The President's Man 2

by Alex Ander

  “Shepherd, this is Overwatch. I’m reading you loud and clear—over.”

  “Give me a situation report—over.”

  “All is quiet,” replied the officer, watching the ship. “I saw movement near the bow ten minutes ago. Your entry point has been clear for more than an hour—over.”

  “Copy that. We’re moving out. Do not engage, unless necessary. You’re our eyes first, and foremost. Do you copy—over?”

  “Copy that, Shepherd—over.”

  “Keep your eyes peeled. We’re moving out in five—Shepherd, over and out.” Stowing the monocular, he counted down from five and signaled to his teammates.

  In single file, Hardy, Charity, Cruz and Dahlia sprinted across the dock. Hardy hit the ramp at full speed. He bounded up the ramp and closed in on the entryway to the ship. Darkness was the only thing he could see beyond the opening. Coming to the doorway, he slowed before he stopped and held up his left fist. The three women were stacked behind him. Their rifles were aimed at the ramp and their eyes were fixed on Hardy, waiting for his command. He crept closer, while retrieving his Surefire flashlight. With nothing to hide behind, there was no best way to enter. He pressed the button on his flashlight. Taking less than a second to scan the immediate area inside the ship, he shut off the light. He repeated the procedure once more before waving his team forward.

  Once aboard the ship, Hardy turned left and led his team down a wide walkway toward the bow. There was light ahead. The walkway was wide enough to bring the wooden crates onto the ship. Overhead lights provided enough light to see. Coming to a large room, Hardy stopped his team before surveying the room, making sure no one was in it. He entered and signaled for Cruz and Dahlia to go wide, while he and Charity went straight. They encountered two more rooms and repeated this movement each time.

  Arriving at the fourth room, Hardy halted his team. Not as much light was coming from the room. Drawing up alongside the doorway, he could see why. Wooden crates filled most of the room on either side of the main walkway. Jackpot, thought Hardy. He signaled for Cruz and Dahlia to go left, while he and Charity would go right. Everyone knew what to look for—crate number fifty-seven with an approximate dimension of five by four by four.

  Once in the room, the two teams went their separate ways and searched for the crate. Fifty-seven crates did not seem like that many; however, identifying and crossing each one off the list took a long time. The crates were jammed together in groups, resulting in aisles between each group. There were many places where someone could be hiding. Plus, the beams from their flashlights could alert someone of their presence. Hardy used the light sparingly, employing the ‘flashing’ technique, while Charity located the number. Halfway through their search, Cruz’s hushed voice came over his earpiece.

  “I’ve got contact.”

  Dahlia: “I’m on it. Watch my back, Cruz.”

  “Copy that.”

  A man in a black leather jacket and black pants had entered the room, coming from the bow of the ship. He had a lighter in his hands, trying to ignite the cigarette between his lips. An AK-47 rifle was slung around his neck and hung in front of his chest. He was engrossed in his task and never noticed the figure slinking from behind him.

  Hardy and Charity stood still, their ears straining to hear the next communication. He was hoping Dahlia could take down the target without making a sound. He glanced at Charity and could see the whites of her eyes. Coming from somewhere in the room, he heard a heavy weight landing on the floor.

  Dahlia had crept between two crates and hid, waiting for the man to pass. When he did, she stepped out from behind a crate and kicked him in the back of the knee, sending him into a kneeling position. The man dropped his cigarette lighter and reached for his rifle. Dahlia drove the butt of her rifle into the back of his head and he fell forward, motionless. She slung her rifle, grabbed the man by the collar and belt buckle, and dragged him out of the walkway and into a dark area of the room. “Target neutralized,” she said before re-joining Cruz.

  Hardy exhaled the air he had been holding and he and Charity continued identifying the crates.

  Both teams finished their searches and met up near the doorway closest the ship’s bow. Hardy’s eyes shifted back and forth from Cruz to Dahlia. “Did you find it?” They shook their heads. He stared at the floor. Has this been a wild goose chase? Were there fifty-seven crates here? He cranked his head around and peered toward the bow of the ship. I don’t want to go any deeper, if we don’t have to. There’s no telling how many men are on this ship. He focused his attention on the crates. “Let’s double back and check everything again.” Cruz and Dahlia nodded.

  The teams split-up and re-traced their steps. When Hardy and Charity came to the third grouping, he stopped and examined it. Walking around the grouping, he shined his flashlight on the gaps between the crates. He stopped and motioned to Charity. Following the beam of his flashlight, her eyes opened wider and her eyebrows shot upward. Hardy extinguished his flashlight and tapped his earpiece. “Cruz, Dahlia, we found the crate.”

  Chapter 37: Air Holes

  “There’s another one hidden among these.” Hardy grabbed the top of the wooden frame and swung his right leg up before climbing on top of the crate. He peered over the edge and saw a container, roughly matching the size of the one listed on the manifest. “Cruz, Dahlia, watch my back. I’m going to check this out.”

  Special Agent Cruz and Dahlia did as he ordered. Each one was watching a different direction down the main walkway.

  Hardy got on the crate in the center of the grouping and put his ear to the top, listening. He knocked on it and waited. He knocked again. If Abigail was inside, she was not responding. He scanned the edges of the lid and discovered the top was nailed to the rest of the box. Shining his flashlight all around the sides, he saw something hopeful. There were several small holes on each of the four sides. Air holes, he thought. None of the other crates had them. That was a good sign. Hardy was confident that Abigail was inside. He needed to find a way to remove the lid. “I think she’s in here. I need something to pry off the lid; a crow bar or piece of metal…something.” He opened his Cold Steel Recon One tactical knife and managed to get the blade in the gap between the lid and the rest of the box. He pulled back, but the lid would not budge. Increasing his effort, he tried several times with no success. If he applied more force, he was going to break his knife. He heard a noise behind him.

  Dahlia appeared, kneeling on one of the outer boxes. “Try this.” She handed him a bayonet. The man she had knocked unconscious had a bayonet attached to his AK-47 rifle.

  Hardy used his tactical knife to create a large enough opening for the bayonet to slide into the gap. He removed his knife and began reefing on the bayonet. His body weight was on the lid, making it difficult to lift the lid. He tugged on the bayonet, while trying to shift some of his weight to the opposite side. After several heaves, he heard a creak. With each yank on the bayonet, the creaking sound grew louder. The nails were yielding to his effort.

  Watching Hardy, Dahlia did not notice, when a man entered the room from the direction she had been guarding. He saw her, unslung his rifle and raised it to his shoulder. Dahlia dropped to her stomach, when the first of many bullets zipped past her and sent splinters of wood flying into the air.

  Hardy was hidden from the man’s view, but he ducked and grabbed his pistol.

  Dahlia got to her knees and returned fire with her MP5, sending the man diving for cover.

  “Watch Hardy’s back, Dahlia. I’ll take care of him.” Cruz crossed the main walkway and disappeared down a narrow aisle.

  Dahlia kept her weapon to her shoulder and scanned the area. “Copy that.” She flicked her eyes toward Hardy. “Keep going. I’ve got you covered.”

  Hardy holstered his pistol and went to work prying open the lid.

  Cruz moved in and around the wooden crates, searching for the man. She made her way to where the gunshots had originated, but he was not there. I fe
el like a mouse stuck in a maze, trying to find the cheese. Instead of covering the rest of the area, she doubled back. Coming to the other side of the room, she rounded the corner and spotted the man. He was one turn away from getting eyes on Hardy and the others. Raising her rifle, she centered his back in her red dot scope and pressed the trigger once, sending a three-round burst into his torso. She watched him arch his back and make a quarter-turn before falling on his right side. Keeping her weapon trained on him, she hurried forward and verified he was dead. “This is Cruz. Target is down and I’m coming back to you—over.” More gunshots filled the room, coming from the far corner.

  “Cruz, this is Dahlia. What’s your status?” Dahlia jumped to the floor.

  “I’m right here.” She came around the corner of a crate.

  Dahlia whipped her head around. “We’ve got more company.” She pointed. “It’s coming from over there. You go left and I’ll—”

  “Where’s Cherry?”

  Dahlia glanced around the area. “I don’t know. Didn’t she go with you?”

  Cruz shook her head. “I left her here…she must have gone after the shooter.” She tapped her earpiece. “Cherry, where are you?” She waited, but there was no reply. “Cherry, this is Cruz. What’s your location?”

  Hardy heard the chatter. “What the hell is going on? Cruz, Dahlia, give me a situation report, now.”

  Though she could not see him, Cruz turned her head in his direction. “Cherry’s not here. We think she went after the shooter.”

  “Damn it.” Hardy had managed to lift one-half of the top of the crate, while squatting on the other half. He stuck his flashlight through the opening. Centered in the beam were two feet in stockings. He ran the beam further up and saw the hem of a long sweater. Abby. “Cherry, this is Hardy. Do you copy?” He wrenched on the lid, listening for a reply. Hardy was torn. He knew he had Abigail within reach, but Charity was not answering his calls. Where the hell was she? He felt a responsibility to both of them, but he could not be in two places at once. If something’s happened to her, I’m going to kick her…Dahlia interrupted his thoughts.

  “Cruz, you stay and help Hardy.” She unslung her rifle and propped it against a nearby crate before drawing her pistol. “He’s almost got the lid open. I’ll find Charity.” She took off in the direction of the gunshots.

  Cruz got on the crate and met Hardy. Kneeling on an outside crate, the two of them leaned forward, grabbed the partially open lid and yanked. On the second pull, the lid released and sent Hardy and Cruz scrambling to keep their balance. Standing, they peered into the open box. Hardy lit it up with his flashlight.

  Cruz gasped and her hand came to her mouth, while she gazed at the figure, crammed into the tight space. Her eyes panned right and her disgust turned to anger. Lying in the box and wearing a long sweater and boot socks that rose above her knee, was Abigail Conklin. She was on her left side with her knees bent, not moving. Cruz saw grocery bags filled with snack foods, paper towels and bottles of water. In one corner, there were a couple of small buckets. “Oh, dear God, she never would have survived the voyage.” Cruz waved her hand in front of her face. There was a faint acidic odor. She figured it was urine.

  Hardy eased his body into the box and knelt beside Abigail. He put his fingers on either side of her neck. After a few seconds, he nodded at Cruz. “I’ve got a weak pulse.” After checking Abigail for obvious wounds and finding none, he put his right hand under her head and got closer to her. “Abby…sweetheart, it’s Hardy. Abs, can you hear me?” With his left thumb, he pushed up each eyelid. “I think she’s been drugged.” He unrolled a long length of paper towels, opened a bottle of water and soaked the towels. Using the waterlogged towels, he gave her a sponge bath. She had urinated. Her legs and the sweater were wet. He tossed the dirty wad aside, ripped off another length of paper towels and dried her legs. Tossing those towels aside, he heard Cruz.

  “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 br
ought 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.