Special Agent Cruz strolled to the intersection of Kinross Avenue and Westwood Boulevard and turned right. She had twenty minutes to reach her destination, which was less than five minutes away. She had planned to leave Dahlia’s leather jacket behind, in order to have easier access to her weapon; however, she was glad she was wearing it, when a gust of cool wind rose from the concrete and ran up the length of her exposed legs. The temperature was in the fifties and forecasted to be in the mid-forties. A shiver went up her spine and she pulled down on the mini skirt for the third time since getting out of the SUV. In addition to the chill, she was feeling awkward, having never worn a skirt that revealed so much of her legs.
With time to spare, she walked into a store called Aahs, a gift shop selling all sorts of items from clothing to party supplies and gag gifts. Checking the time on her watch, she meandered around the store, staying close to the door. At 6:05 p.m., she picked up two baseball hats and a t-shirt and paid for them. Tucking the items inside the bag from Victoria’s Secret hanging from her arm, she exited the store.
Standing on the sidewalk, she tapped the communication device in her ear and made contact with Hardy and Dahlia. “Hardy, this is Cruz. I’m one minute out. What’s your status?”
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Hardy and Dahlia had taken a position in an alcove behind one of several dumpsters, not more than thirty meters from the back door of the antique shop. From their vantage point, they had a clear view of the door. Hardy glanced at his watch—6:06 p.m. In three minutes, they would move out. He retrieved his lock pick set from his jacket pocket, opened it and selected the tools he would need.
Dahlia saw the case in his hands. “Bringing out the relics, old man?”
Old man? “If my math’s correct, I’m two years younger than you.”
She feigned surprise. “You’re only thirty? Wow! I guess I thought you were, you know, pushing forty. I wonder what you’ll be like when you do hit that number.”
Hardy grinned. During his first encounter with her, Dahlia had displayed a sharp tongue and quick wit. There had never been any malice behind her words. She enjoyed back and forth banter. Hardy had thought she used it as a defense mechanism, deflecting attention from her questionable occupation. The best defense is a good offense, he thought. Either way, he was sure she meant no harm. He had seen her vulnerable side once, when she had told him the story behind her short tenure with the FBI. Whether she realized it or not, in those unguarded moments, she had let him in, and he saw a woman searching for a connection, a relationship, a friendship, with people.
Stowing the lock pick set in the right pocket of his jacket, Hardy put the two tools he had taken from the case in his left pocket. His tone of voice serious, he answered her inquiry. “I don’t know. You’ll have to tell me, when you get there…first.”
It was dark inside the alcove and Dahlia could not make out his facial features. “Was that a joke?” She laughed quietly. “Nice, Hardy…Here I didn’t think your computer programming allowed for a sense of humor.”
Hardy was preparing another comeback, when he heard Cruz’s voice in his earpiece.
“Hardy, this is Cruz. I’m one minute out. What’s your status?”
Hardy tapped his earpiece. “We’re moving into position. On your order, we’ll breach—over.” He stood, motioned for Dahlia to follow and hurried to the back door of the antique shop.
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“Copy that.” Cruz turned and walked north on Westwood Boulevard, the shopping bag swinging over her left forearm, keeping her gun hand free. She approached the antique shop and saw it was dark inside. Light was coming from the back room, casting a dim glow over the showroom. Stopping in front of the door, she observed two men in the back office. Will they even see me? She rapped on the glass door with her knuckles and peered through the pane before putting her hands against her temples and getting closer to the glass. One man looked in her direction, but he ignored her. Making a fist, she pounded on the door.
The man jumped to his feet and exited the back room. He cupped his hands around his mouth. “We’re closed.”
Cruz shouted back at him. “I just need in for a minute.”
He emphasized his words, “We…are…closed,” before he turned his back on her.
Pounding on the door with such fervor that the man whirled around again, she repeated her request. She watched him speak to the others before ambling toward the front door. Cruz had positioned herself, so the minimal light coming from behind her could shine on her clothing. It worked. The man took special notice.
“What do you want? We are closed.” His eyes dropped to her legs.
“A friend told me about this place. She said you might have something for my father. If you open up, I’ll just take a quick look around and be out of your way.” Cruz rocked back and forth on the heel of her left boot. She watched his eyes travel the length of her body before he glanced over his shoulder at his companions. “Please,” she begged, hoping her schoolgirl-pleas would convince him to open the door. “I promise it won’t take long.”
The man reached into his pocket and produced a set of keys. Finding the right key, he unlocked the door. He heard a noise from behind him and cranked his head around to see the commotion.
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Down on one knee, Hardy put the lock pick tools back into his pocket and readied his pistol. Dahlia had been standing with her back to him, hiding him from the view of bystanders, while he picked the lock. She had her pistol in her hand, tucked inside her blazer. Getting to his feet, he tapped her on the shoulder and took a position on the right side of the door. Dahlia retreated a few steps, until her back was against the building on the opposite side of the door. They waited for Cruz to give the code word that she was in the building. He and Dahlia maintained radio silence.
Hardy checked his watch; it read 6:13 p.m. Come on, Cruz. Give us the order. He tightened his grip on his nine-millimeter Walther PPQ M2 and glanced at Dahlia. Her eyes were narrow slits. Her body was rigid. Her hair fluttered at the back of her head, when the occasional breeze blew past her. She looks like a tiger that’s spotted its next meal. She averted her gaze from the door and signaled she was ready. Before he could acknowledge her, the back door opened.
A man stepped outside and jumped back, when he saw Dahlia. Holding the door open with his left hand, he and Dahlia stood motionless, staring at each other. He spied the gun in her hands and his eyes grew wider. Twisting his body to the right, he bolted back inside, shouting in Arabic.
Before the man had taken two steps, Hardy was on him, wrapping his left hand around the man’s mouth and hauling him backward. Dragging the man to the pavement, Hardy motioned toward the door and hollered at Dahlia. “Go, I’ve got him.”
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Cruz did not hear the disturbance at the back door, but sensed something was wrong when the man on the other side of the door quickly whipped his head around. Taking advantage of the distraction, she grabbed and yanked on the door handle, jerking the man’s arm toward her. She thrust her open hand under his chin and his head rocked backward. Lifting her right leg, she drove her boot into his chest and the man stumbled into the shop, falling to the floor and sliding into the end of the wooden display case.
Charging through the door, she gave the code word for Hardy and Dahlia to breach the back door. Gunshots filled the enclosed space of the shop. Cruz recoiled. Feeling bullets rush by her head, she dove to the floor.
On her knees, facing the end of the display case, Cruz slid her right hand inside her jacket and grabbed her pistol. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement before feeling one hand on her right breast and a second hand on the collar of her jacket. The man on the floor was not out of the fight. He was grasping her clothing, pulling her down to the floor.