Read Online Brotherhood and Others by Mark Sullivan - Free Book Online Page A

asked.
    Robin nodded.
    â€œLong cons take too much thinking, too much time, and there’s too much of a chance you get caught,” Julio said. “This way, we take her. Hold her maybe a few hours. She’s their only child. We hit them for a small chunk, so they pay and we trade. Nice and fast. And The Brotherhood will be good for months, maybe a year.”
    â€œI don’t know,” Robin said, remembering his mother, but looking to Claudio, who shrugged.
    Julio put his arm around Robin’s shoulders, said, “C’mon, my young thieving genius, for you this will be such a simple thing. And I give you twenty-five percent of whatever we get.”
    *   *   *
    â€œRogue, target has accelerated. You are losing ground and two miles to optimal rendition site, the woman said.
    Monarch shook free of his memories, glanced up at the road signs. He was well south of Berlin now, approaching the High Fläming Nature Park, part of the rural landscape that separates the German capital from the cities of Wittenburg and Leipzig.
    He pressed on the gas, feeling the Rocket leap over one hundred and ten miles an hour, closing the final gap to the target, who was somewhere just ahead and driving a Porsche Turbo Carrera with a top speed above two hundred and forty.
    Monarch wondered whether the driver would pull over when he lit up the sirens and the lights, or whether he’d make a run for it. It was pouring rain, but you never knew. A trained evasive driver, Monarch had no doubt he’d eventually catch the Porsche no matter how its driver reacted.
    But at what cost? What if the target crashed? What if he wasn’t going home? What if he continued south on the autobahn toward Halle? Ultimately, you wanted as few eyes as possible in and around a rendition. It could get ugly—and quick—and it usually did.
    To his relief, Monarch first spotted the black Turbo Carrera as it exited the autobahn onto a local road that led west along the southern border of the nature park, toward the village of Zerbst, where the target had a second home. When Monarch came up on the bumper of the Turbo Carrera and flipped the lights, the driver looked in the rearview and then almost immediately slowed and rolled to a stop on the shoulder.
    There were no house lights visible in front of or behind him. He’d timed it perfectly. Maybe his luck with kidnapping was improving after all these years.
    Taking his time, asserting his control, Monarch reached into the glove compartment, got a small gas canister attached to a short plastic tube, and stuck it in his pocket. Climbing out of the patrol car into the rain, he set his cap on his head, put his right hand on his holster, and moved forward with a large flashlight.
    The driver’s side window was partially down.
    A sign of compliance? Or an opportunity to get off a clean shot?
    The driver was in his late forties, but boyishly handsome with a blond goatee and hair that seemed perfectly tousled. He wore a black short-sleeve shirt and jeans. He could have been anything from a music producer to an attorney. But Monarch knew differently.
    â€œDid I do something wrong, officer?” the driver asked in accented German. “I drive this stretch often and know I was within the limits.”
    Monarch could smell liquor on the man’s breath. That helped.
    â€œYour driving looked a little erratic,” Monarch replied in perfect German “License and registration, sir.”
    â€œErratic?” he said. “I’ve had a beer or two, but I’m in no way impaired.”
    â€œLicense and registration, sir.”
    The man seemed mightily displeased now, but sighed and handed them to Monarch. The driver’s license was international, and identified him as Stephan DeGrave, a native of South Africa and currently a resident of Berlin. Monarch knew him by sight, but it never hurt to double-check.
    â€œSir, I’d like you to take a simple