings, a man answered, “Yea, who is this?”

“Hi Peter, this is Franz. I did the job,” said Franz, relieved.

“Any problems?” asked Peter, concerned.

“Nop, absolutely not. He dropped like a sack of potatoes,” said Franz, proudly.

“Did anyone see you?”

“Nop, no one saw me. It was surprisingly easy, but I was nervous Peter,” said Franz.

“Good. You did well on your first job. When you come in tomorrow, I’ll pay you. By the way, I have a 12 Gage, a double-barrel shotgun that needs new hammer springs installed. I put it on your bench before I left the store.”

“See you in the morning.” Franz turned on his black and white TV and watched the local eight o clock news. He saw the news bulletin posted across the screen,

March 5, 1953

Ringleader killed in Villach—Local white slavery ring exposed.

Franz tightened his lips and nodded in approval. He finished his beer and placed the empty bottle in a bottle carrier. Then Franz went to his bedroom, stripped his wet clothes, and donned a robe. He was tired, but with renewed energy, he returned to the kitchen and hand washed the dished, accumulated from the last three days.

When he finished this chore, he noticed that the apartment needed cleaning. He dusted the furniture, and he mopped the floor. Finally, he took a bath and went to bed. Franz was pleased. His first job went well. He will be able to face his boss confidently in the morning. He is now a member of the team.