by Alex Ander
Charity gave the interior a cursory-inspection before staring at the wooden table.
Dahlia pushed condiment shakers to the side and squinted. “Something wrong?”
Charity frowned and shook her head. “I just can’t get past the fact that there were no signs of forced entry inside the lab.” She looked up. “That has to point to someone at the company being involved, doesn’t it?”
Dahlia nodded, “That’s what I was thinking,” and turned her head to the right. Two men in black woolen overcoats entered. One locked eyes with her and quickly broke away before the men claimed stools at a short bar ten feet from the door.
Charity tapped a forefinger on the table. “So, that means we have to take a closer look at the people on that list Dr. Kimmler gave us…the ones with level-five clearance.”
“Yes, we do.” Dahlia’s spine tingled. The man at the bar had turned away too quickly. There was a nuance, a dance to eye contact. Most people held another’s gaze for a couple seconds. Any longer and the exchange became uncomfortable; a social etiquette to which most conformed. In law enforcement, military, spy, and in Dahlia’s case, assassin circles, the timetable for a look meant other things. Holding a gaze for too long was seen as challenging the other person. Breaking away too quickly meant one was weak, or hiding something.
“I’ve got my laptop,” Charity took a drink of water, “in the car. I think we should start running through those names and see what pops up.”
“Uh…huh.” Dahlia stared at the men. The same man cranked his head around and pretended to glance out the window behind him. Her heart beat faster when his eyes caught hers again for a split-second. Much too quick.
Charity leaned left. “Are you listening to me?”
Dahlia watched a young couple. “Uh huh…level-five clearance.” The couple got up from their table and left the establishment. “Laptop in the car…See what pops up.” She flicked her eyes toward Charity. “You have your gun on you, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” Charity rocked back slightly and scrunched her eyebrows, “why?”
Dahlia stared across the table. A moment later, out of her peripheral vision, she saw Man 1 shift in his seat and glimpse her again. Man 2 had been reading the same page on the menu for two minutes straight.
Charity regarded Dahlia, “You okay?” before noticing the woman’s clenched fists.
The former professional killer, who had maintained the skills of one, scowled at her partner. “Listen to me very carefully, Cherry. Don’t turn your head. There are two men sitting at the bar. I recognize one of them from the lab. He keeps looking at me. I’m not getting a good feeling about this, so we’re going to get up—”
“The lab is down the street,” Charity whispered. “They could be here for lunch…the same as us.”
Dahlia closed her eyes before blinking a few times and gaping at Charity. “Remember what I used to do for a living, Cherry? One in my line of work gets a sixth sense about these things. And, right now…alarm bells are banging off the inside of my skull.”
Charity’s face paled. A lump formed in her throat. She swallowed, but the mass did not move.
“You have to trust me on this.” She waited a beat. “Give me a short nod if you’re with me.” The gesture came a second later. “If I’m wrong about all this,” she flashed the hint of a smile, “then we just find another place to eat.” Her attempt to ease Charity’s concerns did not land.
“Now,” said Dahlia, “we’re going to get up, put on our coats, casually leave the restaurant and walk to our car. Leave your coat undone and be ready to go for your weapon on my signal. Got it?” Charity nodded, and Dahlia spied the men. “Okay, let’s go.”
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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Chapter 12: That’s Not Good
Dahlia adjusted the rear-view mirror, started the silver BMW 328i rental car and entered traffic. “Well, that’s not good.”
Charity twisted in the seat and peered through the back window. “What’s not good?”
Several car links behind, the men from Ruff’s got into a black Mercedes sedan, which pulled away from the curb and fell in behind the BMW.
Dahlia drove through the next intersection and cranked the steering wheel left at a one-way. The black sedan stayed with them. “That’s not good, either.”
“What?” Charity clutched the driver’s shoulder. “You keep saying that. Tell me what’s going on?”
Dahlia lifted a finger away from the wheel. “They’re not even trying to hide the fact they’re following us.”
The passenger leaned forward and glimpsed the side mirror. “Why does that matter?”
“They don’t care if we know they’re following us. That tells me they’re planning on making contact at some point.”
“Contact? What do you mean, contact? What does that—” Charity pressed her back to the seat and breathed deeply. Calm down. You were trained for this sort of thing. She snorted inwardly. Two weeks of playing soldier in Virginia…Does that even count toward being trained? Through pursed lips, she let out the air she had been holding. What was it that Hardy told me? Her chin went to her chest. Her hands trembled. Dig…dig deep…dig down deep and find my…my inner strength. “Dig down deep and find your inner strength, Cherry. You’re tougher than you give yourself credit for.” His words, not mine. I’m tougher than I—
“You still with me, girl?”
Charity pushed out another gulp of air, more controlled this time. She wiggled fingers and slid her hands up and down her jeans. The tension was draining from her body. I think I’m doing it.
“Cherry?”
“Yeah…yeah, I’m good.” She faced Dahlia. “Let’s do this. If they want it, let’s give them hell.”
Her eyes on the road and mirrors, Dahlia smiled. “Now you’re talking my language.” She rocked a booted heel forward, and the accelerator dropped to the floor. “Buckle up.”
… … … … …
For twenty minutes, the sedan trailed the BMW through the streets of Munich. Dahlia made several evasive maneuvers, took circuitous routes and ran a red light, none of which shook their pursuers. A deserted stretch of roadway opened up ahead, and the sedan surged forward.
“All right,” said Dahlia, “what are you doing?” Her peripheral vision saw Charity draw her Glock 23. “Whoa, what are you doing?”
“I don’t like this. This brings back memories…bad mem—” A man’s head and arm emerged from the chase car. “Look out!” Charity ducked behind the seat as if the few inches of foam would keep her safe.
Incoming rounds whizzed through the 328i, breaking the back window, lodging in the dashboard and creating spider webs in the windshield. Dahlia jerked the wheel left and right, and the luxury car swerved in the same directions before staying the course.
Charity unbuckled the seatbelt. “See, I told you…bad memories.” She twisted her frame, “Luckily, I saw someone do this a short time ago,” and squeezed between the front seats, plopping into the back.
“Cherry, what the hell are you doing? Get down!” Another volley of bullets came and Dahlia veered into oncoming traffic to avoid direct hits.
“Keep it steady.” Charity rested the pistol on the backseat and took aim. “I’ve got this.”
Dahlia saw Charity’s head, a perfect bullseye, in the rear-view mirror. The hell you do. She reached behind the seat, curled her fingers into the waistband of Charity’s jeans and yanked the woman to the floor. A split-second later, Dahlia wrenched up on the emergency brake and spun the steering wheel to the left. The Beamer did a one-eighty. She released the emergency brake, shifted into reverse and punched the gas pedal. Drawing her pistol, the same model Hardy carried, a Walther PPQ M2—she had borrowed his on another occasion and decided she had to have one—Dahlia fired several rounds into the cracked windshield, creating a hole.
“Tell me,” she stuck the Walther’s muzzle through the opening, “if I’m going to hit anything back there, Cherry.” She and the men
exchanged gunfire. Her projectiles hit the grille and windshield. Their bullets skipped off the 328i’s hood. Dahlia’s last shot must have ricocheted off the pavement and hit pay dirt. The left-front tire blew, and the sedan spun out of control and slammed into a parked car. Steam billowed out from under the crumpled hood, while the horn honked incessantly.
From the back seat: “Dahlia, watch out!”
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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Chapter 13: Escape & Evade
While not in time to avoid a crash, Charity’s screech had warned Dahlia. Instead of ramming into two parked cars at eighty, the silver sedan hit doing forty miles per hour. More car horns blared repeatedly. Heads poked out from nearby building windows. A man and woman started jogging toward the wreck, but stopped and bolted away when bullets punctured the left side of the 328i.
Dahlia dragged out Charity from the rear passenger door and propped her against the right-rear tire. “Cherry, are you okay? Cherry?”
Charity lolled her head left and right, eyes rolling in all directions.
Dahlia thumbed the PPQ’s magazine release, slammed a fresh fifteen into the magazine well and rose up over the trunk. Three men approached, one down the middle of the road, the other two moved in a low crouch behind parked cars. The idiot in the road was easy. She felled him with one shot to the chest and one to the head before pivoting left and letting loose several shots at the dead man’s companions.
Squatting in front of Charity, Dahlia put a hand to the woman’s cheek. “Talk to me, Cherry. Are you all right?”
Charity blinked and rubbed her eyes. “My…my glasses…I lost my glasses.”
Dahlia looked left and right. She leaned into the backseat and spotted the red-framed eyeglasses on the floor. Bullets pinged off the sheet metal, one went between her boots. “Here you go.” She handed off the spectacles. “Can you move? Can you run?”
Slipping the bows past her ears, Charity got to her haunches and shook the cobwebs from her head. “I think I’m good. What do we do?”
Dahlia had found the woman’s Glock 23 in the back seat, next to the eyeglasses. She handed over the gun, while looking over a shoulder. Dilapidated homes lined the street. Further down, on the left, were taller structures. Their condition was worse. “It would seem we’ve found the not-so-good…” more incoming rounds struck the rental. She pushed the nine-millimeter into a space between the BMW’s right-rear corner and the side of the car they had hit. The pistol barked several times and she brought it to her chest. “…part of Munich.” She surveyed the area again.
Charity dropped the magazine from the Glock to make sure it was full, even though she had not fired a shot. “I’m not as well-versed in these situations as you, but don’t we have to get to better cover than a car? I was told sheet metal doesn’t stop bullets.” She took a turn, pointed the Glock over the trunk, fired and ducked down. As if on cue, a hole appeared on the front-passenger door’s exterior, peeling back the thin metal.
“Right you are, Cherry.” Dahlia gave the area another look and pointed. “Those higher buildings will give us a better chance to escape and evade. Come on.” They moved to the right-front corner of the Beamer. “When I start shooting, you run as fast as you can for that rusted SUV. From there, head for the high-rises. Got it?”
“What about you?”
“I’ll be right behind you.” Several bullets passed through the trunk. Had they not moved, they would have been hit. “Ready?”
Charity grabbed a handful of Dahlia’s leather jacket and pulled the woman closer. “You better be behind me.”
“Trust me. I have no desire to die today. Now, are you ready?”
Charity nodded.
“Go!” shouted Dahlia, getting into a squatting position and laying down a methodical stream of cover fire, mindful of her dwindling ammunition supply.
Charity ran—faster than she had ever run, easily making it to the SUV. Instead of starting on the next leg of the journey, she spun around and peeked around the SUV.
Dahlia backpedaled, her gun spewing one round after another, until the slide locked back. She bolted toward Charity, swapping out the empty magazine for her last full one. A barrage of gunfire came from behind. Recalling the idiot she gunned down in the street, she dared not stop and engage. Focusing on the rusty sport utility vehicle, she ran. Steel-jacketed rounds zipped past her head, while she pumped her arms, her jacket fanning out like a cape. A second later, a searing pain started in her right shoulder and radiated to the tip of her middle finger. Damn!
Charity steadied the Glock against the SUV and aimed to the right of Dahlia. She had little room, but she found the men trying to end her partner’s life. Controlling her breaths, she squeezed off single shots. The cover fire was not much, but it did the job. The men took cover, and Dahlia joined her.
Bent over and sucking wind, Dahlia glanced up, “Thanks,” before spying the buildings. “Okay…same thing…I’ll start shooting—”
“And, I’ll run.” Charity cranked her head around toward the brick structures. “Which one?”
Dahlia shook her head. “Whichever one is open.”
“That alley’s dark.” Charity tipped her head back. The clouds were thick and black, blocking out the sun.
“Good,” said Dahlia. “We can use that to our advantage. Ready?” After getting a nod, she added, “Go!”
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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Chapter 14: The Perfect Size
1:03 p.m. (Local Time)
London, England
Hamilton opened the lid on a hinged plastic container; empty, except for the dark gray foam insert with fifty holes in it, arranged in five rows of ten. She stuck a finger into one of them. “The lab guys say they’re the perfect size for vials.”
Hardy hesitated. “Are you sure this is safe to touch?”
“The experts have used their sophisticated equipment,” she waved a hand, “all over. No threats of Anthrax.”
He examined the specimen holder. “This makes it a strong possibility that the virus was here.” He pitched his head backward at the man Hardy had shot. “Has he told us anything?”
“Not yet,” she waited a beat, “but he will. We’ve got skilled people questioning him right now.”
Hardy did not doubt her, but he was better acquainted with the effectiveness of his own interrogation skills. “Mind if I have a go at him?”
Cruz spun her head toward him. She had witnessed Hardy question a suspect before. While his tactics had elicited information that led to finding a kidnapped victim, she was uncomfortable with him employing those methods. She frowned. There has to be another way.
Hamilton saw Cruz’s twisted face, stiff posture, and made an educated guess about what the woman was thinking. “I’ve seen you in action.” She slowly shook her head. “Let’s see what my people come up with first before we go down that road.” The women exchanged knowing glances. “By the way,” Hamilton closed the lid and motioned toward a technician, who came and took the container, “I specifically remember telling you that not everyone has to be shot.” She gazed at him, brows lifted high.
He glimpsed Cruz. “When they’re charging toward one of my people, they most certainly do. Besides, I only shot him in the knee,” he held up an index finger, “one time.” He flashed a grin. “I don’t think Sheriff Stone would have stopped at just one.”
Hamilton chuckled. “Relax. I’m not mad. As far as I’m concerned,” she jerked a thumb toward the only other woman around, “he’s lucky Cruz didn’t put one in his chest.”
An NCA officer fast walked to the trio. “He talked.” The officer beckoned them. “You’re going to want to hear this for yourself.”
… … … … …
Through an interpreter, the man in custody retold his story to the three newcomers—half of the warehouse had been used for storing Anthrax, while the other half had been turned into a makeshift laboratory, sealed off from the rest of the building. Experiments
had been conducted inside the lab. The man did not know what the experiments were about, only that they involved the mixing of several different types of viruses.
Hardy held up a hand. “Wait a minute.” He eyed Officer Thomas, the interpreter. “Are you sure you got that right…viruses…plural?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We were told only one virus, Anthrax, was involved.”
Hamilton nodded. “That’s the story I received too.”
The suspect continued and Thomas translated.
“There was another area, upstairs,” said Thomas, “where live animals were kept, separated from everyone else.”
The Middle Eastern man motioned.
Thomas: “The animals were brought downstairs to the lab…some were taken back to their cages upstairs…while others were taken away.”
“That explains the cages up there,” said Hardy. “Ask him what happened to the animals?”
Thomas: “madha hadath lilhayawanat?”
The seated man replied, “mayit,” and drew a finger across his neck.
Thomas faced Hardy. “He said—”
Hardy raised a hand. “I got it.”
The man spoke and Thomas translated: “He says he’s been at this place for more than four months, but thinks it’s been operating for longer than that. Everything was up and running when he got here…animals come in…carcasses go out…all day every day for many months.”
“Ayn dhahab aljmye? mataa ghadiruu? – Where did everybody go? When did they leave?” asked Hamilton, who spoke the language.
She got an answer and turned toward Hardy and Cruz. “He says two days ago everything was dismantled and hauled away in big trucks.” She pointed in two directions. “The lab and the area upstairs were sanitized.” She paused. “The only reason he was here was he lost his cell phone and came back to look for it.”