Ruins of War (33 page)

Ramek staggered in place, but seemed impervious to the pain. In a swift movement, he reached around to his opposite pocket and brought his scalpel out, swinging it in a wide arc toward Mason’s throat. Mason was ready for it. He ducked the swing and slammed the palm of his hand into Ramek’s already broken nose. Ramek recoiled and screamed at what must have been excruciating pain. Stunned, his legs buckled and he dropped to his knees.

Mason began pounding Ramek in the face. Left fist, then right. He couldn’t stop. He was turning Ramek’s face to a bloody pulp. Ramek slumped to the ground, senseless. He no longer struggled. Blood bubbled from his nose, mouth, and ears.

Mason grabbed Ramek’s throat and squeezed. His rage added to his strength.

“Die, asshole.”

Ramek tried to strike him, but the blow landed without force. His faced turned scarlet. He exhaled more blood than air. His struggling became desperate swipes at Mason’s face. He grasped Mason’s arms, but his strength was gone. His kicking slowed. . . .

“Mason!”

Laura’s voice snapped him back.

“Stop,” Laura said with such horror and grief that it made Mason ease his death grip on Ramek’s throat. The doctor took a desperate gulp of air.

Keeping the man pinned, Mason looked into his eyes. “You’re under arrest.”

Mason struggled to rise. Laura helped him to stand, but, faster than thought, Ramek’s foot took out Mason’s legs. Mason fell heavily to the floor. Ramek climbed unsteadily to his feet and tottered at the edge of the chasm.

“Only by plunging into the abyss can one then soar to heaven,” Ramek said in a calm voice.

With a bloody smile, Ramek dropped backward into the hole. Mason rushed to the edge to stop him, but was too late. He could only watch as Ramek collided with the edges of several floors before his body hit the concrete floor of the dark basement.

Mason fell to his knees. His head spun and his entire body turned cold. He’d never been so exhausted. Then he became aware of Laura’s hands on him, tending his wound as best she could while she sobbed. Her touch, her smell, her face so close to his, brought sudden warmth. And he felt as if he had come out of a dark place.

M
ason sat in the passenger’s seat, riding in a five-ton army truck loaded with supplies. Both sides of the snow-covered road were bordered by thick pine forest, and in the distance rose the snow-capped mountains of the Bavarian Alps. The truck was the only transport available from Munich. A two-day snowstorm had clogged the roads, delayed trains, but the army deemed the truck, its driver, and Mason expendable enough to send them out anyway. He stared out the window as he thought about the past few weeks.

Mason had stopped a brutal murderer, purged a small patch of earth from madness, and for a heartbeat the world seemed brighter, cleaner after Ramek’s death. But the moment quickly passed. The clouds still obscured the sun, the snow still fell, and the people in Munich still starved or froze to death.

The army was left without a clue what to do with Mason Collins—hero or vigilante? The
Stars and Stripes
and the American-controlled German press hailed him as a hero. Colonel Walton wanted to bust him in rank and send him to a remote mountain outpost, but the army brass had dragged him in front of the cameras as the new military police poster boy, then stuck him behind a desk when the dust had settled.

Mason had managed to use his temporary star status to wangle a deal: no remote outpost, no desk job, but instead an assignment to an out-of-the-way German town, where he’d spend his remaining year in the army busting black marketers and wayward soldiers. That suited Mason just fine.

Wolski had survived and was now convalescing at the Walter Reed General Hospital. He was trying to convince the army to let Anna immigrate, and he’d probably succeed because of his wounds in the line of duty and his aid in the dramatic case. He still planned to go for a law degree. He and Mason promised to keep in touch, but Mason knew how those things went. . . .

Mason saw Becker often during his final month in Munich, and they had forged a strong friendship. It gave Mason hope that with men like Becker, Germany would rise from the ashes to become a better country. Together they had located a Catholic foundation that agreed to take in the orphans. Kurt had opted out; he had a good business going with cigarettes (partially funded by Mason), and Mason saw him becoming a successful entrepreneur one day. Angela thrived in her new home, however; she and the others would no longer have to survive alone in the ruins. Mason vowed to visit them whenever he could.

After Laura and he had spent New Year’s in Paris, she had immersed herself in her serial about life in postwar Germany. Mason guessed that charging into the fray at full steam was her way of coping with the trauma of the abduction. And though Mason had objected, she had left Munich to try to pick up the trail of the black marketers. Whether they could overcome their differences, reporter and cop, and see their relationship flourish, only time would tell. Either way, Mason was through with the army, and he planned to go back to the States after his year in purgatory was up.

“Whoa!”

The truck had hit a patch of ice and swerved side to side as the driver tried to keep it on the road.

The driver finally gained control of the truck. “That was close.”

Mason settled back in his seat and returned his gaze to the snowy landscape.

The driver was a Hawaiian and went by the nickname “Bubbles.” Mason had no idea why; the man was built like a rhinoceros.

“Garmisch is a real nice place,” Bubbles said.

“I wouldn’t know.”

“It never got a scratch during the war. It’s like some town you’d see in a kid’s storybook. A big ski destination. You like to ski?”

“Never saw the sense in putting sticks on my feet and sliding down a mountain.”

Bubbles laughed. “I ain’t built for it, that’s for sure.”

Garmisch-Partenkirchen was going to be Mason’s new post. A sleepy town—at least, that was its reputation—nestled in a mountain valley near the Austrian border. Only Wolski and Becker knew the real reason why he had used his temporary clout to go from a high-octane city to a somnolent town: Laura was there somewhere, working her story.

Colonel Walton had been more than happy to approve the plan, sending Mason off with a self-satisfied grin. “You’re not going to be able to stir up any trouble down there.”

Mason smiled.

We’ll
see.

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