by Alex Ander
“Shepherd, this is Bigfoot.” Bigfoot was Tom Henderson’s call sign. “Stick to the plan and wait for backup. I’m fifteen minutes away—over.”
The plan Henderson was referring to entailed watching four possible locations Charity had come up with using the results from her algorithm. She had ranked them in order of priority. Hardy took the highest priority location, while the three members of AR-1 each took one of the remaining three. Once there was enough activity to suggest one site over the others was serving as the terrorist’s home base, everyone would meet at that site and raid the structure. Dahlia’s appearance had forced Hardy to alter the plan.
“There’s no time to wait. The assassin is here, and she just took out two guards. A third is coming up on her ‘six.’” Hardy shouldered open the door, placed his left foot on the ground and steadied the rifle between the door and the frame. Putting the rifle’s scope to his eye, he located the man. He had rounded the corner of the warehouse, pistol pointed at Dahlia. Hardy closed his right eye, held his breath and pressed the trigger to the rear as smooth as possible. The rifle discharged a quiet, but not silent, bullet. Through the scope, Hardy saw the man fall forward and land on the ground.
Chapter 13: ‘Click’
Hardy advanced toward the back door of the warehouse. Opening the door, Hardy stepped inside and waited, his ears straining to hear even the slightest of noises. Taking a step forward, he heard the unmistakable ‘click’ of a woman’s heel. He looked up. The sound had come from one of the floors above him. Hardy hurried to the stairwell. Craning his head backward, all he saw was darkness. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. He had spent two hours watching the warehouse and the only movement had come from the top floor. Hardy took one more look before creeping up the darkened stairwell.
Hardy paused at each floor and searched for additional terrorists. He had seen five men guarding the perimeter and he knew there must be more inside. Operating alone, he had to be cautious. The last thing he wanted was one of them sneaking up from behind.
Reaching the top floor, he pressed his body against the wall to his right and peered around the corner. He saw light coming from a room at the end of a long hallway. He heard muffled voices coming from the same room, as he slinked down the hallway, carefully checking each room he passed. So far, so good. The last door was on the right. Closed, the door was made of metal with a small window at the top. Getting into position, his back to the wall, Hardy leaned out and peeked through the window. A woman with jet-black hair, wearing thigh boots, was standing over a man on the floor, pointing a pistol at him. Smoke rose from the pistol’s sound suppressor. Outside, he had not gotten a good look at the woman; however, now he could clearly see her face; it was Dahlia. He readied his MP5 rifle and prepared to storm the room.
………………………..
Dahlia was not surprised when Hardy entered the room and demanded she drop her weapon. She had a feeling it was only a matter of time before the two of them met face to face. She turned away from the man she had killed. “Hello, Aaron. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you—formally, I mean.” She paused. “I’m sorry. Is it presumptuous of me to call you by your first name? Although…with all we’ve been through, it seems like we do know each other fairly well.”
“I said, drop your weapon.” Hardy moved further into the room. He was now halfway between her and the door.
Dahlia observed Hardy’s eyes, trying to read his thoughts. She was not going to drop her weapon, and she knew he would not drop his either. She had plans to walk out of this building under her own power and not in handcuffs. The thought of them together, her in handcuffs, brought a smile to her red lips. “I’m sorry. I can’t do that.” A full minute passed, while they stared at each other. The heels of her boots echoed throughout the room when she took a few slow steps toward Hardy’s left, exposing the left side of her body to gunfire. “It would seem that we’re at an impasse.”
Hardy lowered his rifle slightly, so he could get a clear view of her, specifically her eyes, looking for telltale signs of her intentions. He tried one more time. “I won’t tell you again, Dahlia. Drop…your…weapon.”
Dahlia cocked her head. “So, you know my name.” She faced him. “Do you know my last name?” His eyebrows scrunched and he lowered his weapon a fraction of an inch. She was about to ask another question, but stopped, raised her pistol and fired two shots toward him.
Chapter 14: Gunfight
Dahlia raised her weapon toward Hardy. He put the red dot of his scope on her chest. Hearing two muffled shots, he applied pressure to the trigger of his MP5. He was a millimeter away from shooting her when he eased his finger off the trigger. How did she miss me, especially at this range? Everything he had witnessed up to this point told him she was a professional who did not miss her target. Behind him, he heard gunfire.
Hardy cranked his head around and saw a man sliding down the wall next to the door. Dahlia had not missed her target. He whipped his head around. She was still pointing her weapon at the man on the floor.
“Now, we’re even,” she said, referring to when Hardy had saved her life outside the warehouse.
Hardy lowered the rifle and rose to his full height. After a few seconds, he walked to the body on the floor and tried to determine the dead man’s identity from what was left of the face. “Is this Tahir Muhammad?”
“It was,” replied Dahlia, slipping her pistol into her right boot. “And, whatever he was planning,” she motioned behind her toward several tables holding all sorts of supplies, “was going to be nasty.”
Hardy moved past her and examined the items. AK-47 rifles were lined up, along with almost two dozen magazines in a neat row next to the rifles. He walked the length of the table. There were several bulletproof vests overlapping each other, walkie-talkies, cell phones and other pieces of equipment a SWAT team might use, including night vision goggles. Hardy winced at the sight of the goggles. They suggested the terrorists were planning a night attack. He thought of a recent ambush at a crowded movie theater. The loss of life had been horrific. At the far end of the table was the most deadly of the gear; four backpacks separated the tactical equipment from the explosive material. He slowly scanned everything. He could not believe what he was looking at—a case each of fragmentation grenades and smoke grenades and several blocks of C-4 explosive.
Dahlia joined him. “My guess is they were planning an attack for after dark—start with small arms fire then progress to the grenades, finishing with a backpack explosive that would kill each terrorist and as many civilians as possible.” She shook her head. “Sick bastards...it makes my job more palatable, knowing what they were going to do.”
Dahlia’s profile entered his peripheral view and he shifted his eyes to the left. She was an attractive woman. Her beauty did not match the seemingly ruthless killer that lay beneath the good looks. “Why did you do all this?” He could not understand how a one-time FBI agent could fall so far from grace. Before he got an answer, a noise came from the hall.
Hardy sidestepped Dahlia and ran to the door. He peeked around the corner and saw three men closing in on their position. The gunshots from the dead man leaning against the wall had brought the rest of the terrorists toward them. “Great,” he said, putting his back to the wall. “That gunfire got the attention of his friends.”
“You’re welcome.” Dahlia closed the distance between them. “Next time, remind me to let you get shot in the back.” She retrieved her pistol and spun her head in all directions, searching for a way out. Her eyes noticed the row of broken windows. “Unless you can grow wings and fly, there’s no way out, except through that door.” She stood in front of Hardy, leaned out and fired several rounds at the men, sending them scurrying for cover.
“We’re on the top floor, southwest corner of the building, taking fire…exit strategy, please.”
“Well, that’s stating the obvious.” Dahlia leaned out and fired a few rounds.
Hardy shook his h
ead and pointed to his ear. “Are you there, Charity? You need to find us a way out of here…and now.” While Dahlia reloaded her pistol, he wheeled around, fired a couple of three-round bursts from his MP5 and spun back again.
Dahlia slammed home a fresh magazine. “Who are you talking to?”
Charity: “You’ve got to get to the roof. A helicopter will be there in one minute. Do you copy?”
“The roof…one minute…got it.” Hardy fired more rounds. He hit a terrorist, who fell to the floor. “One problem…how do we get to the roof from here?” Even though it had not been discussed during the planning of this mission, he knew Charity would have the architectural drawings of the building, in case something went wrong. In the back of his mind, Hardy was beginning to trust her.
“You need to go back down that hallway. When you get to the stairwell, take the door on your right. It will lead you to the rooftop door.”
Dahlia dropped to one knee, leaned out and fired, until the pistol’s slide locked back. “That’s it. I’m out.” She tossed the weapon aside.
Hardy gave her his Walther PPQ M2, muzzle down. “We’ve got to get to the roof.” He shouted above the incoming bullets bouncing off the walls. “A helicopter will be waiting for us.” He jerked his thumb. “There’s a door at the end of the hall.” Debris smacked him in the face and he threw up an arm. “It will take us to the roof.”
She nodded her head and took the Walther. “Nice. How many rounds do I have?”
Having opted for the extended magazine, he responded, “Eighteen.”
Still on one knee, Dahlia leaned out again and fired. Back behind cover, she admired the weapon. “Very nice,” she said. “I’ll have to get me one of these.”
Hardy looked at her. “All right, I’m taking point.” He poked a finger at her. “You stay behind me, and…try not to shoot me in the back.” He was half-joking and half-serious. He did not know much about this woman. She stood and locked eyes with him. Her heels made her even with his height.
Dahlia glanced at the weapon before her face went deadpan. “I don’t know, Hardy. I really like this gun. If I run out of bad guys to shoot, I might just have to aim it at you.” When her words had elicited the visual response from Hardy she was hoping for, she smiled, showing a full set of brilliant white teeth. Cupping the back of his head, she kissed him on the cheek, leaving behind the faint outline of a pair of lips. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I wouldn’t dream of hurting you.” She rotated her head toward the Walther and stared at him out of the corner of her eye. A seductive grin spread over her lips. “Besides, I like it when a man lets me handle his gun on the first date.”
Hardy was unsure if he could trust her. At this point—Hardy caught the double entendre and smiled—what did it matter? If they were going to survive this, they would have to rely on each other.
Charity: “If you two lovebirds are through, the chopper is thirty seconds out.”
“Roger that,” said Hardy. “We’re on the move.”
Hardy spun around and let loose with a couple of three-round bursts. He changed magazines and advanced down the hallway. Dahlia was behind and to the right, while he hugged the left wall. A man stuck his head out from a room on the right. Before Hardy could fire, he heard gunfire from behind him and the man fell down.
Dahlia held up a finger. “That’s one for me. That is, unless we’re counting the ones outside.”
Hardy moved forward, swinging the muzzle of his rifle back and forth. As if it was perfectly timed, as soon as the muzzle moved to the left, a head appeared in the scope. Hardy fired and the head—the man—slumped to the floor.
Approaching the top of the stairwell, they needed to make sure no one was waiting for them at the bottom. The door leading to the roof faced the stairwell. Hardy communicated with Dahlia, using hand signals. He stopped when an object bounced off a wall and landed six feet away.
Chapter 15: Grenade
“Grenade,” yelled Hardy, while wrapping his left arm around Dahlia’s waist and spinning toward an open doorway to the right. They landed inside a room and rolled as one, his belly pressed tightly her back. They came to rest five feet from the door, their intertwined limbs made them look like a giant eight-legged bug. Hardy covered her head with his hands and buried his face between her neck and shoulder. His nostrils filled with the sweet scent of whatever shampoo, soap or body wash she had used, while his mind wondered if that would be the last thing he smelled in this world.
The blast was deafening. The room’s windows blew inward. Shards of glass rained down on Hardy and Dahlia. He felt the pressure from the shockwave on his back. Stunned, Hardy opened and closed his mouth several times, trying to equalize the pressure in his head, while he rolled off Dahlia. He looked at her. She was on all fours. Her mouth was moving, but he could not hear a thing. He helped her to her feet, and they both gradually regained their senses.
Shaking her head back and forth, Dahlia put her left hand to her forehead. “Now, I’m back to owing you one, again.” She shook her head and blinked her eyes.
Hardy covered his ears. “We’ve got to get through that door.”
Charity: “Hardy, are you okay?” Panic was evident in her tone. “Hardy, are you there?”
The ringing in his ears made it difficult to hear. “We’re fine, Charity.” His voice was hoarse. He coughed. Dust and debris filled his lungs. “We’re at the door, but taking fire.”
“The chopper is on site. They’re waiting for you.”
“Copy that,” said Hardy. He acknowledged Dahlia. “This is what we’re—”
Dahlia had her hand out, palm up. “Give me the rifle.” When he did not comply, she held up the Walther. “If you want to get out of here, you’re going to have to give me that rifle. I’ll cover you from here. You get to the door and get it open. I’ll be right behind you.” Losing her patience, she grabbed the rifle and put the butt of the Walther in his hand. “Get ready to move.” She raised the MP5 and fired two three-round bursts from the window opening.
Hardy stood alongside her and held up the last MP5 magazine before slipping it into her left thigh boot.
Feeling the cold magazine against her bare leg, she stopped shooting. “It seems you’ve had some practice doing that.” She winked. “Now, get ready to run.” She sent a volley of rounds down the stairwell, raised the muzzle of the rifle and yelled, “Go.”
Hardy took off running. At the top of the stairwell, he opened the door and fired several rounds toward the bottom of the stairs, providing cover fire for Dahlia.
Dahlia came out of the room, but instead of meeting him at the door, she moved to the other side of the hallway and pressed her back against the wall. She inserted the last magazine and threw the bolt forward.
“What are you doing?” Hardy jerked his head. “Let’s go.”
“I’ve changed my mind. I’m just not ready to see daddy, yet.”
“What,” said Hardy, his eyebrows furled downward? “What the hell are you talking about? We’ve got to go.”
“You go. I’ll slow them down.”
“That’s suicide. You don’t know what’s waiting for you down there.”
“It’s been nice working with you, Hardy.” She spun on her heels and fired down the stairs.
Hardy started to go after her, but stopped when he heard Charity.
“The chopper can’t hold its position for much longer, Hardy. People are starting to notice. How far out are you?”
“Damn it,” said Hardy. “Dahlia, wait.” She turned back to him. He slid his Walther and a spare magazine across the floor.
Dahlia stuffed them into her boots, gave him a smile and a wink and disappeared from sight, the muffled shots from the MP5 growing more faint.
Hardy’s feet were anchored in place. He should have gone after her. No, he should have never let her leave in the first place. He heard Charity’s voice again in his earpiece. It was the last voice he wanted to hear.
“Hardy—”
“All
right, all right, Charity,” he growled, running for the roof. “I’m on my way, all right. Do you hear me?” His voice grew louder with each syllable. “Damn it, I’m on my way.”
Chapter 16: Debrief
9:19 a.m.; Operation’s Room, FBI Building, Washington, D.C.
Jameson, Hardy, Charity and the members of AR-1 were seated at the conference table in the Operation’s Room. The mission debriefing had started at nine o’clock.
Jameson motioned. “Henderson, you were the first to arrive. What did you see?”
Henderson re-positioned his six-feet, three-inch two hundred and thirty-five pound frame and leaned forward to rest his thick forearms on the table. He was thirty-six-years-old and had spent eighteen years in the military before becoming team leader for AR-1. A few strands of gray mixed with his dark hair. His facial features matched his wide frame. His eyes were set far apart and a full handlebar mustache covered his upper lip. Stroking the mustache, he envisioned the scene at the warehouse. “Actually, I haven’t seen anything like it, since my days in the military. I counted seven bodies between the main floor and the top floor, where I found five more.”
Hardy nodded. “Those were the ones Dahlia and I took out before we—” he was still regretting his decision not to go after her, “before I made my way to the chopper.”
“It’s not your fault.” Draper was seated next to Hardy. “She’s not one of our own. You didn’t leave anyone behind.”
