Lucifer of The Silent Killer

Chapter 5 : The Vokter

Heinrich kept driving. He stopped at several gas stations to refuel and relieve the fatigue from the long journey he had endured.

After two days had passed, Heinrich finally arrived near the border. The road narrowed, flanked by increasingly dense pine forests. Silent and oppressive. The uneasy atmosphere was worsened by low-hanging fog that limited visibility.

The vehicle’s headlights remained on, reflecting faintly off road signs that appeared less and less frequently.

Heinrich slowed down. He had to stay fully focused. His old instincts kicked in, heightening the alertness of the forty-four-year-old man.

The official border lay only a few kilometers to the south. However, Heinrich would not pass through it. He chose another route that felt safer, though it could be far more dangerous. There were no gates or strict checkpoints. That was what made it challenging, due to the lack of surveillance from security patrols.

After successfully passing through the deserted route, Heinrich turned on his favorite classical music. The Goldberg Variations, which had accompanied him on every mission, now felt like a requiem for the victims who had fallen at the muzzle of his rifle.

A different atmosphere emerged when Heinrich entered a small town near the Norwegian border. Wooden buildings stood far apart, dim lights glowed through thin fog, rough roads stretched ahead, and the air felt colder. The place was deeply unwelcoming.

Heinrich parked his vehicle in front of an old bar connected to a small diner. It was the only building that appeared alive compared to the rest.

The strong aroma of coffee mixed with the scent of alcohol. Several local men sat chatting casually. They were not disturbed by Heinrich’s presence as he chose the table in the far corner, though a few occasionally glanced at him with cautious curiosity.

“The fog isn’t too thick. Good news for travelers,” said a man around thirty to thirty-five years old. He sat at the table next to Heinrich, his gaze relaxed and friendly.

“How thick does the fog usually get in this area?” Heinrich asked calmly.

The easygoing man gave a small smile. “Everyone knows the Northern Route isn’t friendly. Thick fog won’t be the only thing slowing you down,” he replied, then took a swig of beer straight from the bottle.

“How do you know I’m traveling?” Heinrich asked, watching him closely. His caution remained subtle.

“I know because you look different. And you don’t look like someone who came here to enjoy the scenery.”

Heinrich did not respond. He took another sip of his drink.

“Jonas Karlsen. Mind if I sit at your table?” The young man offered his hand. Heinrich ignored it.

“You already have your own table,” Heinrich replied indifferently.

Jonas smiled, neither offended nor angry. “I know the Northern Route very well. Every detail is in my head. Not just the safe parts, but also the most dangerous points.”

Heinrich glanced at him. “I don’t need a guide,” he said.

“I think you do.”

“Do you?”

Jonas took another drink and set the bottle down. “Have you heard of the shadow groups that move among the pine forests? They operate in the dark.”

Heinrich raised an eyebrow. “A fictional tale to attract customers.”

“They’re known for being extremely brutal when eliminating enemies. No discrimination. Men, women, children.”

Heinrich did not care. He continued drinking calmly, not taking Jonas seriously.

“You don’t have to believe it. But they’re real. They call themselves Vokter.” Jonas raised his index and middle fingers, forming a V.

Heinrich’s attention was no longer on the story, but on the V-shaped gesture.

“What do you know about Vokter?” Heinrich asked, now intrigued.

“Vokter?” Jonas repeated. The dark-haired man with a thin beard did not answer immediately. He finished the rest of his drink in two gulps, then shifted his chair closer to Heinrich.

“Vokter is a contract killing organization formed by a former sniper during the Cold War era,” Jonas explained quietly, almost whispering.

“Who?” Heinrich asked, his gaze serious.

Jonas stared intently, as if studying something within Heinrich that sparked his curiosity. Moments later, the tall man gave a faint smile. “No one knows the real name. Some call him Vardr.”

Heinrich swallowed hard. Vokter, Vardr. Both began with the letter V. Was it possible he was already close to the person he was searching for?

Heinrich fell silent, weighing the two names. He also began to consider Jonas’s knowledge, even though its truth remained uncertain.

“How about I treat you to a meal next door? They have a special dish that’s excellent. Reinsdyrgryte. Slow-cooked reindeer stew. Ever tried it?”

“Don’t overdo it. We don’t know each other,” Heinrich refused.

“That’s fine,” Jonas said as he stood. “I won a gamble. Too much money to spend alone. And I recognize your accent. Are you from Germany or nearby?”

Heinrich did not answer. It wasn’t an important question.

“Come on, Mister ….”

“Holzen,” Heinrich said as he stood. “Erik Holzen.”

“All right. Let’s go.”

Jonas walked ahead, with Heinrich following behind. They passed several men who watched them with strange, probing looks, as if trying to confirm something.