Necessary Means

by Alex Ander

  “She’s moving her head.” She wanted to help Hardy, but there was barely enough room inside the box for him.

  Hardy saw Abigail roll her head to her right and she made a sound. He put his ear to her lips and listened.

  “Aa…Aaron…is that…you?” she murmured.

  “I’m here, Abs.” He slid his arm under her head and shoulders and held her close to his chest. “I’m here and so is Cruz…you’re safe now…we’re going to take you home…your father and mother—”

  “I told…you,” she mumbled, barely audible. “I don’t…like that…name.”

  Abigail was referring to the nickname of Abs. It was a name from her childhood. Now that she was maturing, she wanted the name to stay in her past. Hardy had continued to call her Abs on occasion to make her laugh. He did not realize he had called her by that name.

  Hardy smiled. “I’m sorry. I promise not to call you that anymore, Abigail.” He motioned for Cruz to help him, while he got Abigail to her feet. Kneeling, Cruz slipped her hands under the girl’s armpits and pulled, while Hardy lifted. The two of them got Abigail out of the crate and onto the floor of the ship. After removing his tactical vest, he unbuttoned his shirt. “Get that off her, Cruz.” When Cruz had taken off the dirty sweater, she and Hardy put his shirt on her and buttoned it.

  Chapter 38: Fresh

  Moving along the outside wall, Dahlia stopped and cocked her head to listen. Gripping the pistol in her hand tighter, she leaned around a couple of stacked crates, pointing her weapon ahead of her. Her eyes glanced downward and she saw Charity lying on her stomach. Oh, no. Please be okay, she thought. Closing the distance between Charity and her, Dahlia radioed Hardy. “I’ve got eyes on Charity. She’s down…I’m moving in.”

  Hardy and Special Agent Cruz were caring for Abigail. “Is she—” he started to say, but stopped speaking when his voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “Is she all right?”

  “I can’t tell. She’s down and not moving.”

  Hardy and Cruz gave each other a look that spoke more than words could say.

  Dahlia crept beyond an opening between two crates, scanning the area, while she moved. She knelt beside Charity. Setting her pistol on the floor, she felt around Charity’s body for wounds. She saw a black line flash across her vision and felt her throat tighten. She gasped for air, while her oxygen pathway closed.

  The man who had shot Charity wrapped the carry strap of his AK-47 around Dahlia’s neck, strangling her. After shooting Charity, his weapon had jammed. He was bigger and stronger than Dahlia and he was using that strength to squeeze the life out of her.

  Dahlia reached for her neck and tried to pull the strap away from her throat. The move was a natural reaction to being choked. She felt her feet beginning to come off the floor. Her right hand went to her holster before her eyes saw her weapon on the floor. She had to re-gain her composure and counter the man’s move. Although she was not getting oxygen, she tried to remain calm. She bent her knees at a ninety-degree angle and thrust them backwards, hitting the man in the kneecaps. He lost the advantage for a second, allowing Dahlia to get her feet back on the floor. She dug in her heels and pushed him backward into the side of the ship. He loosened his grip for a moment. It was enough time for Dahlia to slip her fingers under the strap. She threw her hips forward and drove her butt into his groin. Feeling his strength subsiding, she ran forward with him in tow. Reaching the crates directly opposite her, she walked up them, using the man’s bodyweight as a counterbalance. Doing a backward flip, she landed on her feet, facing the man’s back. During the flip, she had pulled the strap away from her throat. The rifle clattered to the floor and the fight began in earnest.

  Knowing she was behind him, the man threw his right elbow around to hit her in the side of the head. She ducked under his elbow and delivered an open-handed blow to his chin, sending him backpedaling. Quickly recovering, he charged and wrapped his arms around her waist, driving her into the ship’s side. Dahlia’s lungs were forced to expel their oxygen. She had not taken a full breath, since freeing herself of the strap. She brought her right elbow down on the man’s back three times. The third time made his upper body to drop closer to the floor, giving Dahlia room to bring her knee up and connect with his mid-section. He groaned and she pushed him away. She took a deep breath. Before he could counter, she kicked him in the groin and he doubled over and squatted. That’s when she knew she had the advantage. She heard Hardy through her earpiece.

  “Dahlia, are you all right? How’s Cherry? Dahlia, what’s going on?”

  Dahlia put her left foot on the man’s left thigh, grabbed the hair on top of his head with both hands and climbed him like a stepladder. Swinging her right leg over his back and wrapping it around his neck, she crossed her left leg over her right leg and squeezed. Using her momentum, she lunged forward and did a somersault, while clutching her attacker. The two intertwined bodies rolled in unison to the floor. Dahlia ended up on her back with the man’s head between her legs. The back of his neck was pressed against her groin. The muscles in her crisscrossed legs constricted and she curled her toes on either side of the man’s waist. Interlocking her fingers, she placed her hands under the man’s chin and pulled. Grunting, she replied, “Can’t talk…I kind of got my hands full right now.” During the somersault, the communication device in her ear had fallen out and slid across the floor. No one could hear her.

  Having his oxygen supply cut off, the man struggled to get away. He grabbed Dahlia’s knees, straining to separate her legs. When that proved unsuccessful, he tried to beat her hands off his face.

  Dahlia removed her hands and he hit himself in the face. Cupping his chin with her right hand, she dug the fingers of her left hand into his eyes and arched her back. She heard him attempt to scream, but he could not open his mouth to use the scant air remaining in his lungs. She had a tight grip on his chin and he was tiring. She watched his efforts to free himself become half-hearted. His arms flopped around. A few seconds later and while the man was still alive, Dahlia put her left hand on the top of his head. “This is for Charity.” She pushed on the top of his head, while yanking on his chin. She heard a sound resembling a tree limb being broken over one’s knee. The man’s body went limp and his arms dropped to the floor.

  Dahlia spread her legs, released the man’s head and rolled onto her side. Continuing the roll, she got to her feet and went to Charity. “Charity, it’s Dahlia. Are you okay?” She heard a low moan. Dahlia finished her interrupted search for bullet wounds and found none.

  “I’ve…been shot,” said Charity, coughing and gasping for air in between her words. “Am I going to die? Ow…it hurts…am I going to die?”

  Dahlia had slipped her hands beneath Charity’s vest and felt her body. There was no blood on her hands. “You’re going to be fine, Charity. Your vest kept the bullet from hitting you.”

  “It hurts like hell.” She groaned and raised her head.

  “The energy from the bullet has to go somewhere, dear.” Dahlia grinned and helped Charity get to a sitting position. “You’re lucky Hardy stuck a couple of SAPI’s into your vest.”

  “What,” said Charity, using Dahlia as a crutch to help her stand?

  “Small Arms Protective Inserts,” said Dahlia, rapping her knuckles on Charity’s chest. “Metal plates. That’s what stopped those rifle rounds from killing you. Come on. Let’s get you back to Hardy.” Dahlia took Charity’s left arm, wrapped it around her neck and steadied Charity, while the two of them began walking back to Hardy and Cruz.

  Charity glanced at the man on the floor. “Is that the guy who shot me?”

  Dahlia nodded. “It was.”

  “What happened to him?”

  Dahlia reflected on how she had killed the man. “He tried to get fresh with me on the first date.” Seeing the puzzled look on Charity’s face, Dahlia grinned. “I decided to break it off.”

  Chapter 39: Off the Clock

  Hardy was the first to see Dahlia and Char
ity. He got Dahlia’s attention and she shook her head.

  “She’s fine. She took it in the vest…just a sore back.” Dahlia had her arm wrapped around Charity’s waist, but Charity was walking under her own power.

  “Just?” blurted Charity. “Let me hit you in the back with a baseball bat and tell me it hurts just a little bit.”

  Dahlia grinned, while she helped Charity lean against a crate before going to one knee near Abigail. Hardy held her in his arms. Dahlia could see the girl was not responding to stimuli. She touched the girl’s cheek with the back of her hand and pushed a few strands of hair out of her eyes. Assessing Abigail’s condition, Dahlia’s face turned a lighter shade of red and she felt a burning sensation in the pit of her stomach. Although the two situations had dramatically different outcomes, her mind was comparing Abigail’s plight to that of the family that was murdered seven years ago—the case that ended Dahlia’s FBI career. “How’s she doing?”

  “She’s out of it, but seems to be okay.” Hardy studied Charity before talking to Dahlia in a hushed tone. “We need to get her to a doctor. Is Cherry okay? Is she going to be able to make it out of here on her own?”

  Not turning away from Abigail, Dahlia nodded her head. “Like I said, her vest took the brunt of it. She’s tougher than you think she is, Hardy.”

  “Right now I don’t care about her toughness. I’m just glad she’s all right.” He broke Dahlia’s fixation on Abigail. She made eye contact with him. “Thank you.”

  Dahlia gave him a thin smile before focusing on Abigail. “No thanks needed. I was just doing my job.”

  Hardy opened his mouth to speak, but Cruz stopped him.

  “They had her in a smelly box with paper towels and a bucket to pee in. She was supposed to survive the voyage on junk food and water.” Cruz shook her head. “Honestly, I’m not sure she would have survived the trip.”

  Listening to Cruz, Dahlia felt the fire in her belly rising and filling her chest. She crinkled up her nose and her eyebrows formed a line across her forehead. She seemed to be in a trance and did not respond to Hardy’s announcement.

  “All right, we’re all here, so let’s move out.” He and Cruz got Abigail on her feet and everyone headed for the boarding ramp, except Dahlia.

  Standing, Dahlia turned around and faced them.

  Glancing over his shoulder, Hardy noticed she was not with them. “What’s wrong, Dahlia?”

  “I’m not coming.” She gestured toward Abigail. “You need to get her out of here.” Dahlia withdrew her pistol and dropped the magazine into the palm of her hand. “It’s time to do what I do best.” She made sure the magazine was full before ramming it into the butt of the weapon and adding, “Hunting.” She tilted her head in the direction of the ship’s bow. “Plus, I can cover your retreat.”

  Cruz pleaded with her. “You can’t go after them alone. You don’t know how many men are still in there. You could be signing your own death certificate.”

  “No disrespect, Cruz, but you have no idea what I’m capable of doing. These past twelve hours…trust me, when I tell you…I’ve been holding back.” She pointed toward Abigail. “These bastards are not going to get away with this.”

  Hardy countered. “When we get her to safety, we can come back with a small army.” He jerked his head and gave a stern command. “Now let’s move out.”

  “Hardy, I’ve held up my end of the deal. I’ve obeyed your orders this whole time. Now that the President’s daughter is safe, I’m…off the clock.” Dahlia acknowledged each of them with a warm smile. Without saying it, she was thanking them, especially Hardy, for making her a part of the team, if only for a day.

  He opened his mouth to issue another command, but paused before bringing his lips together. She was not an official employee of the United States Government and he had no authority over her actions. Their working arrangement had been on the honor system. In a few minutes, the mission to find Abigail would be over and Dahlia’s services would no longer be needed. While he did not like the idea of her going after the rest of the enemy contingent on her own, he realized she was an adult and free to make her choices. Inwardly, he chuckled. Had she been an official member of his team, he would have tackled her and put her in restraints to get her off the ship. Since that was not an option, he simply nodded his head.

  She returned the gesture and turned around.

  “Wait,” said Cruz. She gave Dahlia her pistol and spare magazines.

  “Thanks.” Dahlia stowed the magazines in the pockets of her jeans.

  “Just remember,” interjected Charity. “You wanted to see that programming software of mine. I can’t show you if you’re dead.”

  Dahlia pointed a magazine at her. “I’m going to hold you to that, Charity.”

  “My family and friends call me Cherry. The next time we meet, I will expect you to start using that name.”

  Friend? Dahlia flashed a full smile that showed her ivory teeth. She took a few moments to let that word sink in, enjoying the feeling of the word’s implications. Long ago, she had abandoned the prospect of friendship when her co-workers at the FBI betrayed her. Maybe Charity’s expression would be a turning point her life, a chance to begin again, a chance to be like other people and have friends. Dahlia raised the pistols in her hands to her chest, pointing them upward. The warmness in her facial features faded, replaced by a cold and emotionless gaze. Whirling around, Dahlia moved deeper into the bowels of the ship, until the darkness swallowed her figure and she was gone.

  Everyone took a couple of seconds to stare into the darkness. Holding Abigail in his arms, Hardy spun around. “Let’s go. Cruz, you take point. Cherry, watch our backs.”

  “Copy that,” replied Cruz.

  Charity raised her MP5 to her shoulder and followed Hardy. She glanced behind her, hoping to see that Dahlia had changed her mind. As the team passed the last room and turned right to leave the ship, Charity knew that was not going to happen.

  Chapter 40: Air Force One

  Christmas Eve, 11:59 a.m. (Eastern Time); Thousands of feet above the state of Kentucky

  The blue and white Boeing VC-25 cruised along at five hundred and seventy-five miles per hour; its destination was Washington, D.C. Designated as Air Force One, the modified jet was a flying White House for the President of the United States. The cockpit was located on the upper deck of the nose of the aircraft. Directly behind the cockpit were the President’s office and the communications’ room. Below the cockpit were the Presidential suite, medical facilities, Presidential security and a conference room. The middle of the jet, toward the rear, contained a dining room (capable of supplying two thousand meals), staff/secretarial quarters, offices and press quarters. The exterior of Air Force One had an array of countermeasures, including an ECM electric deference system that jammed enemy radar and confused missiles, and mirror-ball deference’s, located in the wings, that dazzled infrared guidance systems. Also in the wings were chaff and flares designed to confuse enemy missiles. Finally, the armor-plated hull was capable of withstanding a nuclear blast on the ground.

  Receiving Hardy’s 1 a.m. call, the President and the First Lady immediately left the White House for Los Angeles. After the doctors had given Abigail a clean bill of health, the President took his family home to Washington, D.C. with a few extra passengers; Hardy, Special Agent Cruz and Charity. After they had taken turns using his shower, the President offered his Presidential suite to the women, who were exhausted. They accepted. Hardy had found a nice couch in the conference room, stretched out and quickly fell asleep. The President saw him, closed the door and informed everyone that the room was off-limits.

  Having slept for three hours during the flight, Hardy, Cruz and Charity were feeling more refreshed. Additional sleep would be necessary, but at least they were more alert than when they had left Los Angeles. Cruz and Charity waited in the President’s office; he had called a twelve o’clock meeting. Hardy made his way from the conference room and met Director Jameson at
the door to the President’s office. The President wanted Jameson to accompany him on the flight to Los Angeles to keep him up to date on any potential fallout from the mission to rescue his daughter.

  Seeing that the President was not in the room yet, Hardy thought it was a good opportunity to talk to the Director. “Sir, may I have a word with you?” The two men stepped aside from the door. “Sir, I want to apologize for what I said earlier…about you not reaching out to your daughter. Caught up in the heat of the moment, I went way over the line. Still, that’s no excuse for my behavior and I’m sorry.”

  Jameson stared at the floor.

  Hardy waited for a reply, but none came. Seconds went by and the tension in the small space increased. Hardy wondered if Jameson had even heard him. He was half-expecting a stern reprimand from his boss. More time passed. The reprimand would be easier to take than this silence. Hardy turned to walk into the office, thinking that Jameson was not going to say anything; however, the man spoke.

  “In the last six months, you’ve said and done a lot of things that you need to apologize for.” Jameson locked eyes with Hardy. “Speaking the truth is not one of them.” He turned his head away. “The truth is you’re right. I could have done more to locate my daughter. I was mad as hell when you said those words to me.” Jameson paused. “After careful thinking, however, I realized I was more upset with myself than you. Hearing you made me take a hard look at what I did…or didn’t do.”

  Hardy was taken aback. Jameson was not a man who laid bare his emotions…or his personal thoughts. He was all business…all the time.