Foreign Soil

by Alex Ander

  Hardy breathed deeply and recognized the scent of bleach. He jabbed a finger at the man who was too forthcoming with answers. “I know he’s not running the show.”

  Hamilton: “liman taemalu? aetani asma – Who do you work for? Give me a name.”

  Suspect: “rajul yudeaa Matin…Matin Ghali.”

  “A man named—” Hamilton stopped and listened when the accused added more. “He says he was hired by a man named Matin Ghali, but that Ghali took orders from another man, someone in a,” the suspect ran his hands down the length of his body, “long white coat.”

  Cruz whipped her head toward Hardy. “A doctor…he must’ve been the one performing the experiments.” She spun back toward Hamilton and stuck out her chin toward the terrorist. “Does he remember the man’s name?”

  After another short exchange with the prisoner, Hamilton observed Hardy and Cruz. “He says it was a German-sounding name. Heimer, Himmler, Kimmler.”

  Hardy dug out his phone. “Well, it’s a start.” He spied Hamilton. “See what your agency can come up with,” he held up the mobile, “while I check with my specialist.”

  Cruz stepped forward. “Does he know what the man in white looked like? We can get a sketch artist to come up with a drawing.” She faced Hamilton. “I’m sure the NCA must have those.”

  Hamilton nodded, “That’s a good idea,” and nodded at her fellow officer.

  Thomas retrieved his cell. “I’m on it, ma’am.”

  Hardy turned his back on the women and tapped Charity’s speed dial number. She answered on the third ring. “Cherry, it’s Hardy. Are you near your laptop? I’ll be sending you some names and possibly a sketch. I need you to—”

  Charity’s high-pitched voice ripped through the mobile’s speaker, “Oh my…no, no, no,” before the line went dead.

  Hardy frowned at the device.

  Hearing Charity’s panic-stricken voice, Cruz squared her shoulders with him. “What’s wrong?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. She was there…and then she wasn’t.” He stared at the screen. Three bars. “Try Dahlia,” he brought the phone to his face, “while I’ll call Cherry again.” He made three unsuccessful attempts to reach her.

  Standing in front of him, Cruz looked up. “Dahlia’s keeps going to voicemail.”

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  .

  Chapter 15: Apartment

  2:25 p.m. (Local Time)

  Munich, Germany

  Charity had shouldered open the first unlocked door she came to and run through a cobweb that ran from a corner near the ceiling to the floor. With little furniture, the small, dirty and musty apartment was deserted. After locking the door, she and Dahlia had dragged a sofa in front of the entrance. Not much security, but at least they would have advanced warning if someone tried to enter.

  Dahlia dropped the Walther’s magazine; she knew from its weight it was empty as soon as the baseplate touched her palm. She pushed it back up and pulled back the slide a hair. Leaning toward the dim light coming through a dirty window, she saw a shiny brass case in the chamber. One round and two bad guys. She frowned and her brows dropped. I wonder the odds on getting them to stand next to each other. She saw Charity, leaning against a wall, catching her breath. Dahlia’s eyes fell to the Glock 23 in the woman’s hand. Forty cal. She examined the nine-millimeter in her own hand, “Call me crazy for asking,” before holstering the weapon. “But, why…don’t we all…use the same caliber guns?”

  Dahlia slipped her left arm out of the leather jacket before wincing and gingerly removing the right arm. She looked down. The right sleeve of the navy blue turtleneck was darker than the rest of the garment, almost black. She found the right shoulder of the jacket. “Damn it.”

  Charity approached. “What is it?”

  Dahlia went back and forth from the tear in the jacket to the rip in the sweater’s sleeve before holding up the coat. “This cost me more than four hundred bucks.” She gestured at the turtleneck. “And, this was close to a hundred.”

  “Dahlia, you’re bleeding.”

  “Somebody’s going to pay for this…one way or another.”

  Charity circled around. “You’ve been shot.”

  Dahlia raised her elbow and studied the bleeding injury. “Technically, that’s not a real gunshot wound.”

  Charity held the arm and lifted her eyebrows at the woman. “And, what would you call it?”

  “A slice…I’ve been sliced.” She took back the appendage and rotated it a few times. “Actually, it doesn’t hurt that bad.”

  “You’re nuts, you know that? We need to get that cleaned before it gets infected.”

  “No time for that.” After plucking a black tube and her cell from a coat pocket, Dahlia handed Charity her jacket. “I’ve got work to do.” She yanked up the sweater’s hem and dabbed the two-inch gash with a clean portion of fabric. Turning off her phone, she wedged the cell into a boot and started up a flight of stairs. “Stay here,” she affixed a sound suppressor to the Walther, “and stay quiet.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I told you. Now that you’re safe, I’ve got work to do.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  Dahlia held out her good arm. “No, you’re not. You stay here—”

  “I can—”

  “You,” Dahlia’s voice was deeper and louder, “stay here, stay out of sight and keep quiet. If anyone,” she pointed, “comes through that door—other than me—shoot him.” She paused. “Well…if a woman and her young son…or an old man with a cane comes through the door,” she waved a hand, “don’t shoot them.” She ascended the steps. “I’ll be back soon.”

  Charity watched Dahlia, until she disappeared. She listened to the woman’s heels, until the steps fell silent. A minute later, she jumped when her phone buzzed.

  “Cherry, it’s Hardy. Are you near your laptop? I’ll be sending you some names and possibly a sketch. I need you to—”

  Charity’s eyes bulged, and she screamed. “Oh my…no, no, no.” She disconnected the call and established an Internet connection, “Oh please, please, please connect,” before her thumbs banged the screen. A second later, she cursed. Her fingers flew over the device. “Please, please, please be in range…yes!” She pressed an ‘execute’ icon and held her breath. At the fifteen-second mark, her lungs ached; at thirty seconds, they were on fire. After another ten ticks, she let out the air in one huge burst, as a green horizontal bar showed on the phone with the word ‘complete’ underneath it. “Thank God.”

  Charity dialed Hardy. He picked up before the first ring had ended.

  “Cherry, you hung up on me. Are you all right? What about Dahlia…is she okay?”

  “Sorry about that. I had to scuttle my laptop.” Hardy saying the word ‘laptop’ made her remember hers, lying somewhere in the disabled BMW. Not being able to establish an Internet connection with the notebook, she was forced to connect directly, which required her to be within so many feet of the device. She initiated a self-destruct program that erased the hard drive before setting off a small charge; a two-pronged security measure that ensured no one could access the computer’s sensitive data. “I’m fine. Dahlia’s fine…well…she’s been shot, but she’s—”

  “What? She’s been shot. What the hell happened? Is—”

  “She’s okay, Hardy.” Charity reassured him of their health status and brought him up to speed.

  … … … … …

  Man 1 from the restaurant crept forward, gun up, eyes darting left and right. The narrow street was desolate, but there were plenty of places to hide—metal dumpsters, abandoned cars, darkened doorways, and alleys between buildings. His quarry had come this way, but he was not sure where they had gone. He motioned toward his accomplice. Man 2 headed for the sidewalk to the left. Man 1 stopped, waited and watched.

  After Man 2 had crossed an alley and continued straight, Man 1 checked the front doors of two buildings on his side of the street. They
were locked. He turned right at an alleyway and evaluated the surrounding area—more old cars and dumpsters. A fire escape was attached to the structures on both sides of the lane.

  He put one foot in front of the other, feeling for objects, while his eyes saw everything up ahead. Coming to a dumpster, he pivoted and swung his gun toward the space behind the black receptacle. Swinging the pistol back again, he moved forward, peering into a two-door hatchback as he passed.

  Stopping near the fire escape, Man 1 watched and listened. A noise drew his attention. A can or bottle rolled over the pavement. A stray animal, rodent could have sent the object on its way. Or, it could be the oldest trick in the book, a distraction. He rotated his head and gun left, away from the noise’s source. He gaped at a second dumpster, another beat up vehicle, two doorways; nothing escaped his vision.

  Something tapped his woolen overcoat. His eyes flicked right. Holding the pistol straight out with one hand, his free fingers swiped the right shoulder. Rubbing his gloved fingers together, he recognized the liquid. Blood.

  … … … … …

  Dahlia slithered over the fire escape landing and curled her legs behind her, hooking the ankles of her knee boots on a low horizontal bar. Dangling upside down, she clamped a hand around the man’s mouth, drove the sound suppressor into the base of his skull and pressed the trigger. Because even a weapon with a sound suppressor made noise and she had only one round, Dahlia needed a contact-shot to minimize the report.

  Dead before the slide had locked open on the PPQ, the assailant dropped to both knees and keeled over. His nose slammed into the concrete. One foot lifted off the hard surface before falling again.

  Dahlia performed an upside down stomach crunch and grasped the metal grate of the fire escape landing. Her boots slid past the horizontal bar and she righted herself. Using the height advantage, she hung from one hand for a few seconds and glanced in all directions before letting go and landing in a crouched position. Holstering the empty Walther, she whipped her head left and right. Satisfied that the attack had gone undetected, she grabbed the dead man’s pistol, double-checked the status and stuffed it into her skirt’s waistband at the small of her back.

  Dahlia searched the deceased and came up with a wallet and a wad of Euros. Partially unzipping a boot, she put both down the tall shaft. Finding two spare magazines, she stuffed one into the left side of her waistband before having to suck in her gut to get the second one inside. Thinking she had gained a few pounds over the holiday, she frowned. When she realized the extra pounds were the added pistol and two magazines, she relaxed. I don’t mind that kind of extra weight.

  Squatting over the corpse, Dahlia froze and turned an ear toward the street. The sound of dress shoes clicking off the sidewalk drew nearer. She squinted at the body. No time to get rid of him. She shrugged. Let’s use him as bait.

  … … … … …

  Man 2 stood over his partner’s body, his head and gun pivoting in all directions. He was not as sharp as his fallen coconspirator. Standing in the open, exposed to gunfire from all compass points, the hunter had become the hunted. Three bullets pierced his overcoat; two clipped the heart. The third punctured a lung. At this point, he was theoretically dead, but biologically still alive. When the fourth round burrowed into the man’s ear, theory wedded biology.

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  .

  Chapter 16: Knock Knock

  Charity put her back to the wall, slid to a sitting position and laid the Glock on the floor by her leg. Her blazer acted like a dust cloth, cleaning an eighteen-inch vertical section of the dirty apartment wall. “I don’t know where she went, Hardy.” She kept her voice low, so passersby could not hear her. “I’m assuming she’s trying to find a way out of this place, a back door or something. We shoved a couch against the door, and I have my gun. As far as her phone goes, she shut it off before she left.”

  Hardy gripped the cell a little tighter. From everything Charity had relayed to him, Dahlia had plans to go after their attackers. He shut his eyes and took a breath. He hated being impotent, unable to assist his team members. They were his responsibility. If there was any consolation, it was that Dahlia was highly trained and extremely skilled in not only defending others and herself, but also going on the offensive and taking the fight to the enemy. Truth be told, she was as good a tactical operator as he was, maybe even better in certain areas. If he could not be there to keep Charity safe, then Dahlia was a perfect stand-in for him.

  A loud pounding sound came through the phone. Hardy’s eyes shot open. “What was that?”

  Grabbing the Glock, Charity spun her head toward the front door. She put down the cell, took a two-handed hold on the weapon and pointed it at the door. The thumping came again.

  “Knock knock, Cherry. It’s me. Open the door.”

  Charity lowered the gun. Dahlia. She pushed the sofa a couple feet and opened the door.

  Dahlia gave her a crooked smile. “Miss me?” She entered the apartment and shut the door behind her before leaning against it. Lowering her head to the door, she closed her eyes and inhaled.

  Charity scanned her from head to toe. “Are you okay? Where did you go? I thought you were upstairs.” She spied the injured arm. The entire sleeve was drenched. A single drop of blood fell to the floor.

  Now it was Dahlia’s turn to slide to the floor, only her landing was not as graceful as her teammate’s was. Her butt hit hard.

  Charity dropped to her knees. “I knew I shouldn’t have let you go without doing something about this.” She examined the wound. “It’s still bleeding. What were you doing out there? If those men had seen you…”

  Dahlia rolled her head back and forth over the door. “They’re dead. We’re safe…for now.” She leaned right, dug out the two spare magazines from her waistband and sighed. “These things,” she set them on the floor, “have been digging into my hip.”

  “They’re dead?” Charity sat on her haunches. “How did you—” she stopped when she remembered to whom she was speaking. “Never mind.” She peered at Dahlia; eyes closed, one leg straight out, the other bent, a forearm resting on the knee. You’re spent. “You’ve lost a lot of blood, Dahlia.”

  Dahlia flipped up the limp wrist hanging over her raised knee. “I told you,” she dipped her head to the right, “this isn’t that bad. I’m more tired than anything…plus, I haven’t eaten in a while.” She paused and swallowed. “Losing blood isn’t helping matters, is it?”

  “We have to find some clean water. I have a bottle back in the car.”

  Dahlia shook her head. “We can’t go back there. The police will be all over the scene. And, shooting people isn’t covered under our CDC and WHO credentials.” She eyed Charity. “In fact, we need to get moving.” She held out her uninjured arm. “Help me up.”

  “We have to stop the bleeding.”

  “And, the trail of broken glass and brass casings will lead the police right to us…” her eyes rolled left, her head following, “and the two dead bodies outside.” She grabbed Charity’s shoulder. “Now help me get up.”

  On her feet, Dahlia pointed. “Empty one of those magazines and,” she reached around her back, pressed the magazine release on the holstered Walther and removed the spent mag, “put the rounds in this.” Fortunately, the bad guys had the same ammunition—nine millimeter.

  While Charity swapped out the rounds, Dahlia tore off the sopping wet sleeve and threw it. She spied the wound; it seemed bigger now. That’s not good. She looked around for some clean fabric and frowned at the apartment’s interior. Am I current on my tetanus shots? She shook her head. Either way, I’m not chancing—

  “Okay, now what?” Charity held up the Walther magazine.

  “Stick it back in my gun.” After Dahlia felt the push on her midsection and heard the click of a seated mag, she squinted at Charity. “Cherry, I need to ask you a personal favor.”

  “Shoot.”

  “No, I mean a really personal favor.”


  Charity’s eyebrows came together.

  “I need you to take off your…” Dahlia’s eyes flicked toward the other woman’s chest, “bra.”

  Charity swayed backward. “What?”

  “We have to put as much distance as we can between us,” she bobbed her head, “and that crash scene. And, if I’m leaving a blood trail for them to follow…” She waited a beat. “We can make a tourniquet with your bra and stop the bleeding.”

  The information specialist took off her blazer. “Why does it have to be mine?” After dropping the garment onto the couch, she started lifting her shirt, but stopped. “You’re not wearing one, are you?”

  “Of course I am. It’s just not very…functional…if you know what I mean.”

  Charity tossed aside the shirt and unhooked her white cotton bra. “What do you mean by func—”

  “Do we really have to get into the details? Having your brassiere around my arm is going to be awkward enough.”

  Slipping the straps over her shoulder, Charity removed her bra. Bare-chested, she stepped closer to Dahlia and wrapped the undergarment around the woman’s arm. “I just thought it would be nice to at least have a little small talk first.”

  “That’s it. Tie it tight,” said Dahlia before facing her teammate. “What do you mean ‘a little small talk first?’”

  “I mean,” Charity wrenched on the white fabric, “you haven’t even bought me dinner yet and you’re already at second base.”

  Dahlia gaped at the younger woman.

  Tying the second knot, Charity curled up one side of her mouth.

  A slow smile spread over Dahlia’s face before she laughed and wagged a finger. “You had me going there for a moment, Cherry.” A moment passed, and she chuckled again. “You know I was planning to buy your lunch. That should count for something.”

  A few minutes later, Dahlia held an empty magazine in place—keeping it from twisting—while Charity helped her put on the leather jacket. They had used the magazine to tighten the knot in the bra/tourniquet. Dahlia let go, “That should work for now,” and produced her phone. “We need to get to a safe house. I’m calling Hardy. He’ll know where—”