by Alex Ander
Anyone who had spent time around firearms knew the sound of gunfire. Dahlia had heard the cracks. That meant the Germans had heard them too. She backed away from the doorway. Herman ran by her. She started at his back and ran a line of bullets up to the base of his skull. He collapsed face first. She whirled around and emptied the Walther’s magazine into the room. She needed to keep the others confined. If they escaped, they could flank her.
Fumbling with her long dress, she wrapped fingers around the Glock 19 and exchanged one weapon for the other. No need for stealth now. Guns discharged and bullets left the room. Wood splinters from the racks, shards of glass from wine bottles and some of the best wine on the planet flew into the air, pelting and splattering Dahlia, while she turned away, covering her head and face.
The cacophony turned into a semi-symphony. Thirty or forty rounds of rapid fire were followed by silence, while the men reloaded. Thirty, forty rounds later, fresh magazines were slammed home again.
Drenched in sweet-smelling Port wines and dry Bordeaux’s, Dahlia pushed hair out of her face and retreated to a corner, a choke point, her best option to pick them off when they came out of the room. The Glock came up on the first man to cross her sightline. Five trigger pulls later, he slid across the floor and never moved again.
Dahlia did the math on the round count. Eleven left. More than enough. Silence consumed the cellar—no gunfire, no reloading, no movement, no whispers. They’re planning something. She left her position and darted down the row to her right. Turning left, the wooden wall where she had been standing disintegrated in a volley of sustained fire.
She dropped to her butt and curled up into a ball, her back to the end of a storage unit. More glass, wood and wine showered her head and shoulders. The noise stopped. She crawled to the last row of whatever was left of stacked wine bottles, and peeked out.
A man darted left, heading for her original position, kitty corner of where she was now. A second man rushed out, gun up, but he spotted her too late.
Lying on her side, Dahlia zipped the man, starting at the belly and finishing with a shot to an eye socket. He did a jig, dropped to his knees and fell against the wall before sliding to the floor.
Dahlia jumped up and dashed toward the room. The man who had escaped ran in the opposite direction, three rows over. Through rows of whole and broken wine bottles, the two exchanged gunfire.
Covering her face with one arm and stepping on dead bodies to protect her feet from sharp glass, Dahlia fired blindly with one hand. She charged into the tiny room, weapon up, expecting more gunfire. Instead, the only thing she was met with was emptiness. She spied her Glock, slide locked back. Tossing the two-pound paperweight, she dug out her Walther and rammed home her last magazine of twenty-twos.
Overturning a large wooden spool, she squatted behind the German’s makeshift card table. Her last nemesis made a grand entrance, striding toward her, firing his pistol. Cowering, her back to her assailant, Dahlia held out the PPQ 22 and returned fire, while the spool around her shredded into a million pieces. Her weapon stopped working. Letting go of the defensive tool, she put a shoulder to what remained of her concealment and pumped her legs.
The six-foot-six, big-footed German flew over the spool like a middle linebacker being taken out at the knees by the fullback. He landed hard on his back. His opponent had followed the laws of physics—stay low and generate power from the legs—while he had stood flatfooted, observing his own two-pound paperweight.
Dahlia slowly got to her feet, examining herself. Her wine-soaked dress was ripped at the neckline and slit down the side, but she saw no wounds or blood on her body. She assumed a fighter’s stance. “All right, Bigfoot, I’ve bested men bigger…” Dahlia’s head went backward, “than…” as the man rose to his full height, stretched and twisted his back. Okay, you may be the biggest. She danced like a boxer. Laws of physics, Dahl. You got this. The bigger they are…
Bigfoot strung together a verbal onslaught.
Knowing a dozen German words, mostly the bad ones, Dahlia concluded his slurs involved one specific part of her female anatomy. “No need for vulgarity. This isn’t personal, dude.”
Confident with the size disparity, Bigfoot dispensed with any formal fighting technique, opting for a frontal assault. He strode forward and planted his front foot.
Dahlia waited for his arm to cock before thrusting her foot into the man’s leading knee. A sound somewhere between a ‘pop’ and a ‘crack’ filled the enclosure, and BF dropped to his good knee, holding the other and crying out. She followed up with a left and right cross to the man’s cheekbone. “Physics…isn’t she a bit—”
Down on his knees, the man had enough upper body strength to shove her away. His hand closed around her dress, as he yanked back his arm.
Staggering, Dahlia caught her balance and glanced at her black bra and bikini-style underwear. She looked at BF, who stood on his good leg, threw her dress aside and smirked, ogling the area he had referenced in his insult. “Never,” she squinted. “Going,” she shook her head. “To happen.”
He limped toward her.
She leapt into the air, delivering a roundhouse kick to the side of his head. Shaking off the blow, he backhanded her across the face, and she did a one-eighty before sticking out a hand and bracing herself against the wall.
Grabbing a handful of hair, Bigfoot pulled her head back and spoke into her ear.
His hot breath on her neck producing the odor of stale cigarettes and wine, Dahlia reached behind her, found the package between his legs and squeezed. His grip on her hair loosened, and she whirled around, slamming an elbow into his eye.
He peeled away, yelling and holding the eye before unleashing another backhand, sending her sprawling to the floor.
Kissing the dirty and cracked cement, she spotted something shiny. She reached for the object, as two hands closed around her ankles. Her body being dragged over wood splinters and spent brass casings, she rolled onto her backside. Flailing her feet, she broke his hold on one foot and kicked. He let go and covered his bloodied and gushing nose.
Dahlia barrel-rolled several times and grabbed the man’s empty gun. She looked up and saw the sole of a size-thirteen boot, coming her way. She wrenched her upper body, and the foot scraped across her shoulder, landing an inch from her head.
Flat on her back, fiddling with the gun, she gasped and her head came off the floor when the big man’s full weight came down on her stomach. Pressure building in her head, she fought for air; none came. Mouth agape, eyes bulging, Dahlia stared at her adversary, straddling and sitting on her, his nose dripping blood onto her chest, a serial killer’s gaze penetrating her.
Bigfoot closed one hand around her throat, while the second flipped out the end of his belt from a loop on his pants.
Her head pinned to the floor, she thumbed a button, and a cold, empty magazine landed between her breasts.
A sneer washed over his face.
His fingers closing off her oxygen supply, she depressed the slide stop, and the gun went into battery.
He unzipped his pants.
Wheezing, she put the muzzle under Bigfoot’s chin and yanked the trigger.
His head rocked backward and his torso listed in the same direction. A moment later, he crashed onto her legs and feet before rolling to one side.
Two minutes later, rubbing her throat, Dahlia took her first full breath. She kicked the corpse twice to free her trapped leg. Gritting her teeth, she cursed and yelled, while adding several whacks to the dead man’s body. She rolled and got to her hands and knees. Head hanging, she coughed and sucked in huge gulps of air. She glanced at the Glock under her hand. When physics abandons you…she coughed…it’s nice to have one left in the chamber. She had spotted a 9mm cartridge on the floor, snatching the ammunition as she was being dragged across the concrete. Before Bigfoot sat on her, she had loaded the cartridge into the pistol’s chamber—the gun’s slide still locked open.
Standing, Dahlia sl
ipped into the tattered remnants of her dress, ran fingers through her wet hair and left the room the same way she had entered, using dead bodies for a walkway. At the top of the stairs, she stooped, curled two fingers under the straps of her sandals and tapped her earpiece. “This is Phoenix.” She breathed deeply and exhaled. “All levels of the structure have been cleared—over.”
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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Chapter 33: Human Pretzel
Cruz gaped at the man on the driveway. The back of his overcoat split apart, the result of several nine-millimeter bullets coming from a hushed MP5 to her left. Sprays and strings of blood shot upward, staining the fabric. On his belly, the man dragged himself a few inches before his face dropped onto the snow-covered pavement. Two familiar boots appeared in Cruz’s vision, followed by a knee in black tactical pants; a gloved hand came next.
“Let’s go, Cruz.”
Grabbing the hand, she wiggled out from under the car and squatted next to Hardy. She stared at the three bodies.
“Are you hit?”
She shut her eyes and lowered her head. Lord Jesus, have mercy on th—a hand clutched her upper arm.
“Cruz, are you hit?”
After a cursory inspection of her body, she shook her head. “No, I’m okay.” She faced Hardy. “Thank you.”
Hardy opened the limousine door and, “Credit goes to Mr. Pence,” leaned inside. He found what he was looking for, pressed buttons and tossed a fob aside when the main gate moved. He backed out and shut the car door. “His shots saved your life. He’s the one you need to thank.”
“I will,” Cruz moved in and planted a quick kiss on Hardy’s lips, his NVG’s hitting her in the forehead, “but it’s always nice to thank you too.” She rotated her goggles back in front of her face.
“You’re welcome. Stay alert. We don’t know how many more men are out here.” Hardy nodded at Pence, who had taken a knee in front of him and Cruz. “Nice shooting, partner.”
“Yes,” Cruz put a hand on Pence’s arm, “thank you, Sergeant—I mean Sir…Mister—”
“It’s okay, Cruz.” Pence grinned. “Just call me Pence. I promise I won’t make you do push-ups.”
Squatting, Hardy pivoted and observed the property. “All right, let’s fan out and—”
Dahlia: “This is Phoenix.”
In their earpieces, Hardy Cruz and Pence heard a gust of air being expelled.
Dahlia: “All levels of the structure have been cleared—over.”
Hardy scanned left and right. “How many hostiles accounted for?”
Dahlia: “Six on my end.”
“Alpha and Bravo teams have taken out five. If your intel is accurate, we have one more on the loose. Stay sharp, Phoenix. We’re doing a search of the grounds. All teams will rendezvous inside the structure.”
Dahlia: “Copy that.”
“Shepherd out.” Hardy looked over his shoulder, pointed at Pence and motioned. He did the same to Cruz, and the three took off in different directions.
… … … … …
Outside Wells’ living quarters, her shoulder to the wall, arms and legs crossed, the toes of one foot pointed toward the floor, Dahlia spied her teammates coming down the hall. “So let me get this straight. I neutralize six—no, seven men counting Wells—by myself, while the three of you take out five?”
Hardy pulled up short and gave her the onceover. Half of her dress was hanging off one shoulder, exposing the cup and strap of a black bra. The side of the slinky garment was torn up to her hip, a bare leg and thigh holster stared back at him. He leaned closer and sniffed. “Have you been drinking on the job again? How many times have I—”
Dahlia pushed away from the wall and smacked him in the stomach, not hard, but not the playful blow Cruz had delivered earlier either.
Hardy doubled over slightly. Why does everyone hit me in the gut?
Dahlia sidestepped him. “If you only knew what I’ve been through…” She gestured at Pence, and the man handed over the backpack he had been carrying. She ran the zipper and hauled out a black tactical shirt and pants before coming back to the team leader. “You’d be making me an appointment for the day spa instead of busting my chops.”
Hardy sniggered. “Consider it done. Now where’s our man?”
Retrieving socks and boots from the bag, Dahlia led the team to the bedroom.
Hardy glanced at the men bound on the floor and faced the person who had accomplished the feat. “Seriously?”
Dahlia stepped into the pants and zipped them. “What?” She eyed the two men she had secured. Each one had his face stuck in the other’s crotch. Hands and legs were wrapped around his partner’s body—wrists, knees and ankles tied together. She twirled the shirt around her shoulders and fastened the first button, stopping to glance around the room and extend an arm. “This isn’t exactly a hardware store. I had to get as much mileage out of,” she pointed, “those curtain drawstrings as I could.”
Holding back laughter, Hardy shook his head at the human pretzel and walked to the bed, pausing to look at the job she had done with Wells, hogtied with a pillowcase over his head. He nodded slightly. Nice touch. He yanked off the head covering.
Wells repeatedly blinked his eyes, trying to see who was in the room.
Some of Hardy’s last words to Wells coming to mind, he stared at the helpless man. You don’t know it yet…but you’re already dead. Hardy leaned forward, putting hands on knees and getting in the captive’s face. “Hey there, sunshine. Remember me?” He pivoted and motioned toward Cruz. “Remember her?”
His eyes adjusted to the light, Wells spied the woman. Her face paint could not hide her features. He arched his brows before squinting at her. Yeah, I remember. She was going to be one sweet—
Hardy slapped Wells and stuck a finger in front of the man’s nose. “Don’t you look at her like that, you puke.” He closed vise-like fingers around the man’s jaw and pulled on the material Dahlia had stuffed into Wells’ mouth. She had jammed so much in there he thought he was performing a magic trick. “You and me have unfinished business, Isaac.”
Running his tongue around, making saliva, Wells looked up. “Go fu—” A blow to the side of the head cut off the vulgarity. He turned away, spit blood onto the blanket and came back to his captor. “Screw you, as—”
Hardy rammed the pillowcase into Wells’ mouth. “On second thought, I like you better this way.” Standing straight and facing his team, he unbuttoned a shirtsleeve and completed one fold. “Give me the room, people. Mr. Wells and I need to talk.”
Pence took Hardy by the elbow and pulled him aside. “I’m not trying to undermine your authority,” he glimpsed Cruz, who had joined the duo, “but I have history with him. I might be able to use that to our advantage. Would you mind if I…” he squinted at Wells, and came back to Hardy, “chatted with our guest first?”
Hardy glanced at the man on the bed and looked at Cruz.
She raised her eyebrows and cocked her head toward Pence. “He does have information that we don’t. It might make this whole process go smoother.” Cruz hated this aspect of the business, the gleaning of information, the pressure applied to powerless individuals. She understood the necessity. Innocent lives hinged on details; however, she always tried to make the questioning not so difficult for those forced to provide answers.
Hardy regarded his teammate, his girlfriend, his love, reading her thoughts. Kind to a fault. He whipped his head toward Pence and nodded. “You’re up first.” He studied his watch, noticing Dahlia—fully clothed—in his peripheral vision, standing next to her teammates. “You’ve got an hour.” He motioned at her and Cruz. “The three of us have things to keep us busy until then.”
Pence nodded and stepped away.
“I noticed a CCTV camera pointed at the gate. Dahlia, find the source and destroy all evidence of our presence.”
“I know exactly where it’s located.”
He eyed the other woman. “Cruz, call Cherr
y. Have her send a team to pick up Wells when we’re through with him.” She nodded. “Oh, and make sure she has a jet prepped and ready at Zurich Airport in case,” he jerked a thumb over his shoulder, “he gives up something that requires travel.”
Nodding, Cruz produced a phone.
Dahlia spun on her heels.
“Hold up, Dahlia. I need to retrieve the VerTactical. We can do that and wipe out the security footage, while making another sweep of the grounds.”
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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Chapter 34: Voices
9:38 p.m.
Baumhauer Castle
Wells’ Living Quarters
Hardy and Dahlia had finished searching the premises and gathering the VerTactical, stopping along the way to destroy the security system. He let her enter Wells’ living area ahead of him. Shutting the door and dropping the canvas bag that held the ascending pole, he saw the time on his watch. “Dahlia, in another fifteen, I want you to take over for Pence.”
She interlaced her fingers and feigned cracking her knuckles. “I can’t wait.”
Smiling, he turned away, stopped and pivoted back toward her. “Hey, I know we wisecrack a lot, and I don’t say it very often, but,” he nodded his head, “Nice work tonight, making contact with Wells on the mountain, getting him to bring you here…everything.”
Dahlia beamed. “Thank you.”
“I mean it. You’re a great asset to this team.” He put a hand on the side of her shoulder. “I also consider you a great friend.”
Dahlia swallowed. Batting her eyes, she kept the pressure from building behind them.
“I need to talk to Cruz.” He tipped his head toward the bedroom door. “Don’t forget…fifteen minutes.”
“I won’t.” After he left, Dahlia swiped fingers under her eyes and sniffed. Friend. I’ll never get used to hearing that word.
Hardy came up from behind his girlfriend. “Cruz, you got a minute?”
She spun around, gave her phone a last glance and stuffed the device into a pocket. “What’s up?”
