As soon as Dahlia heard the knock, her hand flew to the PPQ on her hip. Clearing the holster and leveling the gun at the door, she grunted from a jolt of pain in her shoulder. Charity mimicked her stance. Both women eyed each other before Dahlia stepped closer to the door. The stillness in the room was broken by a constant vibration coming from the couch. Dahlia had set her phone on the plastic case. Someone was calling repeatedly or sending text after text.
She backed up and grabbed the mobile. Hardy. She cancelled the call and approached the door. Her hand pulsated. Hardy was blowing up her cell with texts. What the hell? She swiped a thumb across the screen. Her eyes shifting from the door to the screen, she read the message. The person on other side of the door knocked again. “Who’s there,” said Dahlia?
A man replied, “Coffee or tea?”
Dahlia read from the cell phone. “I’ll take Coffee.”
The man: “Tea is better for your health.”
Dahlia read the same sentence and tucked the device into her skirt’s waistband. She held up a finger toward Charity and opened the door a crack, keeping her boot planted against the bottom of the door. She eased her weapon through the crack. An inch taller than Dahlia, a late twenty something blonde-haired, blue-eyed man in a black suit, white shirt and red tie stood on the front porch, hands clasped in front of his body.
“Good afternoon, ma’am. I’m Agent Franks.” After staring down the muzzle of the gun for several seconds, he righted his head. “You must be Special Agent St. James. I have orders to get you and Red Ryder out of the country.” He leaned right and looked around Dahlia. “Is she with you?”
“Who sent you?”
“Shepherd.”
“Give me one reason I should believe you,” she lifted the Walther higher, “because I’ve got sixteen telling me I shouldn’t.”
Franks looked away. “Ma’am I’m armed, but I’m not here to hurt you. I’m on your side.”
Her face deadpan, Dahlia did not blink or budge.
Smiling, he lowered and shook his head. “Shepherd warned me this might happen. I believe his words were…and I quote…‘Dahlia won’t think twice about ending you, so don’t do anything stupid.’”
Hardy’s face zipped across her mind, and she lifted one corner of her mouth. He knows me well.
Franks showed her his palms. “So, how do you want to play this, ma’am? Do you need to make a call…to Shepherd…to verify this?”
She gave him the once-over, stepped back and swung open the door. “That won’t be necessary.”
The agent walked inside and stopped when he saw Charity’s Glock pointed at his chest. His hands went back up.
“It’s all right, Cherry. We’ve exchanged bona fides. Hardy sent him.” Slicing a hand across her throat, Dahlia leaned closer to the agent and spoke under her breath. “A word to the wise; don’t call her Red Ryder. She’s not that fond of the name.”
“Thanks,” he scoffed, “but you’re a little late on the heads up.”
...
Agent Franks informed the women that every law enforcement officer in Germany had their pictures and were actively searching for them. They were not going to walk into the airport and board a plane. Buses, taxis and trains were out of the question too. His assignment was to get them to a specific location by a specific time.
“For all intents and purposes, ladies, you’re suspected of murdering three men, and the police consider you armed and dangerous.”
Dahlia handed Franks her leather jacket, “At least they got the second part right,” and turned around. “Do you mind giving me a hand?”
He guided her arms into the sleeves, “Don’t worry, ma’am,” and brought the garment over her shoulders. “There’s a car waiting for us outside. My partner and I will get you to your destination…or die trying.”
“Thank you, Agent Franks,” she held her hurting arm and motioned toward Charity, “but we’re not interested in testing your resolve.”
“Yeah,” Charity slipped into her coat, “a dull and boring drive is just fine by us.”
The man grinned and touched his ear. “This is Franks. Make ready. We’re coming out.” He headed for the door, Dahlia and Charity a step behind.
“How did the police get a photo of us so quickly?” said Dahlia.
“Security camera footage from some bio lab was forwarded to law enforcement.”
Dahlia glimpsed Charity. “That was awfully helpful of them.”
Walking down the driveway toward the rear of a dark blue sedan—all four doors open—Agent Franks had his head on a swivel. Doing the same, his partner faced the street and stood between the two doors on the driver’s side. This was the moment when those in their care were most vulnerable, getting in and out of vehicles. Even ordinary civilians were at greater risk at these times.
Franks got Dahlia’s attention and gestured, “Agent Parker will assist you, ma’am,” before veering right and escorting Charity, “this way, Agent Sinclair.”
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.