by Alex Ander
“Oh crap!” Having donned her shirt and blazer, Charity flattened the coat’s collar around her neck and flipped out her hair. She darted around the corner and scooped the mobile off the floor. “Hardy?”
“Yup…still here.” His voice was strained. “I take it…you’ve got your…underwear situation all squared away?”
Charity paled. Double crap! “You heard all that?”
“We have next gen satellite phones, Cherry. Every word came through crystal clear.”
“Sorry.”
“No biggie. Did it work? Did you stop the bleeding?”
Charity nodded at Dahlia. “We’re good to go.”
Dahlia held out her good arm and wiggled fingers. “Is that Hardy? I want a word.”
Charity turned over the cell.
“Hardy, we need to get out of here. And, we need a place to go.”
“Give me ten minutes.”
“We don’t have ten minutes.” She dug out the dead man’s cash and wallet from her boots and stuffed them into a jacket pocket. “We’re leaving now.”
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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Chapter 17: Sketch
3:13 p.m. (Local Time)
National Crime Agency
City of Westminster (London, England)
Stowing his phone in his leather jacket, Hardy strolled into Hamilton’s office, a quaint and tastefully decorated area. She was seated at her desk. A large painting of Big Ben, the Great Bell of the clock at the north end of Westminster Palace, took up most of the wall facing her. To her right were floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked a large room of cubicles. Behind the desk—to Hardy’s right—awards, honors and wood and brass plaques adorned the space above her head. A wide and narrow cart to his left caught his attention. “Is that a coffee maker?”
Cruz and Hamilton turned toward him.
He pointed. “Mind if I have a cup?”
Cruz stood. “That’s not just a coffee maker.” She placed a white cup under the machine’s spout. “It’s a Jura A1 Automatic…” she looked over her shoulder.
“Bean-to-Cup Coffee Maker,” said Hamilton. “That thing’s worth more,” she glanced around, “than anything else in here, present company excluded of course.”
Cruz’s finger hovered around the touch panel. “What would you like?”
He shrugged. “Surprise me.”
She tapped the panel and the machine came to life.
“That was a gift,” said Hamilton, putting another chair next to Cruz’s, “from the man who occupied this office before me; a really nice man.”
Cruz reclaimed her seat, and the women went back to staring at the computer screen.
When the coffee machine stopped, Hardy took the cup and scowled at the layer of froth. Why do people have to take a perfectly good cup of coffee—he sipped—and turn it into a—he smacked his lips and took another drink—that’s good. His inner voice drew out the last word.
“Well?” said Hamilton. Cruz had forewarned the woman of his preference for straight, black coffee.
Joining the women, he lifted a shoulder and tipped his head. “It’s okay.”
Having seen the look on his face after he had taken the first taste, both women grinned.
He set the cup on the desk and crossed his legs, ankle on a knee. “So, what have we found?”
“First of all,” said Cruz, “what about Dahlia and Cherry?”
“They made it to the safe house, and I’m working on getting them out of Germany.” All the news media outlets had Dahlia and Charity’s picture, along with the caption ‘persons of interest in a triple homicide’ and were broadcasting the photo. A phone number to call for anyone with information accompanied the news reports. Hardy tapped his jacket, and the phone inside. “I just need to hear back from an agent, who’s in country.” He lifted a finger toward the digitized sketch of a man on the desktop monitor.
“Our friend,” said Hamilton, “from the warehouse provided the details for this drawing.” She pointed at the bank of windows. “My people are working to find a name to match. I’ve also included the possible names the man gave us. Hopefully, that will speed up the process.” She leaned back and spun the chair toward Hardy. “Were your people able to get anything on the men who tried to kill them?”
Hardy grabbed his cup. “Not much.” He took a drink, Wow…this is really good, and returned the cup to the desk. “Dahlia remembered seeing one of the men when she was at the lab. She said he was with security, but his wallet was empty, except for a security card with his name and picture on it.”
Cruz crossed her legs. “We’ve already run the man’s name and photo through our database, but no matches. Dahlia saw a tattoo on the back of his neck.”
Hardy half-smirked, recalling Dahlia’s exact words—it made a perfect bullseye for my Walther.
“She recognized it,” continued Cruz. “Apparently, it was the modified emblem for the KSK.”
Hamilton sat upright. “German Special Forces? Why are they involved in this?”
“The KSK,” said Hardy, referencing the acronym for the Kommando Spezialkräfte (Commando Special Forces), “went through a purge a few years back. The higher-ups got rid of some of the bad apples. Rumor has it those bad apples started freelancing, taking any jobs they could get. It didn’t matter who was hiring or what they had to do. If a paycheck was at the end, they were in.”
“In other words,” Cruz folded her hands on her lap, “they’re mercenaries. And, if that’s true, then it’s likely we won’t find their real identity. The KSK is pretty tight-lipped about their people.”
“Especially if they’ve gone on to more lucrative illegal activities,” added Hardy.
Staring at the ceiling, Hamilton ran fingers through her long hair. “So, we’re back to the start.”
Cruz wagged a finger. “Not necessarily. Cherry—I mean Charity, our other agent in Germany—said she met with a Dr. Kimmler at the lab. That was one of the names the man from the warehouse gave us. If we can match,” she pointed at the monitor, “this sketch with a real photo, then we can see if Charity recognizes it as the Dr. Kimmler she spoke with.”
Hamilton interlaced her fingers behind her head. “If so, then this Kimmler guy might be the link we’re searching for.”
Hardy drained his cup, “Exactly,” stood and headed for the coffee machine. He put the cup under the spout. “What button,” he leaned forward, “did you hit, Cruz?”
The women exchanged glances. Before either one could reply, a man knocked on the window and held a photo to the glass. Everyone in the office went back and forth from the picture to the computer screen three times.
As Hamilton motioned for the officer to come in, Hardy abandoned the empty cup and pulled out his vibrating mobile. He glimpsed Cruz. “I’ve got to take this. It’s the agent in Germany.”
“Go,” she shooed him away, “we’ll deal with this.”
He started for the door, but stopped when she called out to him.
“And, Hardy…”
He turned.
Cruz leveled a finger at him. Her face was stoic, lips drawn into a thin line. “Do whatever you have to, to get them home.”
Hardy had never seen her so serious. Her tone reminded him of Dahlia or one of his fellow Marines. He nodded, “I will,” and left.
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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Chapter 18: 34A?
4:13 p.m. (Local Time)
Munich, Germany
After leaving the apartment, Dahlia and Charity had walked for fifteen minutes before the former stole a car. Twenty minutes later, they left the vehicle a half mile away from the safe house, and went the rest of the way on foot. Arriving, they each downed a bottle of water from the refrigerator. Using supplies from the bathroom medicine cabinet, Charity cleaned and bandaged Dahlia’s wound, so she could shower without bleeding on herself.
Dahlia came out of the bathroom, dressed in the same clothing—skirt, boots and bra, and a whit
e blouse in her hand; the sweater was beyond hope.
Lying on one of two couches in the living room, arms folded over her chest, Charity eyed the frilly black bra with lace detail and spaghetti straps. She wasn’t kidding about not being very functional. It barely holds in her boobs.
Dahlia knelt in front of the second couch, running her fingers along and under the front edge.
“What are you doing?” Charity heard a latch release, and she propped herself on elbows.
Dahlia reached behind the middle seat cushion and wrenched with her left arm. “Give me a hand.” With Charity’s added muscle, the couch opened. Dahlia slid a panel and revealed a small cache of weapons, ammunition, communication devices, small metal boxes and a bigger plastic case with a red cross on it, which she grabbed.
“Whoa. How’d you know this was here?”
“The FBI has safe houses all over the world, equipped with secret hiding places.” Dahlia carried the big case to the couch Charity had been lying on and plucked what she needed from the box. “Some are staffed, while most are like this one, stocked with items agents may need in the field.” She spread out items on the couch. “It’s highly likely that someone coming here would need to resupply.” She sat on the couch. “Just like it’s highly likely that someone coming here might need medical attention.” She paused. “Will you do the honors?”
Charity turned and saw a first aid kit on steroids. “What’s that for?”
Holding a needle and thread, Dahlia peeled off the bandage from her still-bleeding arm. “It’s for you.” She flicked her fingers until the adhesive detached from them. “You’re going to patch me up, doc.”
“I’ve never done that before. I don’t know the first thing about playing doctor.” Seeing Dahlia’s face, Charity heard her words. “Funny…you know what I mean.”
Dahlia patted the cushion. “Come on. I’ll coach you through it. All you have to do is be my hands. Trust me. It’s not as difficult as you think it is. I’ve done it before on accessible parts of my body.” She twisted her leg and pointed at her outer thigh. “See that? I had a knife wound right there.” She moved the leg back and forth a little. “You can’t even tell.”
After balking for a few seconds, Charity sat beside Dahlia, cleaned the wound and began following directions.
Dahlia winced in between stitches and words of encouragement to Charity. “You’re doing great—” her body twitched, “Cherry.” A moment passed. “By the way, did you get those bras I set out for you?”
Focusing on inserting the needle, Charity nodded. “Where did those…come from?”
“I told you. This is a safe house. It’s not out of the realm of possibility that a woman would have unique needs.” She waited a beat. “So, did they work? Were they the right size?”
“Please,” Charity pulled the thread through flesh, “I’m insulted. 34A? There’s no way that’s going to fit me. And, as for that ugly ‘A’ double ‘S’ beige sports—” she stopped sewing. “Wait a minute. If this place has everything you say it does, then why would they stock it,” she saw a twinkle in her patient’s eyes, “with one of the smallest…sizes…”
Chuckling, Dahlia’s shoulders moved up and down.
“Oh…I should’ve known.” Charity made the last stitch and cut the thread.
Dahlia yelped.
“I guess next time you’ll wait until I’m done sewing before sharing your joke.”
“I was just,” Dahlia snickered, while scrutinizing the wound, “yanking your chain. You know I love you, and would do anything for you.” She nodded at Charity’s craftsmanship. “You do good work…very straight. I should be able to go sleeveless this summer when I’m on vacation.”
Charity cleaned and bandaged the arm before standing. “Now, where are those bras, the ones that will fit me?”
Dahlia smiled, “Closet in the left bedroom,” and gestured, “Top shelf.”
Charity made her way to the bedroom, but stopped when she heard her name.
“I meant what I said, Cherry. I’d do anything for you…” she bobbed her head, “and Hardy and Cruz for that matter. It’s been a long time since I’ve had anyone in my life to care about.” Dahlia pulled the white blouse over her head and got one arm in before struggling with the right one. Charity backtracked and helped the woman. “Thanks,” said Dahlia, rotating the sore shoulder.
“The same goes for me. I don’t know if Hardy’s given you the speech yet—we’re family, we fight for each other, we take bullets for each other.”
Dahlia nodded. “I think I got an abbreviated version outside the OR.”
“Well, it’s true. You’re one of us now. Team, family, whatever you want to call it, we don’t forsake each other. In fact, I’ll bet Hardy’s moving Heaven and earth right now to—”
A knock came at the door, and both women spun their heads toward the sound.
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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Chapter 19: Armed and Dangerous
As soon as Dahlia heard the knock, her hand flew to the PPQ on her hip. Clearing the holster and leveling the gun at the door, she grunted from a jolt of pain in her shoulder. Charity mimicked her stance. Both women eyed each other before Dahlia stepped closer to the door. The stillness in the room was broken by a constant vibration coming from the couch. Dahlia had set her phone on the plastic case. Someone was calling repeatedly or sending text after text.
She backed up and grabbed the mobile. Hardy. She cancelled the call and approached the door. Her hand pulsated. Hardy was blowing up her cell with texts. What the hell? She swiped a thumb across the screen. Her eyes shifting from the door to the screen, she read the message. The person on other side of the door knocked again. “Who’s there,” said Dahlia?
A man replied, “Coffee or tea?”
Dahlia read from the cell phone. “I’ll take Coffee.”
The man: “Tea is better for your health.”
Dahlia read the same sentence and tucked the device into her skirt’s waistband. She held up a finger toward Charity and opened the door a crack, keeping her boot planted against the bottom of the door. She eased her weapon through the crack. An inch taller than Dahlia, a late twenty something blonde-haired, blue-eyed man in a black suit, white shirt and red tie stood on the front porch, hands clasped in front of his body.
“Good afternoon, ma’am. I’m Agent Franks.” After staring down the muzzle of the gun for several seconds, he righted his head. “You must be Special Agent St. James. I have orders to get you and Red Ryder out of the country.” He leaned right and looked around Dahlia. “Is she with you?”
“Who sent you?”
“Shepherd.”
“Give me one reason I should believe you,” she lifted the Walther higher, “because I’ve got sixteen telling me I shouldn’t.”
Franks looked away. “Ma’am I’m armed, but I’m not here to hurt you. I’m on your side.”
Her face deadpan, Dahlia did not blink or budge.
Smiling, he lowered and shook his head. “Shepherd warned me this might happen. I believe his words were…and I quote…‘Dahlia won’t think twice about ending you, so don’t do anything stupid.’”
Hardy’s face zipped across her mind, and she lifted one corner of her mouth. He knows me well.
Franks showed her his palms. “So, how do you want to play this, ma’am? Do you need to make a call…to Shepherd…to verify this?”
She gave him the once-over, stepped back and swung open the door. “That won’t be necessary.”
The agent walked inside and stopped when he saw Charity’s Glock pointed at his chest. His hands went back up.
“It’s all right, Cherry. We’ve exchanged bona fides. Hardy sent him.” Slicing a hand across her throat, Dahlia leaned closer to the agent and spoke under her breath. “A word to the wise; don’t call her Red Ryder. She’s not that fond of the name.”
“Thanks,” he scoffed, “but you’re a little late on the heads up.”
… … … �
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Agent Franks informed the women that every law enforcement officer in Germany had their pictures and were actively searching for them. They were not going to walk into the airport and board a plane. Buses, taxis and trains were out of the question too. His assignment was to get them to a specific location by a specific time.
“For all intents and purposes, ladies, you’re suspected of murdering three men, and the police consider you armed and dangerous.”
Dahlia handed Franks her leather jacket, “At least they got the second part right,” and turned around. “Do you mind giving me a hand?”
He guided her arms into the sleeves, “Don’t worry, ma’am,” and brought the garment over her shoulders. “There’s a car waiting for us outside. My partner and I will get you to your destination…or die trying.”
“Thank you, Agent Franks,” she held her hurting arm and motioned toward Charity, “but we’re not interested in testing your resolve.”
“Yeah,” Charity slipped into her coat, “a dull and boring drive is just fine by us.”
The man grinned and touched his ear. “This is Franks. Make ready. We’re coming out.” He headed for the door, Dahlia and Charity a step behind.
“How did the police get a photo of us so quickly?” said Dahlia.
“Security camera footage from some bio lab was forwarded to law enforcement.”
Dahlia glimpsed Charity. “That was awfully helpful of them.”
Walking down the driveway toward the rear of a dark blue sedan—all four doors open—Agent Franks had his head on a swivel. Doing the same, his partner faced the street and stood between the two doors on the driver’s side. This was the moment when those in their care were most vulnerable, getting in and out of vehicles. Even ordinary civilians were at greater risk at these times.
Franks got Dahlia’s attention and gestured, “Agent Parker will assist you, ma’am,” before veering right and escorting Charity, “this way, Agent Sinclair.”