Dahlia raised her weapon toward Hardy. He put the red dot of his scope on her chest. Hearing two muffled shots, he applied pressure to the trigger of his MP5. He was a millimeter away from shooting her when he eased his finger off the trigger. How did she miss me, especially at this range? Everything he had witnessed up to this point told him she was a professional who did not miss her target. Behind him, he heard gunfire.
Hardy cranked his head around and saw a man sliding down the wall next to the door. Dahlia had not missed her target. He whipped his head around. She was still pointing her weapon at the man on the floor.
“Now, we’re even,” she said, referring to when Hardy had saved her life outside the warehouse.
Hardy lowered the rifle and rose to his full height. After a few seconds, he walked to the body on the floor and tried to determine the dead man’s identity from what was left of the face. “Is this Tahir Muhammad?”
“It was,” replied Dahlia, slipping her pistol into her right boot. “And, whatever he was planning,” she motioned behind her toward several tables holding all sorts of supplies, “was going to be nasty.”
Hardy moved past her and examined the items. AK-47 rifles were lined up, along with almost two dozen magazines in a neat row next to the rifles. He walked the length of the table. There were several bulletproof vests overlapping each other, walkie-talkies, cell phones and other pieces of equipment a SWAT team might use, including night vision goggles. Hardy winced at the sight of the goggles. They suggested the terrorists were planning a night attack. He thought of a recent ambush at a crowded movie theater. The loss of life had been horrific. At the far end of the table was the most deadly of the gear; four backpacks separated the tactical equipment from the explosive material. He slowly scanned everything. He could not believe what he was looking at—a case each of fragmentation grenades and smoke grenades and several blocks of C-4 explosive.
Dahlia joined him. “My guess is they were planning an attack for after dark—start with small arms fire then progress to the grenades, finishing with a backpack explosive that would kill each terrorist and as many civilians as possible.” She shook her head. “Sick bastards...it makes my job more palatable, knowing what they were going to do.”
Dahlia’s profile entered his peripheral view and he shifted his eyes to the left. She was an attractive woman. Her beauty did not match the seemingly ruthless killer that lay beneath the good looks. “Why did you do all this?” He could not understand how a one-time FBI agent could fall so far from grace. Before he got an answer, a noise came from the hall.
Hardy sidestepped Dahlia and ran to the door. He peeked around the corner and saw three men closing in on their position. The gunshots from the dead man leaning against the wall had brought the rest of the terrorists toward them. “Great,” he said, putting his back to the wall. “That gunfire got the attention of his friends.”
“You’re welcome.” Dahlia closed the distance between them. “Next time, remind me to let you get shot in the back.” She retrieved her pistol and spun her head in all directions, searching for a way out. Her eyes noticed the row of broken windows. “Unless you can grow wings and fly, there’s no way out, except through that door.” She stood in front of Hardy, leaned out and fired several rounds at the men, sending them scurrying for cover.
“We’re on the top floor, southwest corner of the building, taking fire…exit strategy, please.”
“Well, that’s stating the obvious.” Dahlia leaned out and fired a few rounds.
Hardy shook his head and pointed to his ear. “Are you there, Charity? You need to find us a way out of here…and now.” While Dahlia reloaded her pistol, he wheeled around, fired a couple of three-round bursts from his MP5 and spun back again.
Dahlia slammed home a fresh magazine. “Who are you talking to?”
Charity: “You’ve got to get to the roof. A helicopter will be there in one minute. Do you copy?”
“The roof…one minute…got it.” Hardy fired more rounds. He hit a terrorist, who fell to the floor. “One problem…how do we get to the roof from here?” Even though it had not been discussed during the planning of this mission, he knew Charity would have the architectural drawings of the building, in case something went wrong. In the back of his mind, Hardy was beginning to trust her.
“You need to go back down that hallway. When you get to the stairwell, take the door on your right. It will lead you to the rooftop door.”
Dahlia dropped to one knee, leaned out and fired, until the pistol’s slide locked back. “That’s it. I’m out.” She tossed the weapon aside.
Hardy gave her his Walther PPQ M2, muzzle down. “We’ve got to get to the roof.” He shouted above the incoming bullets bouncing off the walls. “A helicopter will be waiting for us.” He jerked his thumb. “There’s a door at the end of the hall.” Debris smacked him in the face and he threw up an arm. “It will take us to the roof.”
She nodded her head and took the Walther. “Nice. How many rounds do I have?”
Having opted for the extended magazine, he responded, “Eighteen.”
Still on one knee, Dahlia leaned out again and fired. Back behind cover, she admired the weapon. “Very nice,” she said. “I’ll have to get me one of these.”
Hardy looked at her. “All right, I’m taking point.” He poked a finger at her. “You stay behind me, and…try not to shoot me in the back.” He was half-joking and half-serious. He did not know much about this woman. She stood and locked eyes with him. Her heels made her even with his height.
Dahlia glanced at the weapon before her face went deadpan. “I don’t know, Hardy. I really like this gun. If I run out of bad guys to shoot, I might just have to aim it at you.” When her words had elicited the visual response from Hardy she was hoping for, she smiled, showing a full set of brilliant white teeth. Cupping the back of his head, she kissed him on the cheek, leaving behind the faint outline of a pair of lips. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I wouldn’t dream of hurting you.” She rotated her head toward the Walther and stared at him out of the corner of her eye. A seductive grin spread over her lips. “Besides, I like it when a man lets me handle his gun on the first date.”
Hardy was unsure if he could trust her. At this point—Hardy caught the double entendre and smiled—what did it matter? If they were going to survive this, they would have to rely on each other.
Charity: “If you two lovebirds are through, the chopper is thirty seconds out.”
“Roger that,” said Hardy. “We’re on the move.”
Hardy spun around and let loose with a couple of three-round bursts. He changed magazines and advanced down the hallway. Dahlia was behind and to the right, while he hugged the left wall. A man stuck his head out from a room on the right. Before Hardy could fire, he heard gunfire from behind him and the man fell down.
Dahlia held up a finger. “That’s one for me. That is, unless we’re counting the ones outside.”
Hardy moved forward, swinging the muzzle of his rifle back and forth. As if it was perfectly timed, as soon as the muzzle moved to the left, a head appeared in the scope. Hardy fired and the head—the man—slumped to the floor.
Approaching the top of the stairwell, they needed to make sure no one was waiting for them at the bottom. The door leading to the roof faced the stairwell. Hardy communicated with Dahlia, using hand signals. He stopped when an object bounced off a wall and landed six feet away.