by Alex Ander
Dahlia was a step away from the bumper when her spine tingled and her stomach quivered. Her right hand moved to her midsection. Her heart rate spiked. Her pupils dilated, and the surrounding area came into sharper focus. Instead of getting into the backseat behind the driver, she sidestepped right and put her left hand on Charity’s shoulder.
Startled, Charity spun her head. A split-second later, her teammate’s crinkled forehead, darting eyes and clenched jaw told her trouble was near.
Dahlia’s gun hand had moved inside the leather jacket. Peering over the car’s roof, “Get in the…” she spotted a partially obstructed older model black Mercedes with custom rims. They were the same color and style as the ones on the black Mercedes sedan from Ruff’s Burger. Executing a textbook Secret Service maneuver, Dahlia put a hand to Charity’s head, doubled over the woman, “Get down,” and shoved her into the back of the vehicle before landing on top of her. Several bullets skipped off the car’s roof.
Gunfire erupted from three directions. Parker dropped before he could get his handgun into the fight. Franks emptied half a magazine at one of the attackers to his right; the man shuddered and twisted before falling to the pavement. He pivoted and stuck his pistol between the door and the car, firing over the hood at a man hiding behind a parked car across the street.
Dahlia snaked over Charity, “Stay down!” slid out the sedan and army crawled to an oak tree wide enough to cover her from the man Franks was engaging and the one kneeling behind the Mercedes to her left. To her right, Parker was shouting and holding his leg, his body half inside the car. The best thing she could do for him was send rounds downrange. The sooner the fight ended, the sooner he could get help.
She leaned left and squeezed off three rounds before sending two toward Franks’s man. The massive tree trunk vibrated with every incoming bullet. Taking a knee, she peeked out the other side of the tree, but the man was not at the Mercedes. She scanned left and caught sight of him. There was a row of trees lined-up with Dahlia’s oak. He was scurrying from one to the next and had cut in half the distance between him and her. Putting her right shoulder against the oak, she waited for him to show himself. When he did, she let go three fast shots and he ducked back behind a tree.
Behind Dahlia, the battle between Franks and his target waged. There was not a single stoppage. Each man took turns launching volley after volley. Parker’s screams had quieted. Not seeing Tree Man, she took advantage of the lull, acquired the man across the street and forced him seek cover from several shots.
“Running low, St. James,” said Franks.
Dahlia glimpsed Tree Man and fired, but he had managed to advance to the next tree. She ejected the magazine into her hand, Two…plus one in the tube, and slammed it back home. Me too. Her back to the bark, she glanced at the sedan and saw the soles of Parker’s shoes. Somehow, he had gotten into the front seat. Charity was nowhere in sight. Parker’s firearm lay in the driveway a couple feet from the car. Dahlia stared at the weapon. Can I make it?
Wood splinters hit the top of her head, and she dropped into a squatting position and spied Franks, who shook his head and held up his gun. The slide was back. Dahlia whipped her head right before coming back to him. Crouching, she put the oak between her and Tree Man, exposing herself to incoming rounds from the other assailant. She raised her voice. “Are you out, Franks?” The man nodded, and she rolled her hand in front of her mouth. Come on. Speak to me. “Are you out of ammunition?”
“I’m out,” he yelled back.
She placed the front sight at the corner of the parked vehicle across the street. Show yourself. Her back absorbed the remaining energy of the projectiles hitting the tree. Show yourself. More thumps behind her. The report from Tree Man’s muzzle seemed right next to her ear. Sooner rather than later, please. His head popped out around the bumper, and Dahlia closed her left eye before letting loose a single precise shot. Red mist haloed the man’s head before he disappeared from sight.
Dahlia spun around. Backpedaling, she fired twice in Tree Man’s direction to keep him busy. The Walther’s slide locked open. Dropping the gun and spinning around, she sprinted for Parker’s gun. Reaching the end of the grass, she threw her feet forward and slid on her right hip. The leather jacket and skirt cushioned the landing. The outer part of her lower thigh scraped across the concrete surface, ripping open a gaping hole in her sheer nylons. She grabbed the gun and laid out flat; however, Tree Man had the jump on her. The end of his gun looked like a cosmic black hole. So, this is it. This is how my life—
A hail of gunfire came from the left, out of Dahlia’s sight. The reports were not the nine mils that had filled the air for the last few minutes. No, these were louder, ear-piercing cracks. Those are forties.
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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Chapter 20: Souvenirs
Tree Man’s black suit coat split open in several places before holes appeared on his neck and face. He fell onto the front lawn without getting off the coveted kill shot.
Charity screwed up her face and looked away. A single one hundred and eighty grain, forty-caliber hollow point bullet could do a lot of damage to the human body; several could be devastating. She holstered the Glock 23 and ran back around to the front passenger seat, where Parker was lying, and bleeding. Pushing Franks aside, she undid the injured man’s tie, “Give me yours too,” climbed into the vehicle and dropped to her knees. After knotting the ties together, she secured them around Parker’s leg, an inch above the gash.
Charity wrapped one end around her hand and gave the other to Franks. “Take this and pull hard.” She and Franks wrenched and the prone man yelled, his upper body coming off the seat. “Sorry, but it has to be tight.” She pressed on the center of the first knot and looked up at Franks. “Make another knot. I’ll hold it.”
Ten seconds later, Parker screamed again before his head fell back. “Damn, that hurts.”
Charity patted his chest. “But, you’re still alive.” She glimpsed Franks. “We need to get him to a doctor ASAP.” She cranked her head around. “And, I don’t think this car’s going anywhere anytime soon.”
Franks saw what she was looking at—steam rising from the car’s hood. He nodded and backed out of the sedan, fishing for his cell. Before he could place a call, the Mercedes from down the street barreled into the driveway. The front end bounced off the hard surface, and the S-Class luxury vehicle skidded to a halt alongside the disabled sedan. The passenger window was down and a woman was behind the wheel.
Dahlia jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “Put him in the back.”
They drove five kilometers and got on Autobahn 96. Dahlia pulled back on the gearshift, let off the clutch and jammed her right foot to the floor. The engine roared and the Mercedes lunged forward. “Okay, Franks, now what?” Her boots and hand worked the pedals and stick shift a few more times, and the S-Class raced along at a hundred thirty-five kilometers per hour.
Kneeling in the back seat, the agent broke away from a phone call. “Just keep going west. I’m working on a rally point now.” He turned back and spoke into the cell. “I’ve got an injured man in need of immediate medical attention. This is Agent Franklin Franks…”
Dahlia and Charity exchanged looks, but repressed snickers.
“That’s right, Franks…2-3-9-2-3-7-0-1-1.” A moment passed, while the person on the other end verified his number sequence. “We’re just outside Munich, heading west on 96. We need a medical team to meet us en route.”
While Franks hammered out the details, Dahlia settled back in the seat and shot glances at her right thigh. She wrapped the loose piece of her nylons around her hand and yanked, tearing the section free.
Charity watched her toss the fabric onto the console and eyed the woman’s leg. “You’re bleeding.”
“That seems to be,” Dahlia checked the rearview mirror, “par for the course today.” She changed lanes, rocked her foot and added to their speed. Fingers touched her leg and she jumped. “What
are you doing?”
Charity picked debris from the wound. “You’ve got stones or…pebbles…or something embedded in your skin.”
Dahlia chuckled. “Souvenirs from our trip.”
Charity grabbed a water bottle and the small piece of Dahlia’s stocking from the console, soaked the material and dabbed the woman’s abrasions. “That’s the best I can do. It’s a little cleaner.”
Dahlia glimpsed the leg, “Thanks,” and faced her caregiver. “I remember telling you to stay down back there. Th—”
“Hey I—”
Staring through the windshield, Dahlia’s hand shot up. “Let me finish, please.” She waited a beat. “I told you to stay down back there.” She turned toward Charity. “Thank you…for not listening to me.”
“You’re welcome.” Charity peered out her window. “Hardy will be glad to hear those two weeks of training paid off.”
“Hardy’s glad?” Dahlia put a hand to her chest. “I’m glad. I’m ecstatic.” She held out a fist.
Charity studied the knuckles.
“Don’t leave me hanging here, girl.” The women exchanged a fist-bump. “Now.” The word was a sentence all by itself. “How the hell,” she looked out the window, “did those guys find us so fast? It was almost as if they had been following us.” She paused. “But, they couldn’t have been…unless I missed them. But, even if they were, why wait? We were in the safe house for an hour. Why wouldn’t they just storm the place and take us right away? That makes no sense. The way those guys operated, they had to be KSK again.” She slowly nodded her head. “A three-man team; just like the first one. Their tactics were solid. Two men drew our fire, while a third flanked us.” Thinking, Dahlia strummed her fingers on the wheel.
From the back seat: “Ma’am?”
Charity turned.
Parker stared at her. “Thank you for what you did.” Before Charity shot the last assailant, she had dragged the wounded man into the front seat of the shot-up sedan, getting him out of the line of fire. The man glanced at his leg. “Thank you for this too.”
Charity smiled and nodded, “You’re welcome, Agent Parker,” and faced forward. Glimpsing Dahlia’s thigh—and the bandage under the woman’s torn leather jacket—Charity sniggered. “I guess I’m slowly becoming the team’s medic.”
Dahlia did not hear the quip. Her mind was running scenarios, replaying everything from the time she and Charity had entered Hoffman-Koch Labs to the present. “Cherry, did you take anything when we were at the lab? Did you bump into anyone, speak to anyone?”
“You and I were together the whole time. And, as for taking something, I only took the list of names from Dr. Kimmler, the ones with level-five clearance.”
Resting an elbow on the door, Dahlia ran fingers through her hair. “It almost seems as if they had eyes on us the whole time. But how?”
“Take the exit for Gilching,” said Franks. “We’re meeting up with medical personnel.” He looked at Parker, “You’re going to be fine,” and swung his head toward the front seat. “Another car will be waiting for us too. I’ll be taking you two to the rendezvous point myself.”
“Good,” Dahlia jutted out her chin, “I’m sure they’re searching for this ride right now.” She waited. “They probably even have a…tracking…device…on it.” She fumbled through her coat pockets and came up with the security card she had taken from Man 1 in the alley. “Son of a—” she held up the card among her, Charity and Franks, whose head and shoulders were wedged between the front seats. “This is how they knew where to find us.”
Charity pushed her brows together before arching them and slowly nodding her head. “RF—”
“ID,” said Dahlia.
Franks took the card, “Radio-Frequency Identification,” and turned it over in his hands. “They’re putting those chips in everything these days. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s one in here.” He pressed a button and the back window rolled down. “If they’re tracking us through this, then we’ve got to get rid of it.”
“Hold on.” Dahlia turned up a palm. “Give it to me.” She examined the card. “How long before we get to Gilching?”
Franks checked his watch. “Thirteen minutes, why?”
She flicked the card between her fingers. “They can’t find us that quickly. I’ve got an idea.” Her boot went closer to the floor, and the speedometer displayed the numbers 1-5-0…1-5-1…1-5-2.
Charity’s phone buzzed. “It’s Hardy.” She put the cell to her ear. “What’s up, Hardy?”
“You haven’t answered your phone. Is everything all right?”
“We must’ve passed through a dead zone.” She saw no point in telling him, worrying him about their latest brush with death. “What’s up?”
“I’m sending you a photo of a man we think was heading up experiments on animals in a makeshift lab, using Anthrax and other viruses. I need you to tell me if he’s the man you met with at Hoffman-Koch.”
“Hold on. I’m putting you on speaker.” She tapped the screen a few times, brought up the picture and turned the device toward Dahlia.
“Bingo,” said Dahlia. “That’s the guy.”
Charity hauled in the cell. “He looks a little different in person, but that’s definitely him.”
“Thanks, Cherry. The man we apprehended has confirmed the man in the photo as the doctor in charge of the operations at the warehouse. We’re working with German authorities to have Kimmler held for questioning.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Yes, get out of the country. Where are you now?”
Charity remembered the name of the city Franks had mentioned. “We just left Munich and we’re coming up on Gilching.”
Hardy checked his watch. “You’re just now leaving? What’s the hold up?”
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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Chapter 21: Something Interesting
4:41 p.m. (Local Time)
National Crime Agency
Hamilton’s Office
“Damn it!” Hamilton and Cruz whirled their heads toward Hardy. Getting the details of the second gunfight from Charity, he slammed his fist on the desk. “Damn it!” He planted a hand on a hip and cursed twice more. “All right, Cherry, put Franks on…Franks, it’s Shepherd. My people are on foreign soil with every law enforcement agency in the country thinking they’re murderers. Getting caught is not an option. I have their extraction covered, but you need to get them to the rendezvous point…alive.”
“They got the jump on me once. It won’t happen again.”
“Copy that. I’m entrusting you with precious cargo. Don’t—”
“I won’t let you down, Shep. They’ll get there.”
Hardy disconnected the call and tossed the mobile onto the desk. Leaning forward, he put his palms on the furniture. Starting at one end, he swept everything off the surface—at least that is what he wanted to do. Standing erect, hands balled, he glared at Hamilton. “I want Kimmler in custody before the day is over.” He pointed. “Do you have any contacts in Germany, anyone who can fast track this?”
Cruz touched his upper arm. “What happened?” Hardy told Charity’s tale, and Cruz folded hands around her nose and mouth.
Hardy raised his own hand. “Don’t worry. They’re fine. Dahlia’s got more cuts and scrapes, but they’re both fine.” He paused. “Cherry says they’re getting a little hangry, but other than that...”
“Hangry?” said Hamilton.
He mimed making a snowball. “It’s a mish mash of words…hungry, angry.”
“Oh,” she tipped her head back, “Oh,” and nodded, “I get it.”
He arched his eyebrows. “Those German contacts?”
Hamilton picked up the desk phone. “I’ll start making—”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” said a voice from the doorway. “I found something interesting.”
She put the receiver back in the cradle. “What is it?”
Wearing a navy blue business suit, tan nylo
ns and blue pumps, a woman in her mid-to-late-twenties, blonde hair in a bun, sporting designer eyeglasses, handed a piece of paper to Hamilton. “Doctor Robert Kimmler has a residence not far from here, up in Stratford. I did a quick check of phone records, electricity consumption, etc. and it seems someone’s been living there. I only went back a few months, but the numbers fluctuate enough to suggest that the place is not sitting idle. In fact, water and electrical usage spiked in the last day.”
Hamilton took the paper. “How’s that possible? Our intel says Kimmler is single and lives alone in Germany.”
“Even if he has a second home,” said Hardy, “Kimmler met with our people in Munich just a few hours ago. There’s no way he could have made it to…” he looked at the female analyst and rolled his hand.
“Stratford,” she said.
“Yes, Stratford…there’s no way he can be in two places at once.”
Hamilton eyed the paperwork. “He might have someone house sitting.”
“May I see that?” Cruz took the sheet of paper from Hamilton. “This says Robert Kimmler.” She glimpsed Hardy out of the corner of her eye. “Cherry said she met with a Richard Kimmler.”
Hardy pointed at the paper in her hands. “You see his picture. It’s the same man Cherry and the guy we have in lockup ID’d. It must be a mix-up on the name. Maybe his middle name is Robert or Richard and he goes by one or the other.”
She wagged a finger at him. “Was Cherry a hundred percent sure it was the same man?”
He nodded. “Yes…she said…he looked different in person, but that it was definitely him.”
Cruz stared at the wall behind Hamilton’s desk. “Different in person,” she tapped her lips with a forefinger, “Different in…” She cocked her head. Her eyes widened.
Hamilton saw the other woman’s expression. Recognition washed over Hamilton’s face. She acknowledged the analyst, “Thank you, Jessica,” while lunging for the desk phone. “This is Ellen Hamilton. I need a team geared up and ready to go in twenty minutes.”
