Page 67 of Ground Truth

“You think it’ll come to that?” Scarlett asked.

“With men like Brand, it always comes down to him or me,” Drake replied. “Can’t be any other way.”

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Chapter 34

Atabei

Ernst Hedinger glanced at his watch. His private plane was scheduled for wheels up two hours from now. Which was enough time for a bit of relaxation if he didn’t dawdle.

He pushed a button on his speakerphone to talk as he changed into his shooting clothes.

“Yes, sir,” his right-hand man answered instantly.

No one kept Hedinger waiting. Not if they wanted to remain employed.

Working for Hedinger was a lifetime commitment. The point was made clear before any employee was hired. No exceptions for any reason.

“Send the car around to the skeet range in an hour, Meier. I’ll shower and dress there. Wheels up as scheduled,” Hedinger said, slipping into his trousers and shoving his feet into supple leather boots simultaneously.

“Yes, sir,” Meier replied as expected. “Do you require my assistance now?”

“No.” Hedinger disconnected, pushed both arms into his lightweight shooting jacket, and headed through the house, outside, and toward the range.

A brisk walk through the gardens in the sunshine would do him a world of good.

The business with Brand’s wife was troubling and weighed on his mind. He planned to picture Greta Campbell’s face on the clay pigeons and shatter the pall she’d cast over his operations with several well placed shotgun blasts.

Hedinger enjoyed shooting. He’d fired his first gun at the age of five at a thieving beggar and never looked back.

Hedinger’s father served in the French Zone of occupied Germany after the war. It was a difficult life for him, no less than the deprivation his wife and son endured.

Many nights, young Ernst dried his mother’s tears. They had precious little food and no luxuries of any sort during those extremely lean years.

When a dirty, half-clothed man came to the door late in the afternoon, Ernst’s mother had tried to be kind. She’d explained in French, her only language, that she had no extra food to share.

The beggar refused to listen. He lashed out, screaming violent profanity. When Ernst’s mother tried to step inside and close the door, he grabbed her wrist and twisted it cruelly, making her cry out in pain.

The pistol was loaded and ready on a small table near the door. Terrified and outraged, young Ernst ran to pick it up. He’d never held the pistol before, and it was large and heavy in his hands.

Ernst did not hesitate. He stepped forward and screamed, “Let my mother go!”

Before the beggar had a chance to comply, Ernst pulled the trigger.

Lucky shot. For the beggar. The bullet missed.

The beggar dropped Ernst’s mother’s hand and ran away. Ernst shot again, but his second attempt was as inept as the first.

His mother crumpled to the floor, crying inconsolably. Ernst tried to get her into the house and close the door, but she seemed incapable of movement.

After a while, one of the neighbors came and helped her into bed. His mother stayed in bed for days afterward.

Ernst locked the front door when the neighbor left and waited until his father came home.

His father was pleased and proud of his son. Hugged Ernst and told him so, over and over again. And the next week, the shooting lessons began.

Shooting was one of the joys of Ernst Hedinger’s life.

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