by Alex Ander
Charity smiled and glanced at his chest. “Thanks.” She bobbed her head. “That makes me feel better.”
“As for those other things you mentioned…the running and gunning? From what Dahlia has told me,” Hardy glimpsed the bed, “and seeing the blood stains on your clothes, you’re not that far away from being a kick-butt covert operative yourself.”
She let out a puff of air. “Well, I’m not so sure about that, but thank you anyway.”
“Now, get dressed. We need you out there.” Hardy went to the door and put a hand on the knob. Half turning around, he stared at the floor. “As I said, I never wanted you on my team. Now, however, I’d fight tooth and nail to keep you.” He flashed a smile and left.
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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Chapter 27: RAS
“Does anyone know,” Hardy said over his shoulder, “how to work this thing?” One of the extras of the room was a Nespresso coffee maker. He bent over. “What buttons do I hit?”
“Over here,” said Cruz, holding up a cup.
“Thanks.” He took a sip and sat on the end of the couch—to Dahlia’s left—smacking his lips.
Hamilton leaned back and interlaced her fingers on top of her head. “So, which is better…Nespresso or my Jura?”
Hardy had a snappy comeback locked and loaded, but decided to throw her a bone. “This is good, but the cup I had in your office was delicious. I might have to get one of those for my apartment.” He took another drink. “What time do you usually leave work, Hamilton? And, do you lock your office door?”
Hamilton’s fingers pecked away at the keys. “Security cameras, my friend, security cameras…they can’t be beat.”
Hardy sensed Dahlia’s eyes boring a hole into his skull. “Says who?” he said to Hamilton before facing Dahlia and shaking his head. “It’s not you.” He held up two crossed fingers. “You and Cherry are solid.”
Dahlia’s shoulders dropped, and she leaned back on the couch.
Lifting the cup to his mouth, he noticed the other women staring at him. “She was feeling…not needed. I assured her that wasn’t the case. She’s good.”
For the next couple of hours, everyone had noses stuck in computers, periodically coming up for sips of coffee. Hardy figured out how to operate the Nespresso machine and was having fun playing barista, serving up everyone’s favorite beverage. At 3:30 in the morning, they gathered to compare notes.
Cruz referenced her notepad. “There were three terror attacks in the last eighteen months; two biological and one weapon-related that RAS,” —they had abbreviated the group’s name, partly for the sake of ease and partly because Hardy butchered it anyway— “took credit for and which can be substantiated by law enforcement.”
Cruz flipped a page. “The two biological attacks, one in a London subway, the other on a commuter train, claimed the lives of more than one hundred people and injured dozens more. The small arms attack resulted in the deaths of nearly thirty-six people. Again, dozens more were wounded. All of the terrorists who carried out the acts killed themselves. Once their identities were obtained, law enforcement officials were able to trace them back to RAS.”
Sitting at the end of the couch, Dahlia to his right, Hardy uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “What do we know about the group? Who is the leader?”
Hamilton held her notepad in one hand and ran the other through her hair. “RAS is a relative newcomer to the playing field. So new that no one person has been ID’d as a top person.” She licked a finger and separated two pages. “Based on my research, I can loosely link a Hamid Marsullah to the two biological acts that Cruz mentioned. And, when I say loosely, I mean sand-in-the-hand loose.”
Hardy sipped his coffee. “Were you able to find anything on him?”
Hamilton shook her head. “No, he’s kept a low profile over the years. In fact, RAS has kept a low profile.” She pointed. “Cruz said that RAS took credit for those three attacks. Actually, that intel was obtained through questioning members of other terrorist groups.”
Cruz nodded. “That’s true.”
“From there, LE was able to verify the information.”
Hardy sat back and held the espresso in his lap. “So, we have a rookie group that is launching attacks, but staying under the radar…doesn’t want to draw attention to itself. Why? That’s what these nutjobs thrive on, the fame and the glory.”
“Maybe they’re finally realizing that if they keep quiet, they have a better chance of eluding us.” Hamilton held up a finger. “Or, maybe they have something big planned and they don’t want to be tripped up over a trivial attack.”
Dahlia held up her hands. “What difference does it make…the why? If RAS is involved and planning a nasty attack, then we find them and take them down.”
Hardy faced her. “Know thy enemy, Dahlia. The ‘whys’ can lead us to the ‘whos’ and the ‘wheres.’”
Having put on her jeans and blouse, Charity planted both one-inch flats on the floor and sat erect. “We got something.” Her fingers flew over the keyboard.
Hardy abandoned his cup and leaned closer to Dahlia, who leaned closer to Charity; both wanted a better view of the laptop. He rolled a hand. “Don’t keep us waiting, Cherry. What is it?”
“Facial recognition software picked up Richard Kimmler walking through an airport terminal in Barcelona; however, the probability is only at twenty-nine percent.”
Dahlia spun the laptop to see the screen better. “Did you get a hit off my algorithm?”
Charity switched screens and ran the data through Dahlia’s program. “Yes…sixty-nine percent.”
Dahlia eyed Hardy. “Are we going to Barcelona?”
He squinted at her for several seconds before observing Charity. “Any way you can bump up those numbers, Cherry?”
Her hands folded around her nose and mouth, she sounded like Darth Vader when she breathed. She spoke into her hands, “I think so,” before tapping the touchpad. “With some help merging facial rec with gait rec…” Charity peeked at Dahlia out of the corner of her eye, and the woman smiled. “…we might be able to improve upon the percentage and track his whereabouts.”
Hardy nodded. “Do what you have to. How long before we know something?”
Charity eyed Dahlia. “I’d say one…”
“Two hours at the most,” said Dahlia, nodding.
Hardy stood. “I’ll start making the travel arrangements.” He gestured. “Cruz, Hamilton, get an hour or two of sleep.” A duet of ‘I’m good’ came back. “Please, ladies, I’m going to need you fresh when it’s go time. Once I get our ride ready, I’m getting some nap time too.” He faced the women on the couch. “Do you two need to be awake, while this thing is doing its job?”
“We should only need,” said Charity, “about fifteen minutes to verify everything’s working.”
He pointed, while digging out his mobile. “Make sure your eyes are shut in fifteen.”
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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Chapter 28: Benefit Package
5:23 a.m.
Hardy zipped shut the last of several duffel bags containing the equipment Hamilton had brought from her agency. “Okay, that should do it.” He glanced around the hotel room. “Where’s Cruz?”
Dahlia pointed. “In the bedroom. She was the last one to shower.”
He put his hands on two large duffels. “Leave the heavy ones for me and get the rest into Hamilton’s car. We’ll be down in a minute.”
She twirled the tattered, but trusty, leather jacket around her shoulders and flipped out her hair. “Thanks for the duds.” Beneath the jacket, she wore new blue jeans, a white turtleneck shirt under a dark blue sweater, and her black knee boots. “They’re a perfect fit.”
His back to her, he went to the bedroom. “You have Cruz to thank for that. She placed the order and had the store send everything here.” He rapped on the door. “It’s me. I’m coming in.”
Wearing white high-cut cotton br
iefs, her back to him and her head down, Cruz clasped together the ends of a front-closure white bra. Turning around, she pulled the straps over her shoulders and adjusted herself. “What’s up?”
Closing the door, he motioned behind him. “We’re all set to go…just a couple bags left to take downstairs.” He let her get into a pair of black jeans before interlocking his fingers at the small of her back and drawing her close.
Placing her hands on his pectoral muscles, she tipped her head back and studied him. His face muscles were taut, but his eyes were gentle. The tenderness reminded her of times when they were alone. “Are you okay?”
He sniggered. “Actually, that was what I came in here to ask you.”
She frowned and tilted her head.
“My gut tells me this operation is going to speed up when our feet hit the ground in Spain.” He scratched his chin on his shoulder. “And, I haven’t had a chance to talk to you about things.”
“What things?”
“You know, what happened during the training exercise, the man at the warehouse, what we talked about afterward…outside the warehouse.” He slipped one hand under the bra’s band; the other caressed her shoulder beneath a strap. “I need to know how you’re doing with all this. You’re not in the States. This isn’t familiar territory for you—the breakneck speed, the flying from one country to another, catching sleep when you can,” he glanced around, “in a hotel room.”
Cruz smiled. “You’re always looking out for everyone else, aren’t you?”
He spied the gold crucifix and chain around her neck. “That’s my job.” He waited a beat before curling up one side of his mouth. “Of course with you I get to mix business with pleasure.”
She ran an index finger across his lips before rising to her tiptoes and giving him a quick peck. “I know that. I didn’t take this job for the pay.” She kissed him again, a beat longer. “I signed up for the benefits.”
Sliding his hands to her hips, he tilted his head forward, so they were nose-to-nose, and gave her a devilish grin. “Just let me know when you want to make a claim on that benefit…” He looked down for a split-second. “…package.”
Cruz’s eyes bulged.
“As your plan administrator, it’s my duty to see that those under me are satisfied.”
Her cheeks reddened and her jaw fell open.
He turned his head, “Wait a minute,” and gazed at her, one eye squinting. “Are we still talking about the job?”
Cruz cupped his chin, her thumb playing with the dimple in the center. She smiled, “I don’t think you ever were,” and kissed him. “We need to go, and I need to get dressed.” Sticking both arms into a white long-sleeved blouse, she lifted her arms above her head.
Hardy pressed his body against hers, hands on her hips, the playful look replaced with stoicism. “All kidding aside, how are you doing with everything?”
Cruz wrapped the shirt around his neck and pulled. “I’m good. As a wise man recently reminded me…all of this is in God’s hands.” Poking her head into the garment’s opening, she donned the shirt. “I’ll be fine.” She held his face. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Cruz smiled. “Let’s go. People are waiting on us.”
… … … … …
6:13 a.m.; Heathrow Airport
Hardy handed off a small bag to Cruz and motioned toward the Gulfstream V. “I’ll be there in a minute. I need a word with Hamilton.” After Cruz left, he faced the NCA officer. “I wish you could come with us, Ellen.”
Shifting her weight to one foot, “Me too,” she stuck her fingers into her back pockets, “but my authority begins and ends on British soil.”
Hardy set a big duffel bag on the tarmac. “What if I said I might be able to get that changed?”
She studied him. “Changed how?”
“You didn’t hear this from me, but rumor has it your government is looking to put together,” he paused to find the right words, “special teams…to fight terrorism on a broader scale.”
She tilted her forehead toward the jet. “You mean like your band of merry men? Excuse me…your band of merry women.”
Thinking of Cruz, Dahlia and Charity, Hardy chuckled. I hope I can keep them all merry. He had never led an all-woman team, and he was feeling his way through the process. In the past, if one of his male subordinates got out of hand, a few harsh words, possibly some rough handling, shut down the attitude. Women, he speculated, would require different tactics.
He pointed his chin at her. “You think you might be interested?”
For half a minute, Hamilton stared at the pavement, shooting glances at the plane, envisioning those inside. She squinted at Hardy. “I think I would.”
He slung the duffel over his shoulder, hugged her with the unfettered arm and kissed her on the cheek. “Don’t be surprised then if men in suits show up at your door one day, wanting to escort you to see the Prime Minister.” He patted her back. “Take care, and thanks for the hospitality.”
She pointed at him, “You’ll keep me posted,” before twirling the finger at the aircraft, “on what happens?”
“Count on it.” He ascended the stairs and disappeared into the fuselage.
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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Chapter 29: Make Out
9:56 a.m. (Local Time)
Barcelona, Spain
Hotel Barcelona Universal
Two black 4X4 Land Rover Freelanders were waiting for Hardy and his team when the Gulfstream V touched down at Barcelona’s El Prat Airport. He and Cruz led the way to Barcelona in one vehicle, and Dahlia and Charity followed in the other.
Parked in front of a McDonald’s restaurant on Avinguda del Paral·lel, wrist on the steering wheel, Hardy stared across the street at the Hotel Barcelona Universal. Clockwise from him sat Cruz, Charity and Dahlia. During the drive from the airport, Charity had briefed everyone on Kimmler’s whereabouts.
Using her and Dahlia’s algorithms, Charity determined—with a ninety-three percent accuracy rating—the man caught on camera walking through El Prat was Richard Kimmler. He rented a car and drove to this hotel, checking in at 6:19 last night. Forty minutes later, he drove to a desolate location northwest of Caldes de Montbui, an hour north of Barcelona. Charity got a hit on the man’s credit card at 11:34 p.m. at the hotel’s lounge. Tapping into security cameras, she saw him entering his room five minutes later, where he stayed until morning.
Charity pushed her eyeglasses further up her nose. “Kimmler used the exercise room at six-thirty this morning and left the hotel an hour later. At 8:16, he used his credit card at…” she squinted, “Los Cachitos. By 8:30, he was back at the hotel. I’ve been monitoring the cameras and he hasn’t left his room.”
Hardy spied his watch—9:59. “You say he has a flight scheduled to take off at one?”
Charity pressed the ALT & TAB keys. “It’s a one-ten flight to Liverpool.”
Still staring at the watch, Hardy thought aloud. “He’s going to want to get to the airport by noon. It was about a twenty-minute drive from there to here.” He bobbed his head. “I would think he’d want to leave by eleven-thirty at the latest.”
Dahlia leaned forward. “We can’t let him get on that plane. There were four-plus hours unaccounted for last night.” Using GPS, Charity had tracked Kimmler’s rental car, but there were no cameras at the destination. “He came to this country for a reason. We need to know that reason.”
Cruz faced Hardy. “We’ve got an hour and a half to figure something out.”
“I say we knock on his door,” said Dahlia, “stick a gun in his face and start asking questions.”
He glimpsed her in the rearview mirror and smiled inwardly. Always a hammer in search of a nail. I’m going to have to teach you the finer points of this business. “No, that won’t work, Dahlia. I don’t believe Dr. Kimmler will be too forthcoming with answers. He’ll need to be persuaded, and that—”
She raised a hand. “If
you’re looking for volunteers, persuasion is a specialty of mine. Plus, I’d love a crack at the man who tried to kill me…twice.”
Hardy shook his head. “We need privacy. A hotel room is anything but.” They sat in silence for a few minutes. The only sounds were breathing and Charity’s fingers tapping on a keyboard. He pivoted in the seat and squinted at her. “You know the make, model and license plate of Kimmler’s rental?” She nodded. “Where is it right now?”
“It’s at a parking structure around the corner, Saba…Bamsa…”
Hardy turned back, thinking of the equipment he had requested to be included with the Freelanders. Charity finished pronouncing the name and told him the location was two minutes away. Closing one eye, he observed Cruz for a few moments. “Let’s stretch our legs.” He pointed toward the backseat. “You two stay with the car. Cherry, keep an eye on your laptop and wait for my call.”
… … … … …
Hardy and Cruz entered the parking garage. Fifteen minutes later, they found Kimmler’s rental. His head scanning all directions, Hardy reached into a coat pocket, “Keep watch,” and took a knee beside the left-front tire. Cruz had her back to him, pretending to use her cell phone. Hardy attached a device to the inside of the tire’s rim, gave the tiny object a tug and stood. After another scan of the area, he dialed Charity and gave her instructions.
“I have a strong signal, Hardy. You’re good to go.”
He stowed the mobile and took Cruz’s elbow. “Cherry says we’re good. Let’s go.”
They crossed Avinguda del Paral·lel and strode down the sidewalk, the chunky two-inch heels of Cruz’s black knee boots clicking off the concrete. Hardy looked up at a sign for a Subway restaurant. “We should come here sometime.”
Cruz followed his gaze. “We have lots of Subways back home.”
He chuckled. “No, I mean—”
“I know what you meant.” She took in the scene. “Not bad, but I think there are places we haven’t seen yet in the good old U.S. of A.”
