Of Patriots and Tyrants

by Alex Ander

  “Multiple six figure donations over the last three years. That was enough to pique my curiosity, so I dug deeper. Shortly after the first payout, several different contractors were hired by Baumhauer to perform renovations.”

  Hardy fidgeted in his seat. Cut to the chase, Cherry. Cut to the…a hand patted his leg, and he faced a grinning Cruz. She mouthed the word ‘relax’ and winked; their sign that everything was all right. He let out a breath and nodded.

  “All of the work was done on the inside of the structure by carpenters, plumbers, HVAC personnel and electricians.”

  “So you’re thinking,” Hardy’s mind connected the dots, “Isaac had the castle remodeled for him to live there?”

  “You said so yourself. The guy’s nuts about the Middle Ages. What better place to stay at when you’re in Switzerland than a castle? Heck, I wouldn’t mind spending a weekend in a centuries-old piece of history. Oh, I almost forgot. A high-end interior decorator was also brought in that specializes in renovations of this type.”

  Hardy shrugged. “All right, send us the coordinates.”

  “They should already be on your phone.”

  “Copy that. Nice work, Cherry.” He disconnected the call and handed the mobile to Cruz. “Bring up the location.” He eyed his teammates. “Let’s go check out a castle.”

  “Hold on.” Pence held up his cell. “I think I might be able to help with this recon mission.”

  … … … … …

  The helicopter blades knifed through the air. The passenger’s earmuffs could not drown out the constant thumping.

  “We’re coming up on the location now…port side,” shouted the pilot, who owned a helicopter tour guide business in Zurich, specializing in flyovers of scenic historical sites. He had served with Pence. The two knew each other well. “How close do you want to get?”

  From the co-pilot’s seat, Pence turned around and tipped his head back at Hardy, who sat on the left side of the aircraft, Cruz and Dahlia on Hardy’s right.

  “I only want to make one pass. I don’t want to spook our man if he’s down there.”

  “Don’t worry about that.” The pilot gestured at Baumhauer Castle. “I fly tourists over this place all the time. It’s a real draw.”

  Hardy shook his head. “One pass. Come in from the back and make a slow turn, so we can get a visual on the front.”

  “You got it, chief.”

  Hardy readied the camera on his phone. “Dahlia, Pence, snap pictures from your side.”

  The chopper banked left, and the castle came into view. The stone structure was perched atop a hill and surrounded by walls of stone. A courtyard and garden were inside the perimeter, close to the main gate. Rows and rows of shrubs covered the sloping hill, stopping ten yards from the walls. A fresh layer of fluffy snow blanketed the landscape.

  Hardy’s camera captured picture after picture, while his mind stored its own. Four…five… “I count half a dozen men in suits.”

  Dahlia: “There’s probably more we can’t see.” She leaned in front of Cruz and pointed. “Check it out.”

  Hardy followed her finger to a guard tower, situated where two walls joined on the backside of the castle. “That makes seven men.” He eyed the second tower, kitty corner of the first. “Number eight is most likely in the other one.” To the pilot: “How high are those walls?”

  Having answered the question many times in the past, the man did not hesitate. “Twenty-five feet high and eight feet thick. The towers rise another ten.”

  The helicopter made another turn, and Hardy watched the stone fortification get smaller, as the aircraft flew away.

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  .

  Chapter 28: You’re Perfect

  Hardy tossed aside a photo; one of a couple dozen Dahlia had run off using the portable printer from their gear. He ran ten fingers through his short hair, scratching his scalp. His chest heaved and he blew out a gust of wind. “We’d be literally storming a castle with a frontal assault. And we still don’t know for sure if that’s where Isaac is holed up.” He grabbed the same picture again and pointed. “Two guard towers, twenty-five-foot-high walls and only one way in…through an iron gate that looks like it’s from the Middle Ages itself.” He shook his head. “I just don’t…” he checked his watch—12:44, “less than six hours before Wells’ dinner reservation.”

  Interlacing her fingers, Cruz stretched out her arms as if she was cracking her knuckles. After a couple head and shoulder rolls to loosen neck muscles, she ogled Hardy. “Can we take him at or outside the restaurant? People are most vulnerable getting in and out of vehicles.”

  Lips puckered, Hardy squinted and shook his head. “On a kill assignment, yes; however, we need our target alive. And if the number of men at the castle is any indication of his security, then we should expect a large contingency of bodyguards.” He gestured at a stack of pictures. “You see how many limos he has. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had two in addition to his own, one leading and one trailing, each one carrying four men.”

  “Okay, how about inside the restaurant? We grab him, sneak him out the back door and stuff him into the SUV.”

  “Again, the bodyguards will have secured the exits.”

  Pence peeled away an image and studied the one beneath. “That’s what I would do. All exits would be covered, and I’d have a perimeter setup further away from the building. When we were ready to move, we’d have him in the vehicle and rolling in less than a minute. If someone hit us,” he went back to the first picture, “half my men would lay down a barrage of gunfire, while the other half surrounded the package and led him to the car. We might take some losses, but our man would make it out alive.”

  Hardy caught Cruz’s eye and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “That’s coming from someone who’s seen this situation from the other side. And I agree with him. There are only four of us. Stealth is paramount. We need to slip inside Isaac’s defenses.”

  Crossing her arms over her chest, Dahlia let her head fall against the back of the seat. “Well, if we can’t attack from the front, or sneak Wells out the back, then short of getting a keycard or a free pass through the gates of his castle, we’re not left with any options.” She righted her head. “Can’t we just arrest him?”

  Cruz shook her head. “He hasn’t committed any crimes here.”

  His mind running scenarios, Hardy stared at Dahlia through the rearview mirror for a few minutes.

  She spotted him, and the two held each other’s gaze. “What gives? Do I have a wart on my nose or something?

  He squinted. Stealth. “No.” She’s clean. Isaac hasn’t seen her. “Quite the opposite in fact. You’re perfect.”

  She smiled. “Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself.”

  He pursed his lips. Keycard. Pass through the gates. “We may have an option…but it’ll require quite a bit of coordination…and some luck.” He pivoted in his seat and regarded the woman next to Pence before glimpsing Cruz and coming back to Dahlia. “Are you two up for some shopping, while,” he cocked his head toward Pence, “we get the necessary gear ready?”

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  .

  Chapter 29: Fate

  5:25 p.m.

  Flums, Switzerland

  Flumserberg (Swiss Alps ski resort)

  Dressed in black ski pants, a red jacket and a matching red ski hat, goggles resting atop her head, Dahlia coasted into place and lined up her skis. Looking over her shoulder, poles in one hand, she grabbed the approaching chair lift and sat down, expelling a cloud of visible air. “Whew.”

  “Hello again.”

  Dahlia turned toward the voice. Seeing the man, she let out a giggle before recovering her dignity. “I think fate seems destined to bring us together.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “Listen, I’m really sorry for crashing into you earlier.” Dahlia closed her eyes and shook her head. “I’m not sure what happened. I—”

  “Troubl
e yourself no further. No harm was done.” The man peeled off a glove. “My name is Isaac…Isaac Wells. It’s a pleasure to formally make your acquaintance.”

  Dahlia took his hand, “Oops,” before taking off her glove and shaking the man’s hand. “Deirdre James…pleased to meet you.” She shoved her hand back into the glove. “Although you should know…I don’t make a habit of meeting men by knocking them over on the slopes.”

  Wells chuckled. “Are you from the area or visiting?”

  The chair reached the halfway point in its ascent, and Dahlia eyed the landscape. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Indeed.”

  “I’m sorry.” She leaned closer and put a hand on his forearm. “You asked me a question. No, I’m not from here. I’m in town for a photo shoot.”

  Glancing down at her hand on his arm, Isaac’s pulse quickened. “So you’re a model?”

  Dahlia retracted her hand, righted herself and flashed a smile, The hook’s set, before turning away and coming back to him. Time to reel him in. “Yes.” She batted her eyes twice. “Underwear model. Well, actually I’m a lingerie model—teddies, stockings, skimpy…” she patted his arm, “what am I doing? I’m sure you know what lingerie is.”

  Wells nodded.

  “So what about you? Are you here for business or pleasure?”

  Smiling, Isaac took in the woman’s every detail. She’s a breath of fresh air. “A little bit of both, actually.”

  “What business are you in?”

  “I dabble in many areas.”

  I’ll bet you do, you slimy piece of… Seeing his red blood land on her red jacket from an elbow strike to the nose, Dahlia curled her fingers inside his collar, and threw him from the chair. She blinked a few times, and the vision left her. She smiled, “Sounds exciting,” and looked ahead. They were coming up on their departure point. “It’s been nice sharing the chair with you, Mr. Wells.”

  “Isaac,” he shot back. “Call me Isaac.”

  Dahlia lowered her goggles and readied her poles. “It’s been a pleasure, Isaac. Have a nice rest of your visit.”

  “Likewise, Ms. James.”

  Before making its return trip down the mountain, the chair let off its passengers, who skied away in different directions.

  … … … … …

  6:28 p.m.

  Gruebenhaus Restaurant

  In Dahlia’s ear, Hardy: “Wells has just entered the restaurant. Do you copy?”

  Seated at the bar, wearing spike-heeled sandals and a matching burgundy, long and flowing dress, her blonde hair tied loosely at the back of her head, she pivoted and saw Isaac through a window. “I’ve got eyes on him.”

  “Be careful, Dahlia.”

  She slid off the stool. “Aw, you care for me. You’re such a softy, Hardy.” Strolling toward a partition that separated the main dining area from the entrance, “Cruz, you’re a lucky gal,” Dahlia glanced around before plucking the communication device from her ear and dropping it between her breasts in one fluid motion.

  Timing her approach, she picked up her pace, rounded the partition and bumped into Wells. She feigned a stumble and flailed an arm.

  Wells caught her. “Oh, I’m sorry. Are you—”

  Dahlia clutched his upper arms, “No, it was my—” She stood straight and chuckled.

  Admiring her beauty, Wells maintained his hold on her.

  Letting him stay in contact, Dahlia put a hand to her chest and took a subtle step forward, entering his personal zone. “Okay, this is getting scary. What are the chances?”

  “You said it yourself. Fate has plans for us.” He lowered one hand. “Are you dining here this evening?”

  Dahlia whipped her head back and forth from the bar to Wells. Her long hair came undone and flowed over her shoulder. “I tried—” she noticed her planned gaffe and ran fingers through the mane before tying it back. “I tried to get a table, but it seems they’re full.” She exaggerated a frown. “This happened the last time too. I’ve always wanted to try this place, but I can never catch a break.”

  Wells beamed. “I believe you have.”

  Eyebrows arched, Dahlia tipped her head back.

  “I have a table,” he motioned, “waiting for me by the fireplace. I would be extremely delighted if you would join me.”

  It was Dahlia’s turn to beam. “Are you sure? I mean I don’t want to—”

  He returned his second hand to her bare upper arm. She has the skin of a newborn. “Please, I insist. I would welcome your lovely company.” He put a hand to her lower back and extended an arm toward the back of the restaurant, revealing a white bandage on his finger.

  Dahlia pivoted and allowed him to escort her to the table. She glimpsed him before dipping her forehead. “What happened there?”

  Wells put the injured digit behind his back. “A mental lapse on my part, I’m afraid. I’m fine.”

  Over her shoulder, Dahlia gave him a half smile and the bat of an eye. Yeah, I hear choosing the wrong victim really bites. “I’m glad you’re all right.”

  … … … … …

  7:43 p.m.

  “That’s fascinating.” Dahlia set her wineglass on the linen. “I’ve always loved the medieval time period.” She put an elbow on the table, wrapped the hand around her neck and tilted her head, gazing at Isaac out of one eye. “It’s such a romance-filled era. I mean don’t get me wrong. I realize those days were brutal, but,” she stretched out her other hand, her fingers ending up on his, “there’s such an elegance and sophistication there that rivals any other time in history.” The dinner conversation had been about all things Middle Ages. Earlier, she and Hardy had scoured the Internet, researching talking points, so she could connect with Wells on a personal level.

  Wells glimpsed her hand. Her touch sent tingles down his spine. “I couldn’t agree more.” He spied his watch and ogled his dinner companion. “I hope you don’t think I’m being presumptuous, but,” he watched a smile wash over Dahlia’s face, “would you be interested in having a drink with me at my place? I’m staying somewhere that I believe you’d enjoy seeing up close and firsthand; a slice of medieval history if you will.”

  Finally, I’m in. Dahlia uncrossed her legs under the table, making sure to graze Wells’ leg with her foot. “Ooh,” she leaned closer and lowered her voice, “this sounds like an adventure. Is it going to be dangerous?”

  Wells motioned toward a large man in a black suit, who dug out a phone from a pocket. “I assure you, Ms. James, that at no time will you be in any danger.”

  Accepting Wells’ hand, Dahlia flashed a smile, I can’t say the same about you, and stood.

  “I’m having the car brought around now.” He gestured toward the door. “Shall we?”

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  .

  Chapter 30: Phoenix

  Present Time…

  February 17th; 8:39 p.m.

  Werdenberg (Constituency in the canton of St. Gallen), Switzerland

  Baumhauer Castle (45 miles southeast of Zurich)

  Jumping off the bed, Dahlia dashed out of the room, her fingers fishing around between her breasts. A moment later, she returned to the bedroom, straightening her dress, while inserting a communication device into her ear. “I’m in. The target is subdued—over.”

  Hardy: “Copy that. Overwatch, I need a sitrep.” —Situation Report— “Do you copy?”

  Pence: “I have eyes on the bogeys, awaiting your orders—over.”

  Hardy: “Copy that, Overwatch. Stand by. Phoenix, all teams are waiting to execute on your command.”

  Dahlia hiked up her dress. Strapped to her thighs was a Walther PPQ SD 22 Tactical on the left, and a Surefire SF Ryder 22S sound suppressor and spare magazine on the right. Grabbing the Walther and Surefire, she let go of her dress and joined the equipment. “Phoenix copies…going silent.”

  Dahlia tapped her earpiece, musing about how her call sign came to be. She and her teammates had been enjoying a night out at a resta
urant, laughing, cracking jokes and sharing stories. Without warning, she had set her glass on the table and announced the name with a brief explanation.

  Simply put, she had had—and lost due to circumstances beyond her control—this camaraderie with friends. Shunned by the law enforcement community, she abandoned the hope, the concept of friendship; however, Hardy happened, and all that changed. Like the mythological creature—the Phoenix—she had risen from ashes and was once again part of a team. She would be forever grateful to him.

  Walking to the front door, she sniggered to herself, thinking of the call sign he had picked out for her—Boots—based on her fashion sense and affinity for the legwear. Dahlia shook her head. He really is terrible at picking names.

  She reached the door and held the pistol behind her back, steadying her nerves. After slipping a strap to her dress down to her elbow, she threw the deadbolt and opened the door. The two men faced her. Their eyes zeroed in on the skin she presented to them. “Isaac wants to speak with both of you.” She pivoted and leaned, cocking her head in the same direction. “He’s in the bedroom. He says it’s important.”

  Once she had peeked down the hall in both directions and shut the door, Dahlia trailed the men, snagging a heavy pewter candlestick. Before the bodyguards had a chance to see their boss, she squeezed off two subsonic rounds into the back of one man’s knees and clobbered the other with the makeshift club. The latter went limp and collapsed like a well-cooked noodle. The former dropped to his knees, clutching his disability. A one-handed swing of the medieval light source silenced rising screams. “Sorry,” she removed his belt, “but at least you’re still alive.”

  Minutes later, the henchmen resembled their boss—bound and gagged. Dahlia tied curtain cords around the one man’s knees, stemming the blood flow. Standing straight, “Don’t let it be said,” she swiped the back of her hand across her forehead, “I’m not thoughtful.” Shoving a Glock 19 from one of the bodyguards into her thigh holster, she killed the lights, shut the bedroom door and hurried down the short hallway. “This is Phoenix. Two baddies down for the count. I’m clearing the rest of the structure—over.”