4:13 p.m. (Local Time)
Munich, Germany
After leaving the apartment, Dahlia and Charity had walked for fifteen minutes before the former stole a car. Twenty minutes later, they left the vehicle a half mile away from the safe house, and went the rest of the way on foot. Arriving, they each downed a bottle of water from the refrigerator. Using supplies from the bathroom medicine cabinet, Charity cleaned and bandaged Dahlia’s wound, so she could shower without bleeding on herself.
Dahlia came out of the bathroom, dressed in the same clothing—skirt, boots and bra, and a white blouse in her hand; the sweater was beyond hope.
Lying on one of two couches in the living room, arms folded over her chest, Charity eyed the frilly black bra with lace detail and spaghetti straps. She wasn’t kidding about not being very functional. It barely holds in her boobs.
Dahlia knelt in front of the second couch, running her fingers along and under the front edge.
“What are you doing?” Charity heard a latch release, and she propped herself on elbows.
Dahlia reached behind the middle seat cushion and wrenched with her left arm. “Give me a hand.” With Charity’s added muscle, the couch opened. Dahlia slid a panel and revealed a small cache of weapons, ammunition, communication devices, small metal boxes and a bigger plastic case with a red cross on it, which she grabbed.
“Whoa. How’d you know this was here?”
“The FBI has safe houses all over the world, equipped with secret hiding places.” Dahlia carried the big case to the couch Charity had been lying on and plucked what she needed from the box. “Some are staffed, while most are like this one, stocked with items agents may need in the field.” She spread out items on the couch. “It’s highly likely that someone coming here would need to resupply.” She sat on the couch. “Just like it’s highly likely that someone coming here might need medical attention.” She paused. “Will you do the honors?”
Charity turned and saw a first aid kit on steroids. “What’s that for?”
Holding a needle and thread, Dahlia peeled off the bandage from her still-bleeding arm. “It’s for you.” She flicked her fingers until the adhesive detached from them. “You’re going to patch me up, doc.”
“I’ve never done that before. I don’t know the first thing about playing doctor.” Seeing Dahlia’s face, Charity heard her words. “Funny…you know what I mean.”
Dahlia patted the cushion. “Come on. I’ll coach you through it. All you have to do is be my hands. Trust me. It’s not as difficult as you think it is. I’ve done it before on accessible parts of my body.” She twisted her leg and pointed at her outer thigh. “See that? I had a knife wound right there.” She moved the leg back and forth a little. “You can’t even tell.”
After balking for a few seconds, Charity sat beside Dahlia, cleaned the wound and began following directions.
Dahlia winced in between stitches and words of encouragement to Charity. “You’re doing great—” her body twitched, “Cherry.” A moment passed. “By the way, did you get those bras I set out for you?”
Focusing on inserting the needle, Charity nodded. “Where did those…come from?”
“I told you. This is a safe house. It’s not out of the realm of possibility that a woman would have unique needs.” She waited a beat. “So, did they work? Were they the right size?”
“Please,” Charity pulled the thread through flesh, “I’m insulted. 34A? There’s no way that’s going to fit me. And, as for that ugly ‘A’ double ‘S’ beige sports—” she stopped sewing. “Wait a minute. If this place has everything you say it does, then why would they stock it,” she saw a twinkle in her patient’s eyes, “with one of the smallest…sizes…”
Chuckling, Dahlia’s shoulders moved up and down.
“Oh…I should’ve known.” Charity made the last stitch and cut the thread.
Dahlia yelped.
“I guess next time you’ll wait until I’m done sewing before sharing your joke.”
“I was just,” Dahlia snickered, while scrutinizing the wound, “yanking your chain. You know I love you, and would do anything for you.” She nodded at Charity’s craftsmanship. “You do good work…very straight. I should be able to go sleeveless this summer when I’m on vacation.”
Charity cleaned and bandaged the arm before standing. “Now, where are those bras, the ones that will fit me?”
Dahlia smiled, “Closet in the left bedroom,” and gestured, “Top shelf.”
Charity made her way to the bedroom, but stopped when she heard her name.
“I meant what I said, Cherry. I’d do anything for you…” she bobbed her head, “and Hardy and Cruz for that matter. It’s been a long time since I’ve had anyone in my life to care about.” Dahlia pulled the white blouse over her head and got one arm in before struggling with the right one. Charity backtracked and helped the woman. “Thanks,” said Dahlia, rotating the sore shoulder.
“The same goes for me. I don’t know if Hardy’s given you the speech yet—we’re family, we fight for each other, we take bullets for each other.”
Dahlia nodded. “I think I got an abbreviated version outside the OR.”
“Well, it’s true. You’re one of us now. Team, family, whatever you want to call it, we don’t forsake each other. In fact, I’ll bet Hardy’s moving Heaven and earth right now to—”
A knock came at the door, and both women spun their heads toward the sound.