Chapter 3 - The Order of Battle
Gero Müller did not like the rain, but he liked the way the wet asphalt of the city made his silver Porsche look like a bullet cutting through the gray afternoon.
He had left his office early because his secretary had mentioned a call from the district court—something about a administrative filing that required his personal signature. Gero had assumed it was the title deed for the new commercial property in Charlottenburg, and he wanted to have the document on his desk before the weekend.
But when he had arrived at the court, the clerk had been strangely unhelpful, telling him that the documents had been delayed and that he should "wait for the mail."
Gero had felt a small, sharp prick of irritation in his chest. He did not like delays. He did not like people who did not perform their duties with precision.
When he turned his car into the driveway of his villa in Grunewald, he noticed a dark blue Mercedes sedan parked under the lime tree fifty meters down the road. It was an old car, the kind driven by retired civil servants or Turkish laborers who worked in the railyards. It ruined the clean, exclusive look of the street.
He parked his Porsche in the double garage, turned off the engine, and adjusted his silk tie in the rearview mirror. His face was smooth, his skin clear from his weekly visits to the spa at the Regent Hotel.
He opened the garage door and entered the house through the kitchen.
The kitchen was silent. The pot of potatoes from the previous evening was gone, the granite countertops wiped clean with a citrus-scented detergent.
"Beate?" he called out.
His voice bounced off the high ceiling of the dining room. No one answered.
He felt the irritation in his chest grow slightly warmer. She was probably upstairs, lying in bed and feeling sorry for herself. She had become incredibly soft since her pregnancy had entered the third trimester; her face was always puffy, and she had started to complain about her back as if she were the only woman in Germany who had ever carried a child.
He walked up the oak stairs, his leather soles making a sharp clack-clack on the wood.
When he reached the landing of the first floor, he saw that the door to the master bedroom was wide open.
Standing in the center of the room, next to two large, blue travel suitcases, was Thomas Brand.
Gero stopped two paces from the door. His eyes went from the suitcases to the older man’s face, then down to the dark brown leather belt held loosely in Thomas’s right hand.
"Thomas," Gero said. His voice was instantly warm, his lips curving into the practiced smile he used for his clients. "I didn't expect you today. Beate didn't mention you were coming. If you're here to help with the nursery, we’re actually waiting for the delivery of the dresser next week—"
"You have twenty minutes," Thomas said.
His voice was very quiet. It was the voice he had used when he had told his company to prepare for a night march in the mud of the Bavarian Forest—flat, dry, and leaving no room for discussion.
Gero’s smile did not disappear, but the corners of his mouth went slightly stiff. "I'm sorry? Twenty minutes for what?"
"To pack one bag," Thomas said. "The police are on their way with the protection order. If you are still in this house when they arrive, they will arrest you for domestic violence and grievous bodily harm."
Gero let out a short, dry laugh. He took two steps into the room, his hands sliding into his trousers pockets. "Thomas, listen to me. I know you’re an old soldier and you’re used to giving orders, but this is my house. Beate is my wife. We had a... we had a small domestic disagreement last night. She was hysterical. She’s been having these hormonal episodes—"
"I have the video," Thomas said.
Gero stopped. His hands remained in his pockets, but his shoulders went tight. "What video?"
"The video from the crib," Thomas said. He did not look at Gero’s eyes; he looked at his collarbone, the point of balance where a man’s movement begins before his hands can strike. "The camera you installed to watch your daughter. It watched you instead."
For the first time since Thomas had known him, Gero’s face went entirely vacant. The charm, the warmth, the polite professional veneer—all of it seemed to slide off his skin like wet plaster, leaving only a cold, thin-lipped mouth and two small, dark eyes.
"That camera is private property," Gero said, his voice dropping an octave, losing its smooth mid-Atlantic cadence. "Any recording from that device is inadmissible in court without my consent. My lawyer will have it thrown out before the first hearing."
"Perhaps," Thomas said. He lifted the leather belt in his right hand, looking at the brass buckle. "But the police have already seen it. The medical examiner has already photographed Beate’s back. And I have the SD card in my pocket."
Gero took a slow, deep breath. He looked at the window, then at the suitcases, and finally at the older man. He was forty-two years old, sixty kilograms lighter than Thomas, and he spent four hours a week with a personal trainer at the club. He had never been in a real fight, but he had a firm belief in his own physical superiority.
"Give me the phone, Thomas," Gero said. "And the card. We can talk about this like reasonable men. I can make a transfer to Beate’s personal account. Something... significant. For her trouble."
Thomas did not answer. He took one step forward.
His movement was not fast, but it had the heavy, unstoppable momentum of a tank clearing a ditch.
Gero’s hand came out of his pocket, his fingers curling into a fist. "I said, give me the—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Thomas’s left hand—the one without the belt—came forward with a short, brutal jab that struck Gero directly in the center of his chest, right where the sternum met the ribs. It was not a swing; it was a straight, compact strike that used the entire weight of Thomas’s sixty-two-year-old frame.
The air went out of Gero with a wet, whistling gasp. He fell back against the edge of the mahogany wardrobe, his hands clutching his chest, his eyes wide with sudden, animal terror.
Thomas did not follow up the blow. He stood in the same place, his boots planted firmly on the parquet, his right hand still holding the belt.
"You have nineteen minutes," Thomas said.
Gero slid down the side of the wardrobe until his knees hit the floor. He tried to draw air into his lungs, but his diaphragm had been temporarily paralyzed by the force of the strike. He looked up at his father-in-law, his face purple, a thin line of saliva running from the corner of his mouth.
"I will... I will call the police," Gero gasped.
May you like
"They are already on their way," Thomas said. "I called them from the car. I told them you were resisting the service of the protection order. If they find you on the floor with a broken rib, they will assume you fell during the arrest."
He walked past Gero, picked up the two blue suitcases, and walked out of the room. He did not look back to see if the younger man was standing.
