12:07 p.m.
Cursing, Dr. Richard Kimmler went back and forth between the side and rearview mirrors, calculating his entry onto the B-10 motorway. After breakfast, he had lain down to rest, only to open his eyes three hours later and leap out of bed. Throwing articles of clothing into a suitcase, he ran out of the hotel, leaving thirty minutes later than he had planned.
Pressing his foot down on the accelerator, he relaxed a little. Traffic was not too bad…yet. Glancing at the side mirror, he hit the turn signal and veered into the left lane to pass a car. A loud bang came from ahead, and the rental’s front end swerved left, then right. Kimmler let off the gas pedal and turned the steering wheel in both directions. “Son of a—” struggling, he stopped the car alongside a guardrail, blocking half the right lane. Horns honking, cars cut off each other to get around him. Shouts and raised fists emanated from windows, as those who made it into the left lane sped passed his broken down vehicle.
Timing his exit, Kimmler got out, ran to the front bumper and evaluated the situation. The left tire was shredded. He checked his watch, 12:11, and cursed again. “This can’t be happening.” He went to the guardrail and cranked his head back. A sheer rock face, a hundred feet high, stared back at him. Though he could not see the structure, Montjuïc Castle, an old military fortress, dating back to 1640, sat just over the top of the steep cliff.
Unsure who he was going to call, Kimmler dug out his mobile and whipped his head back and forth along the motorway. Traffic was increasing, and his three-wheeler was not helping. He spied his watch—12:13. “I can’t miss that flight. I can’t miss that—”
“Excuse me.”
Kimmler went to his toes and craned his neck to see over the roof.
Her hands cupped around her mouth, a woman shouted. “You seem to have a flat tire.”
He looked away and rolled his eyes. Brilliant observation.
“My car,” she waved behind her, “is right here. I can give you a lift.”
Kimmler glimpsed the rock wall to his left before gawking at the sagging left-front corner of his rental. He forced a crooked half smile. “Thank you. I’ll…” he waited for an opening in the traffic, “be right there as soon as—” he took advantage of a gap and raced around the vehicle. Popping the trunk, he grabbed a suitcase and turned around. “Thank you. I’m on my way to the airport. I have to catch a flight.”
The woman pointed. “Well, you’re in luck. We’re headed that way too.”
Kimmler saw a man in the passenger seat of a black Land Rover. “I’m glad you two happened by. I’m not sure what I would have done.”
...
Merging into traffic, the trio made small talk for several minutes, until Kimmler noticed they were not on B-10. He leaned forward from the backseat. “I thought you said you were going to the airport. We have to get back on the highway.”
“This is a shorter route, Doctor,” said the woman. “We’ll be able to make up lost time.”
Kimmler’s face paled. “How’d you know I was a doctor? I never told you that.” He watched the woman and her companion exchange a glance before the man unbuckled his safety belt and turned around.
“We know,” said Hardy, his Walther PPQ M2 leveled at Kimmler’s nose, “a lot about you Dr. Richard Kimmler from Hoffman-Koch Labs in Munich.” He put the gun’s muzzle to Kimmler’s forehead and pushed. “Sit back and shut up.” The man opened his mouth to speak, and Hardy tilted his head, while barely twisting the weapon. The man shut his mouth.
...
The Freelanders stopped. Dahlia jogged past the lead vehicle, slid open a barn door and hustled back to the SUV. Cruz pulled her four-by-four ahead, followed by Dahlia and Charity’s Land Rover. Satisfied that no one had seen them, Dahlia shut the big door.
Hardy dragged Kimmler to the back of the first SUV, opened the rear door and shoved the man into a sitting position. Standing between the vehicles, he shined his flashlight all around the interior of the barn. The structure was barren, but the stench of the animals that had called this place home remained. He lit up the floor of the immediate area, expecting to find cow chips.
Charity had hacked a Barcelona land records database to locate this property. The stretch of land, five mile west of the city, had been abandoned years ago. Satellite imagery showed the nearest neighbor was two miles away.
Pleased with what he saw, Hardy turned off the flashlight. “Hit the lights.” The second SUV’s headlights pierced the darkness of the windowless barn. “High beams.” The light went higher and brighter. Kimmler raised his hands.
Hardy removed and tossed his jacket over the rear door. He stretched arms and rotated shoulders. “Let’s get to it. Shall we, doctor?” He wrenched one of the man’s arms free of a coat, “Dahlia, would you give me a hand?” before going for the other arm.
Dahlia unbuckled the man’s belt and pants and got in his face. “Remember me?”
Kimmler’s mouth hung open. “What are you doing here? I thought you were—”
“Dead? Nope. It takes a lot more than a few of your goons to kill me.” In one sweeping motion, she ripped off Kimmler’s pants and went for the shoes.
“What goons? I didn’t send any—”
Hardy clamped a hand around the man’s chin, “Save it doctor,” and drove him into the SUV’s rear compartment; the man’s head hit hard. The back seats were down. The gear that was inside had been transferred to the second Freelander. Hardy hovered over Kimmler. “We know all about the giant virus you’ve created. What we don’t know is the where and the when.” He squeezed the man’s jaw. “But, we will. Trust me. You’ll tell me everything.”
Naked, Kimmler shivered. Outside the barn, it was forty. The inside had maintained cooler overnight temperatures. Fear accentuated the trembling effect. “Please, you can’t do this. You have to let me go.” The man blubbered. “I can’t miss my plane.”
“Oh, doctor,” Hardy grabbed a handful of hair and yanked, “you’ve got bigger problems than that ahead of you.”
“Please, please,” he sobbed, “you have to listen to me.”
“And, that’s exactly what we’re going to do…listen while you tell us what you’re planning to attack and when it’s going to happen.” Hardy let go and took a step backward. “Start talking, doctor.”
“Please, I need to,” he went from one woman to the next, “get on that plane. I need to get to her.” His shoulders rocked and the headlights picked up droplets falling to the wooden floor.
“What you need,” Hardy cocked a fist, “is a little motivation.” A hand caught his wrist, and he spun to meet the owner, Cruz.
With both hands, she held his fist. “Do we have to jump to that so soon?”
Hardy clenched his jaw, and the muscles near his earlobe swelled. If she had been a man, he would have shoved her and delivered the blow to Kimmler’s nose. ‘Your band of merry women’—Hamilton’s words at the airport—came to him. His leadership, diplomacy skills were being tested. He gaped at Cruz. I can’t manhandle her. He spotted Dahlia and Charity. Or, any of them.
Cruz forced his arm down. “Let me try.” As the one with the consummate detection skills, she was drawn to the way Kimmler kept his focus on getting to the plane. Anyone in his situation would have cared far less about that, and far more about his kidnapping, his nakedness and his looming fate. She had also heard the man say the word ‘her.’ That aroused her curiosity the most.
After a brief visual game of chicken, Hardy tipped his head toward Kimmler.
Cruz stood in front of the suspect, arms folded, weight shifted to one foot. “What did you mean when you said ‘I need to get to her,’ doctor?”
Kimmler sniffed and wiped his nose with a finger. “You don’t understand.”
Uncrossing her arms, Cruz bent over and put hands on knees. “Help me. Why do you need to get on that plane so badly?”
Kimmler rubbed his eyes and exhaled gulps of air.
The smell of stale cigarettes and coffee forced Cruz to a standing position. She stepped away and grabbed a fresh breath of barn air. Another minute of silence passed. Folding her arms, she put her left shoulder against the vehicle and crossed her legs, planting a booted toe on the floor. “I’m really trying to understand your position here, Dr. Kimmler.” She paused. “However, you’re making this very difficult for me.” Kimmler tipped his head back, and she saw it, a flash of surrender. Time to squeeze him. “You have no idea how much I really do not want to turn you over to my,” she motioned, “associate. He’s extremely good at getting answers to questions.”
Kimmler turned his head toward Hardy. Silhouetted in the headlights, the operative showed no emotion, unless fists and swollen biceps counted.
“But, you’re not giving me anything to work with, doctor.” Cruz gave the man time to consider his options before switching to a gentle tone. “Who is she…your sister, mother, a close friend? Why do you need to see her?”
Kimmler’s head dropped to his chest. “My girlfriend, fiancée, they have her. And, if I don’t do what they say, they’ll,” he drew in a sharp breath, “they’ll kill her.” He covered his face. “And, mail her back to me…piece by,” the waterworks flowed, “piece.”