Pivoting clockwise, Hardy threw back his leather jacket, his gun out and on target a second later. The Walther PPQ M2’s trigger had a smooth stock press of five point six pounds, and traveled point four inches to release the striker. One point two inches later, Hardy had dispensed three rounds into a third assailant, who had sneaked up on him and Cruz. The man sprawled onto the floor, his pistol sliding forward and stopping a few feet away from them.
“Gun!” said Charity, finishing her warning.
Hardy pulled Cruz to the floor, both of them crouching below the bench. “Where’d he come from, Red Ryder?”
“I don’t know. I just happened to glance at that quadrant, and saw him.”
“Keep an eye out for more. Dahlia, what’s your status?” Hardy rotated his head in all directions before glimpsing Cruz. “He was plan ‘B,’ a lookout. In case something went wrong, he probably had orders to release the virus.”
“This is Dahlia. I’ve secured the package and the target—over.”
“Copy that. We’ve encountered a third man. Watch yourself. There may be more.” Wood splinters from the bench flew into the air, as bullets zipped past Hardy’s head. He dove forward, “Get down,” and pushed Cruz to the floor. Laying on her, he swung the Walther’s muzzle right.
Dahlia: “I’m on my way out, Hardy. Hang in there.”
“Stay put.” Hardy moved the gun back and forth, scanning for the shooter. “You’ve got to keep that…”
Charity: “I see him, Hardy…”
Hardy: “…virus safe.”
Charity: “…Top of the escalator at your two o’clock.”
Hardy found the man, centered among dozens of scurrying people. “I don’t have the shot.” He jumped up and pulled Cruz to her feet.
Cruz: “I’m good.” She whirled around. “I’ve got him.”
“Too many innocents…” Hardy picked up the attaché and pushed her. “That way.” A second later, the other half of the bench was shredded from gunfire. They ducked behind foliage, blocking them from the gunman’s view. “If he can’t see us, he’ll have a harder time hitting us.” He cranked his head around. “Cover us from behind, Cruz. Red Ryder, where’s the shooter?”
“He’s coming down the escalator.”
“Keep me updated, Cherry.” To Cruz: “Stay here and protect the case. I’m going after him.”
She nodded. “Be careful, Hardy.”
“I will.” He used the cover of the foliage for as long as he could before running in a low crouch toward the escalators. “Sitrep, Cherry,” —situation report— “I need a sitrep on the tango.”
“He’s…out…of the cameras. Hang tight.”
Hardy stopped and squatted at the corner of the gardens. Hang tight? He squeezed the PPQ. Come on, Cherry.
“On your level, Hardy…twelve o’clock. You should see him…right about…now.”
Hardy saw the pistol first. He took aim and fired. The man dove into The Body Shop, a beauty supply store on the main floor of the plaza. Hardy ran forward and took cover behind several vending machines arranged in a circle under an escalator landing. He leaned out, gun up, and waited. Where’d you go, you little…
After a few seconds, Hardy advanced to the next machine. Considering the earlier chaos, the area was quiet. “Red Ryder, where is he?” he whispered, but no reply came. “Cherry?”
“I lost him. I’m scanning the video feeds.”
Hardy stepped out from cover and swung his pistol left toward the empty space after the last vending machine. He sidestepped to the right, muzzle forward, eyes pointing to where he was headed. Clearing a small kiosk that had chairs and back massagers for weary travelers, he faced The Body Shop and pointed the Walther at the shop’s large window. He eased to the right, staring at the last point of reference he had on the gunman. Crouching, he walked heel/toe, his eyes flitting left and right. His finger slipped inside the guard, but stayed off the trigger. Marco…
Charity: “Oh my G—Hardy, he’s…”
Hardy heard a faint clink above and behind him. Diving right and sliding backwards on his butt, he raised the nine millimeter. A bullet ricocheted off the floor where he had been standing. Charity: “…on the second floor,” Hardy’s weapon barked twice, “behind you,” and the man on the second level stiffened before leaning forward and folding over the handrail. He did one revolution and landed on his head. The first sound was a thump; the second was a crack.
Cruz: “Hardy!”
Hardy lay on his back, legs spread apart, pistol extended between them and trained on the twisted mass of arms and legs. “I’m good.” He scrambled to his feet and dashed forward. Towering over the dead man, he did not need to check for a pulse. The head rested at an unnatural angle. After a three-sixty scan of the area, including the upper levels, he jogged toward Cruz’s position. “I think we’re in the clear.” He had not gone ten feet when Dahlia and Cruz, each carrying a silver case, rounded the corner at the gardens where he had sought cover. “Cherry, watch the screens for additional threats.”
“Copy that.”
Swapping out magazines, Hardy eyed Cruz. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
Looking at the red mark on Dahlia’s forehead, he pointed at the same spot on his own head. “What about you?”
She scoffed. “This is nothing. You should see the other guy?” She spied the two dead men near the bench, “Speaking of whom,” before motioning toward the last man Hardy had shot, “I see you two took no prisoners.”
Hardy scoffed back. “What? And, you did?”
She pointed over her shoulder. “I’ll have you know, my man is alive and well…he’s napping in fact. I even went so far as to help him get to sleep.”
Police officers from Madrid raced toward them from two directions. Hardy went to his knees and slid his pistol across the floor, away from him. “Jameson knows everything about this op. He’ll have contacted the authorities and told them about us. Just follow my lead and do what they say.” The women discarded their guns and copied his posture.
On her knees, Dahlia interlaced her fingers on top of her head, glanced at Cruz, “You know,” before coming back to Hardy, “you people could learn a little something from me.”
With the officers closing in on them, Hardy frowned. “Oh? What’s that?”
An officer clamped a handcuff around one of her wrists. She winced before showing Hardy her pearly whites. “Restraint.”
A second officer applied the cuffs to Hardy’s wrists and lowered him to the floor. His cheek kissing the dirty tile, he snorted and stared at her from across the floor. Restraint. “That’s a juxtaposition if I’ve ever heard one.” He looked at the ceiling. I hope I used that word right.
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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