The Bavarian state police had been questioning Alex for nearly ten hours after the shootout.  Although the police had set up a command center in one of the hotel’s banquet halls, and it was where many of Alex’s men, in addition to other witnesses, were being questioned, Alex was being held in the GM’s office, and being questioned privately there.  But his options were limited: either cooperate with the investigation at the hotel or be taken to the police station and booked as a person of interest in the death of the unfortunate motorist.

He sat at the GM’s conference table, with his legs folded, staring at the two detectives across the table from him.  There was an attorney present, some local expat, who advised Alex to agree to the interrogation rather than risk arrest on foreign soil.  Not because of any concerns they had regarding his guilt in the killing of the gunman/motorist, but because this was Europe.  The Drakos name was well known.  His family’s mob ties could come back to bite him.

But although Alex agreed to be questioned for hours on end, his answers to varying degrees of the same question, did not change: the motorist had been in the hotel across the street and shot at him first.  He shot back in self-defense.

“Okay, we are getting nowhere,” said the lead detective, who spoke English with a heavy German accent.  “You say he shot at you first?”

“He did,” said Alex.

“But every witness so far says he was not shooting at you at all when he was on the street.  It was you, they all say, who shot him as he was driving away, leading to him losing control and his untimely death.”

“They can say whatever they want to say,” said Alex, “but I’m telling you what happened.”

“Okay enough.  Let’s stop beating around the bush.  You are not new to this kind of upheaval, are you?”

“He’s not answering that,” the lawyer quickly said.  Alex, for his part, just stared at the cop.

“Are you, Mr. Drakos?” the detective asked again.

“I said he’s not answering that question.”

“He will answer what we say he will answer,” said the second detective.  “Or face arrest.  That is how it works here.”

“Mr. Drakos, do you question our intelligence?” the lead detective asked.  “You are the former head of the Drakos Crime Family, no?”

Alex’s jaw tightened.  In America, his background, other than the womanizing part, was not readily known.  But in Europe, it was very well-known, and very inaccurate.  “No,” he said.

Both detectives looked at each other in shock, and then looked at Alex.  “You are denying to our faces that you did not run the Drakos Crime Family?”

“I did not run it, no.  My father ran it.”

“Your father?” the lead detective asked.

Alex didn’t answer that.

“How convenient,” the detective said.

But Alex continued to stare at the cops.  His lawyer spoke up.  “It’s been ten hours, guys.  Mr. Drakos has been more than generous with his time.  It’s time to wrap this up.”  The lawyer would normally add, “either charge my client, or let him go.”  But it was the charging part that they had to avoid.  At all cost.

Fortunately, the lead detective concluded that Alex’s actions didn’t rise to murder.  Because there was an equal amount of witnesses who were telling his men that the dead motorist fired many shots into the hotel where Alex was staying before a single shot rang out the opposite way.

The day-long interrogation was over.  Alex was free to go.

 

As soon as Alex exited the GM’s office and closed the door behind him, one of his security details, flanked by Belvins, his security chief while he was in Munich, entered the hotel’s lobby and headed for Alex.  They’d been searching for background on that motorist the entire time Alex was in interrogation.

But the GM and Vice President of the hotel quickly cut them off to get to Alex first.  “Is everything alright, Mr. Drakos?” asked the GM.  “We cannot believe they kept you for such an unconscionable length of time.”

“I’m okay,” said Alex.  “Thank you.”  His men arrived at his side.  “But if you will excuse me?”

“I dismissed the housekeeping supervisor for today,” said the VP.  “Unless you still want to take that tour?”

“Tomorrow,” Alex said with a smile.  “Excuse me.”

“Yes, sir,” said the VP, and then he and the GM gladly left Alex to his own devices.

“They ask about a tour,” said Belvins, “at a time like this?”

What did you find out?” Alex asked.  “Did you get the cameras?”

“Every one of them from every business in this area,” replied his chief.  “And we didn’t even have to pay that much.”

“You identified the shooter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who is he?”

“Wilham Steed.”

“Steed?  Is he mob?”

“He’s mob,” said the chief, nodding his head.  “And he’s a local.  But he doesn’t work for a crime family.  He works for one man: Max Rogan, the consigliere of the Heinrich Crime Family.   However, the information we have is that the Heinrich leadership knew nothing about that particular hire.”

“Where’s Rogan now?  Have you been able to track him down?”

The chief smiled.  “We have.  We have surveillance on his ass right now.”

Alex felt relieved.  The not-knowing was the part of this business that always drove him nuts.  He began heading for the exit, with his security detail following.  “Where?” he asked Belvins.

“At a hideaway in Kirchheim.”

 

Kirchheim Unter Teck was a two-hour drive from Munich, and the hideaway under surveillance was even further away.  And when they arrived at the backwoods shelter, they had to park their vans at a distance some 4.8 kilometers out of sight, with a foot crew closer.  Then they had to wait until the lights were out and it appeared the resident had finally gone asleep, before Alex, Belvins, and the main crew made the trek through the thick woods up to the shack.

Alex, still in his expensive suit, usually preferred to work alone, but he first had to know what he was working with.  In Germany, everything was layered with too many unknowns, too much corruption, and too many risks.  He needed backup.  He wasn’t even sure if they had the right man!

When they arrived near the outer reaches of the shack, Alex laid down the law.  “Disable all vehicles.”  They saw two.  “I don’t want this fucker getting away, and I want to capture him alive.  I need answers, not another dead body.”

“Yes, sir,” his men said.

Alex also made the decision, after reviewing in detail photos of the shack, that their best strategy would be to go in as if they were SWAT.  “Half the team will break down the front door,” he said.  “That team will be anchored by me.  The other half will break down the back door.  That team will be anchored by Belvins.  Belvins and I have already synchronized our watches.  As soon as the clock strikes 3:15am Munich time, we break in.”

“If they discover us before 3:15?” asked one of his men.

“We improvise,” said Alex.

 

They didn’t have to improvise.  Alex waited, and his chief waited, and when the clock struck 3:15, they both nodded, the battering rams were employed, and the front door and back door were knocked down simultaneously. 

Alex had already made clear that he did not want there be talking or unnecessary noise when they entered, beyond the doors falling, so that he could hear what he needed to hear.  His crew obeyed his command, and the silence worked.  Because as soon as they entered, Alex heard footsteps in the back of the shack, where the bedroom undoubtedly was.

As Alex and his men ran toward the room, gunfire suddenly erupted from the opposite side of the house, and then from the room where the noise was heard, causing Alex and his men to retreat into a side room, or down the hall, or wherever they could go to get out of the line of fire.  Alex, in a side room, began firing back, but he had no target.  The house was dark and all that could be seen was the pop of fire from gunshots.

But then there was no sound of gunfire, save Alex and his men firing back.  Alex realized quickly what was happening.  “They’re getting away!” he yelled as he hurried out of the room.  “Half out back, half out front!  We need them alive,” he ordered as he and his men scrambled to get out of that house and capture the man they needed to question.

Alex charged through the front door, where his instincts told him Max Rogan, the man in question, would attempt to make his getaway.  That was where the vehicles were parked.

And Alex’s instincts were right.  Max Rogan, the consigliere for the Heinrich Crime Syndicate, jumped into his dusty, older model Audi RS4 that was parked in front of the house and ready for takeoff.

But the car wouldn’t crank.  Alex’s team had already disabled it.  Rogan tried and tried, but to no avail.  Rogan’s decision made him exactly what Alex had hoped he’d be: a sitting duck.

Alex kept his weapon trained on the man they believed hired that hitman, even as he heard gunfire in the back of the house where it turned out two bodyguards, both of whom had been the shooters inside the house, were making their getaway.  They chose the woods.  Rogan, as Alex had suspected, would choose the car: the easy way out.

Now it wasn’t so easy, and Rogan just sat there.  Alex ordered him out.  “Get out of the vehicle with your hands where I can see them,” he ordered as if he was a cop.  “Get out now!”

But Rogan just sat there.

“Get out now!” he yelled again.

But Rogan just sat there.

Alex slowly made his way to the car’s driver side door.  He didn’t want to kill this fool.  He needed intel.  But he would kill him without hesitation if it came down to a life or death situation.  He was hoping it wouldn’t.

And when Rogan finally opened the door of his car, it appeared as if he understood the stakes also.  Alex would get some answers!

But as soon as Alex made it around to the driver’s side of the vehicle, Rogan, with gun still in hand, lifted his gun and pulled the trigger.  He was determined to take Alex out.

Although Alex might not have been the faster draw, his gun was already drawn.  As soon as Rogan put his finger on that trigger, Alex was already firing.  He shot Max Rogan five times in rapid succession.  When it got that close, Alex never took any chances.  Rogan dropped his gun, as he dropped to the ground.

Alex’s heart was hammering by yet another close call.  But his anger was sizzling too.

“You okay, Boss?” Belvins yelled as he ran back up front.

Alex realized, at that moment, that the gunfire out back had ceased.  “Our people okay?” he asked.

“Everybody’s okay.  Everybody made it.”

Alex was relieved to hear it.

“Even as Rogan, I see,” Belvins said, “didn’t make it.”

“Were you able to spare either one of Rogan’s bodyguards?”

“They both decided to fight to the death,” Belvins said.  “And they did.”  He looked at Rogan again.  And then at his boss.  “Where does this leave us?” he asked.

“No damn where,” said Alex.  And then he took his shoe and kicked the tire.  He no more knew why somebody tried to kill him now than he knew before the ordeal began!

“Clean it up,” he ordered.  “I don’t want any cops breathing down my neck again.”

“What about the Heinrich family?  You think they’ll try to come after us?”

“Come after me for taking out a man who hired a hitman to take me out?  Hell no.  This is Europe.  They know better.  But just in case,” he added, “make sure no bodies are found, and no chatter gets started.”

Belvins smiled.  “Yes, sir.  I’ll give the order.”

But Alex was, once again, staring at Max Rogan’s lifeless body wondering why a seemingly intelligent man like him would go against his own crime family and hire a hit man.