2:25 p.m. (Local Time)
Munich, Germany
Charity had shouldered open the first unlocked door she came to and run through a cobweb that ran from a corner near the ceiling to the floor. With little furniture, the small, dirty and musty apartment was deserted. After locking the door, she and Dahlia had dragged a sofa in front of the entrance. Not much security, but at least they would have advanced warning if someone tried to enter.
Dahlia dropped the Walther’s magazine; she knew from its weight it was empty as soon as the baseplate touched her palm. She pushed it back up and pulled back the slide a hair. Leaning toward the dim light coming through a dirty window, she saw a shiny brass case in the chamber. One round and two bad guys. She frowned and her brows dropped. I wonder the odds on getting them to stand next to each other. She saw Charity, leaning against a wall, catching her breath. Dahlia’s eyes fell to the Glock 23 in the woman’s hand. Forty cal. She examined the nine-millimeter in her own hand, “Call me crazy for asking,” before holstering the weapon. “But, why…don’t we all…use the same caliber guns?”
Dahlia slipped her left arm out of the leather jacket before wincing and gingerly removing the right arm. She looked down. The right sleeve of the navy blue turtleneck was darker than the rest of the garment, almost black. She found the right shoulder of the jacket. “Damn it.”
Charity approached. “What is it?”
Dahlia went back and forth from the tear in the jacket to the rip in the sweater’s sleeve before holding up the coat. “This cost me more than four hundred bucks.” She gestured at the turtleneck. “And, this was close to a hundred.”
“Dahlia, you’re bleeding.”
“Somebody’s going to pay for this…one way or another.”
Charity circled around. “You’ve been shot.”
Dahlia raised her elbow and studied the bleeding injury. “Technically, that’s not a real gunshot wound.”
Charity held the arm and lifted her eyebrows at the woman. “And, what would you call it?”
“A slice…I’ve been sliced.” She took back the appendage and rotated it a few times. “Actually, it doesn’t hurt that bad.”
“You’re nuts, you know that? We need to get that cleaned before it gets infected.”
“No time for that.” After plucking a black tube and her cell from a coat pocket, Dahlia handed Charity her jacket. “I’ve got work to do.” She yanked up the sweater’s hem and dabbed the two-inch gash with a clean portion of fabric. Turning off her phone, she wedged the cell into a boot and started up a flight of stairs. “Stay here,” she affixed a sound suppressor to the Walther, “and stay quiet.”
“Where are you going?”
“I told you. Now that you’re safe, I’ve got work to do.”
“I’m coming with you.”
Dahlia held out her good arm. “No, you’re not. You stay here—”
“I can—”
“You,” Dahlia’s voice was deeper and louder, “stay here, stay out of sight and keep quiet. If anyone,” she pointed, “comes through that door—other than me—shoot him.” She paused. “Well…if a woman and her young son…or an old man with a cane comes through the door,” she waved a hand, “don’t shoot them.” She ascended the steps. “I’ll be back soon.”
Charity watched Dahlia, until she disappeared. She listened to the woman’s heels, until the steps fell silent. A minute later, she jumped when her phone buzzed.
“Cherry, it’s Hardy. Are you near your laptop? I’ll be sending you some names and possibly a sketch. I need you to—”
Charity’s eyes bulged, and she screamed. “Oh my…no, no, no.” She disconnected the call and established an Internet connection, “Oh please, please, please connect,” before her thumbs banged the screen. A second later, she cursed. Her fingers flew over the device. “Please, please, please be in range…yes!” She pressed an ‘execute’ icon and held her breath. At the fifteen-second mark, her lungs ached; at thirty seconds, they were on fire. After another ten ticks, she let out the air in one huge burst, as a green horizontal bar showed on the phone with the word ‘complete’ underneath it. “Thank God.”
Charity dialed Hardy. He picked up before the first ring had ended.
“Cherry, you hung up on me. Are you all right? What about Dahlia…is she okay?”
“Sorry about that. I had to scuttle my laptop.” Hardy saying the word ‘laptop’ made her remember hers, lying somewhere in the disabled BMW. Not being able to establish an Internet connection with the notebook, she was forced to connect directly, which required her to be within so many feet of the device. She initiated a self-destruct program that erased the hard drive before setting off a small charge; a two-pronged security measure that ensured no one could access the computer’s sensitive data. “I’m fine. Dahlia’s fine…well…she’s been shot, but she’s—”
“What? She’s been shot. What the hell happened? Is—”
“She’s okay, Hardy.” Charity reassured him of their health status and brought him up to speed.
… … … … …
Man 1 from the restaurant crept forward, gun up, eyes darting left and right. The narrow street was desolate, but there were plenty of places to hide—metal dumpsters, abandoned cars, darkened doorways, and alleys between buildings. His quarry had come this way, but he was not sure where they had gone. He motioned toward his accomplice. Man 2 headed for the sidewalk to the left. Man 1 stopped, waited and watched.
After Man 2 had crossed an alley and continued straight, Man 1 checked the front doors of two buildings on his side of the street. They were locked. He turned right at an alleyway and evaluated the surrounding area—more old cars and dumpsters. A fire escape was attached to the structures on both sides of the lane.
He put one foot in front of the other, feeling for objects, while his eyes saw everything up ahead. Coming to a dumpster, he pivoted and swung his gun toward the space behind the black receptacle. Swinging the pistol back again, he moved forward, peering into a two-door hatchback as he passed.
Stopping near the fire escape, Man 1 watched and listened. A noise drew his attention. A can or bottle rolled over the pavement. A stray animal, rodent could have sent the object on its way. Or, it could be the oldest trick in the book, a distraction. He rotated his head and gun left, away from the noise’s source. He gaped at a second dumpster, another beat up vehicle, two doorways; nothing escaped his vision.
Something tapped his woolen overcoat. His eyes flicked right. Holding the pistol straight out with one hand, his free fingers swiped the right shoulder. Rubbing his gloved fingers together, he recognized the liquid. Blood.
… … … … …
Dahlia slithered over the fire escape landing and curled her legs behind her, hooking the ankles of her knee boots on a low horizontal bar. Dangling upside down, she clamped a hand around the man’s mouth, drove the sound suppressor into the base of his skull and pressed the trigger. Because even a weapon with a sound suppressor made noise and she had only one round, Dahlia needed a contact-shot to minimize the report.
Dead before the slide had locked open on the PPQ, the assailant dropped to both knees and keeled over. His nose slammed into the concrete. One foot lifted off the hard surface before falling again.
Dahlia performed an upside down stomach crunch and grasped the metal grate of the fire escape landing. Her boots slid past the horizontal bar and she righted herself. Using the height advantage, she hung from one hand for a few seconds and glanced in all directions before letting go and landing in a crouched position. Holstering the empty Walther, she whipped her head left and right. Satisfied that the attack had gone undetected, she grabbed the dead man’s pistol, double-checked the status and stuffed it into her skirt’s waistband at the small of her back.
Dahlia searched the deceased and came up with a wallet and a wad of Euros. Partially unzipping a boot, she put both down the tall shaft. Finding two spare magazines, she stuffed one into the left side of her waistband before having to suck in her gut to get the second one inside. Thinking she had gained a few pounds over the holiday, she frowned. When she realized the extra pounds were the added pistol and two magazines, she relaxed. I don’t mind that kind of extra weight.
Squatting over the corpse, Dahlia froze and turned an ear toward the street. The sound of dress shoes clicking off the sidewalk drew nearer. She squinted at the body. No time to get rid of him. She shrugged. Let’s use him as bait.
… … … … …
Man 2 stood over his partner’s body, his head and gun pivoting in all directions. He was not as sharp as his fallen coconspirator. Standing in the open, exposed to gunfire from all compass points, the hunter had become the hunted. Three bullets pierced his overcoat; two clipped the heart. The third punctured a lung. At this point, he was theoretically dead, but biologically still alive. When the fourth round burrowed into the man’s ear, theory wedded biology.
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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