by Alex Ander
The plan called for Cruz and Dahlia to intercept the terrorists and secure the virus. Hardy’s job was to play ‘safety,’ a football position that was the last line of defense to prevent a touchdown. Having the best sight line, Hardy was the last line of defense to stop a plague.
Dahlia: “The train’s coming. I repeat…the train is pulling into the station—over.”
“Copy that,” said Hardy. “Remember, you’re cleared to go hot if you have to. Just get close to minimize casualties.” He rubbed his hands together, drew in a breath through his nostrils and slowly blew out the air through pursed lips.
Hardy watched people scurry from one place to another. Always busy, the train station had started the five o’clock rush. Men and women would be leaving work early to get a jump on the weekend. Travelers would be setting off on weekend getaways. Soon, the gaps among the passengers below would disappear. He brought his right elbow closer to his body and touched the Walther under his jacket. I sure hope we don’t have to use these. “Cruz, we could use one of your prayers right about now…for our protection and for the well-being of the innocents.”
Cruz: “Already done and done—over.”
“Do what you have to, to secure the virus. Take the shot if you have it. No hesitation.”
… … … … …
Cruz could barely make out Hardy between the branches and leaves of foliage in the center of the concourse. No hesitation. Was that meant for me? Her mind drifted back to the warehouse, and the man barreling down her. Her finger had been on the trigger, but something kept her from shooting him. At first, she thought it was indecision. Later, she learned she would have killed an innocent man had she pulled the trigger. Was it fate…or faith? Discreetly, Cruz made the sign of the cross, touching her forehead, chest, left and right shoulder. You put me here for a reason, Lord. Help me carry out Your will. In Jesus name, I pray. Amen.
… … … … …
The Siemens-manufactured AVE Class 103 high-speed train stopped. The doors opened, and three hundred and ninety-two passengers flooded the platform. Dahlia scanned as many people as she could, but there were too many to get a good look at each one. Her head pivoted back and forth; mostly men and women, a few children bouncing, some holding a parent’s hand, rushed to their destination. She took an extra second to watch a little girl play imaginary hopscotch. When the girl hopped to the next square, a reflection caught Dahlia’s attention, and she straightened. “I think I’ve got something.” Her head bobbed back and forth. She went to her tiptoes and spotted it, a silver case. “A man of average height and build, wearing a black…” she squinted, “varsity type jacket—blue ribbing at the wrists and hem—khaki pants and dark hair. Cruz, he’ll be coming up on your position in ten…nine…eight…seven…six…five…”
Cruz: “I’ve got him…falling in behind in three seconds—over.”
“Copy that,” said Dahlia, resuming her search for the second terrorist. The flow of departing travelers had slowed to a trickle. She whipped her head left and right. “The train’s almost empty and I’ve got no joy on target two. I repeat…no eyes on target two—over.”
… … … … …
Charity pressed keys and scanned the laptop, scrutinizing each split screen camera angle.
Hardy: “Do you have anything, Red Ryder?”
“I need silence,” she shot back, while pounding keys.
“Go back,” said Kimmler, pointing at the upper left quadrant. “I think I saw something on camera number three.”
Charity switched back, and saw what Kimmler had seen, or at least a quick peek before the man carrying a shiny attaché left the screen. Knowing the placement of each camera and the direction the man was heading, she brought up camera six. A second later, the man came into view. “Target two has just entered the plaza. He’s wearing a gray hoodie, blue jeans and white shoes. I can’t see his face. He has the hood up.”
Dahlia: “I’m on it.
… … … … …
Dahlia fast walked into the interior plaza, not wanting to draw attention. “Guide me in, Red Ryder. I’m in the main area.”
“You’re…on his seven o’clock, thirty steps back.”
“Copy that.” Dahlia picked up her pace, moving in the opposite clock direction Charity had given her. Left and right, she tilted her head, stealing glances around those in front of her. “Excuse me.” She pushed between a man and woman. Over her shoulder, Dahlia heard a vulgar word from the woman. Well, that was just rude. Finding a gap, she broke into a short trot before meeting a wall of people.
“Dahlia, he’s veered off and heading toward the men’s room,” said Charity.
Dahlia made a beeline for the men’s room. “Feed me intel, Red Ryder. Feed me.”
“Dahlia, this is Shepherd, your target just walked into the restroom. I’m coming to assist.”
“Negative, Shepherd. I can handle this. My man is cornered. Maintain overwatch on Cruz’s target. He’s still roaming.”
… … … … …
Hardy moved back to his position at the railing. Dahlia’s tactics were solid. As long as target two was in the men’s room, everyone knew his location. He found Cruz’s fluorescent pink ribbon among the crowd. Both she and Dahlia had worn their hair in high ponytails, securing them with brightly colored wide ribbons. “Copy that. Cruz, your man has stopped. I lost him.” A moment passed. “I got him. He’s sitting down. His back is to the plants in the middle of the plaza. The case is at his feet.” Hardy squinted. “He just put it on his lap. It looks like he’s going to open the briefcase. Cruz, are you seeing this? Move in. Move in. Take him down, now.”
… … … … …
Dahlia entered the men’s room. She was greeted by several stares from men washing their hands at the sink. Those standing at the urinals cranked their heads toward her; faces paled and hands fumbled at the groin. Her Walther in hand, she scanned the floor for the attaché. “No need to be ashamed, boys.” She squatted and looked under the first stall, leading with the PPQ M2, a six-inch Surefire Ryder 9M sound suppressor attached to the gun’s four point six-inch barrel. “Mine’s bigger than all yours.”
With men hurrying for the exit behind her, she went from stall to stall, until she came to the last one. It’s always the last door. Shoes faced outward, the case alongside the toilet. A door opened a few stalls away. A man came out, hoisting his pants. Dahlia glared at him. He ran, colliding with another man. The second man eyed her pistol, and both bolted out of the bathroom. With the door shut, sounds were absent. Smells were not, however. A pungent and acidic odor perforated her nostrils. Better wrap this up before I pass out.
After another glimpse and seeing the case on the floor, Dahlia pushed on the door; it was locked. A moment later, the bolt slid back. Dahlia tightened her grip on the pistol. The door moved away from her. Raising the gun, she lowered her stance and stared at the gap next to the frame. Something landed on the floor to her right, and she whipped her head toward the source. Spotting the empty soda bottle rolling toward the wall, she groaned inwardly and tried to recover, but it was too late. The metal struck her hands, and the Walther spit out a bullet. The projectile zipped through a door and two stall walls.
After throwing the attaché at Dahlia, the man grabbed her pistol, charged, drove his right shoulder into her left breast and pinned her flat against the wall. Ouch. The PPQ discharged another round into the floor. Dahlia screwed up her face and rose up on tiptoes, trying to free the trapped breast. Son-of—Fingernails dug into her hand, and her attention snapped back to the gun.
Focusing on gaining control of the M2, she missed the incoming elbow; it hit her square in the forehead. Her head bounced off the brick wall. Stars mixed with the restroom lights, and her vision darkened. A second elbow strike smashed into her right temple. She flew into the corner face first, the weapon ripped from her grasp. Her hands shot up, saving a broken nose. Shaking her head, she fought the oncoming black hole, dizziness. Damn it, he has my gun.
> … … … … …
Screaming and yelling, people scattered in all directions, creating a hole in the center of the plaza. In the middle, Cruz stared down the sights of her Glock 23. A man sat on a bench staring back at her—a metal briefcase on his lap, fingers poised over the latches. She barely rotated her head. “Don’t do it.” She had no idea if he spoke English, but she hoped the universal language of having a gun pointed at one’s face would get her message across.
In his early twenties, the dark-skinned man sized up his opponent. He scowled. An infidel…and a woman. Rage burned in his belly, as he analyzed her features. Even though her skin was dark like his was, she spoke the language of the idolaters. English. She’s American. He frowned, his face hardening with every moment that passed. Reading the woman, he moved his thumbs to the latch release. She’s weak. She doesn’t have the stomach for this, to kill an unarmed man. He added a crooked grin to his glare. Taunting her, he slid a square button to the right. A single latch popped up. The sound could be heard over the scattering people. You won’t do it. You can’t do it. His other thumb touched the second release. You dirty filthy American whor—
… … … … …
Dahlia spun around and saw the sound suppressor two feet from her nose. The man was pulling the trigger and shaking the gun. When the sidearm fired earlier, the hands wrapped around the slide had produced a malfunction. If he had had any experience with guns, he would have known how to get the machine operating again. Curling up one side of her mouth, she snarled and half closed one eye. My turn you stupid son of a—
Dahlia’s hands rocked upward. She clamped onto the pistol’s sound suppressor, while thrusting her left hand and arm between the man’s forearms, “I’ll take,” breaking his hold on her PPQ, “this.” She pivoted and delivered an elbow strike of her own. Her accuracy was better than his was.
The terrorist’s nose spewed blood. Bellowing, he covered his face and staggered backward.
Dahlia set the nine millimeter on the counter, examined the red spots on her beloved leather jacket and sighed. Taking a small step, she leapt into the air and rammed a booted heel into the man’s chest. His back slammed against the wall. A hollow thud followed when his head hit the brick. Recovering, he threw a feeble right cross. Sidestepping the punch, Dahlia grabbed the arm and brought it down, while lifting a knee. A sickening crack echoed off the restroom’s interior. Her belly pressed to his back, she wrapped her left arm around his neck and locked the fist in the crook of her right arm. Flexing both arms, she brought the man to the floor and leaned back against the wall. She crisscrossed her legs around his waist and waited.
His body twisting and convulsing, the assailant flailed one arm. The other arm, the broken one, flopped. Thirty seconds later, the halfhearted attempts ceased. Decision time for Dahlia had arrived. Let go and let him live, or maintain the hold and…
… … … … …
Hardy pushed past fleeing people who were going the wrong way on the down escalator. The firearm in his hand motivated most to move to the side. Hitting the floor in full stride, he dodged and darted around scared men and women. Breaking away from the crowd, he pulled up short and held his Walther loosely at his side. Twenty feet away, Cruz was seated on the bench next to a body slumped over backward, head lolled to one side, a gaping hole where the left eye had been. A perfect shot.
Holstering his weapon, Hardy watched his teammate, his girlfriend, her head bowed, gun in one hand, the other on the dead man’s heart. Hardy squinted. Her lips moved, but he heard no words. Lowering his head, he ambled forward.
… … … … …
It did not matter to Cruz the life a person led. When that someone passed from this world, he or she had no more power over one’s spiritual destination. The least she could do was say a prayer for the departed. Lord, have mercy on this man. Only You know his heart. Only You know what drove him to this point. If it be Your will, spare him eternal damnation. But, let not my will be done, but Yours. And, thank you…for the strength to do what needed to be done. She made the sign of the cross. Her eyes still closed, Cruz felt a presence and breathed deeply. “I had no choice.”
Standing still, Hardy nodded.
“I had no choice.”
He cupped the back of her head and kissed her left temple. “I know,” he whispered. Using a forefinger, he caught a teardrop running down her cheek. “They usually leave us with just one.” He stroked her head for a few moments before locking the briefcase’s hasp and picking up the shiny luggage. “Come on. Let’s get this—”
Charity’s scream reverberated through his earpiece, “Hardy, behind you. He’s got a—”
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
.
Chapter 33: Gun!
Pivoting clockwise, Hardy threw back his leather jacket, his gun out and on target a second later. The Walther PPQ M2’s trigger had a smooth stock press of five point six pounds, and traveled point four inches to release the striker. One point two inches later, Hardy had dispensed three rounds into a third assailant, who had sneaked up on him and Cruz. The man sprawled onto the floor, his pistol sliding forward and stopping a few feet away from them.
“Gun!” said Charity, finishing her warning.
Hardy pulled Cruz to the floor, both of them crouching below the bench. “Where’d he come from, Red Ryder?”
“I don’t know. I just happened to glance at that quadrant, and saw him.”
“Keep an eye out for more. Dahlia, what’s your status?” Hardy rotated his head in all directions before glimpsing Cruz. “He was plan ‘B,’ a lookout. In case something went wrong, he probably had orders to release the virus.”
“This is Dahlia. I’ve secured the package and the target—over.”
“Copy that. We’ve encountered a third man. Watch yourself. There may be more.” Wood splinters from the bench flew into the air, as bullets zipped past Hardy’s head. He dove forward, “Get down,” and pushed Cruz to the floor. Laying on her, he swung the Walther’s muzzle right.
Dahlia: “I’m on my way out, Hardy. Hang in there.”
“Stay put.” Hardy moved the gun back and forth, scanning for the shooter. “You’ve got to keep that…”
Charity: “I see him, Hardy…”
Hardy: “…virus safe.”
Charity: “…Top of the escalator at your two o’clock.”
Hardy found the man, centered among dozens of scurrying people. “I don’t have the shot.” He jumped up and pulled Cruz to her feet.
Cruz: “I’m good.” She whirled around. “I’ve got him.”
“Too many innocents…” Hardy picked up the attaché and pushed her. “That way.” A second later, the other half of the bench was shredded from gunfire. They ducked behind foliage, blocking them from the gunman’s view. “If he can’t see us, he’ll have a harder time hitting us.” He cranked his head around. “Cover us from behind, Cruz. Red Ryder, where’s the shooter?”
“He’s coming down the escalator.”
“Keep me updated, Cherry.” To Cruz: “Stay here and protect the case. I’m going after him.”
She nodded. “Be careful, Hardy.”
“I will.” He used the cover of the foliage for as long as he could before running in a low crouch toward the escalators. “Sitrep, Cherry,” —situation report— “I need a sitrep on the tango.”
“He’s…out…of the cameras. Hang tight.”
Hardy stopped and squatted at the corner of the gardens. Hang tight? He squeezed the PPQ. Come on, Cherry.
“On your level, Hardy…twelve o’clock. You should see him…right about…now.”
Hardy saw the pistol first. He took aim and fired. The man dove into The Body Shop, a beauty supply store on the main floor of the plaza. Hardy ran forward and took cover behind several vending machines arranged in a circle under an escalator landing. He leaned out, gun up, and waited. Where’d you go, you little…
After a few seconds, Hardy advanced to the next machine. Considerin
g the earlier chaos, the area was quiet. “Red Ryder, where is he?” he whispered, but no reply came. “Cherry?”
“I lost him. I’m scanning the video feeds.”
Hardy stepped out from cover and swung his pistol left toward the empty space after the last vending machine. He sidestepped to the right, muzzle forward, eyes pointing to where he was headed. Clearing a small kiosk that had chairs and back massagers for weary travelers, he faced The Body Shop and pointed the Walther at the shop’s large window. He eased to the right, staring at the last point of reference he had on the gunman. Crouching, he walked heel/toe, his eyes flitting left and right. His finger slipped inside the guard, but stayed off the trigger. Marco…
Charity: “Oh my G—Hardy, he’s…”
Hardy heard a faint clink above and behind him. Diving right and sliding backwards on his butt, he raised the nine millimeter. A bullet ricocheted off the floor where he had been standing. Charity: “…on the second floor,” Hardy’s weapon barked twice, “behind you,” and the man on the second level stiffened before leaning forward and folding over the handrail. He did one revolution and landed on his head. The first sound was a thump; the second was a crack.
Cruz: “Hardy!”
Hardy lay on his back, legs spread apart, pistol extended between them and trained on the twisted mass of arms and legs. “I’m good.” He scrambled to his feet and dashed forward. Towering over the dead man, he did not need to check for a pulse. The head rested at an unnatural angle. After a three-sixty scan of the area, including the upper levels, he jogged toward Cruz’s position. “I think we’re in the clear.” He had not gone ten feet when Dahlia and Cruz, each carrying a silver case, rounded the corner at the gardens where he had sought cover. “Cherry, watch the screens for additional threats.”
“Copy that.”
Swapping out magazines, Hardy eyed Cruz. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
