Also by Alex Ander

Action & Adventure - Special Agent Cruz

Vengeance is Mine

Defense of Innocents

Plea For Justice

Jacob St. Christopher Action & Adventure

Protect & Defend

Word of Honor

A Vow to the Innocent

Above & Beyond

Patriotic Action & Adventure - Aaron Hardy

The Unsanctioned Patriot

American Influence

Deadly Assignment

Patriot Assassin

The Nemesis Protocol

Necessary Means

Foreign Soil

Of Patriots and Tyrants

Act of Justice

Standalone

The President's Man

The President's Man 2

Special Agent Cruz Crime Series

Against All Enemies

Watch for more at Alex Ander’s site.

Deadly Assignment

(Aaron Hardy Patriotic Action #3)

By Alex Ander

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YOUR FREE BOOK…

Get The London Operation FREE.

Details at the end of this book.

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Deadly

Assignment

Aaron Hardy

Patriotic Action

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This story proudly

Made in the U.S.A.

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Copyright ©2016 Jason A. Burley

All rights reserved. No portion of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be published in a newspaper, magazine or electronically via the Internet.

This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to actual persons, living or dead are entirely coincidental.

This book was previously published under the title Covert Incursion.

Chapter 1: Charity

Monday, September 16th, 4:37 p.m.; south of Dallas, Texas

Charity Sinclair sat in the backseat of a four-door black sedan, staring at her reflection in the rear-view mirror. Her shoulder-length dark hair, tinged red, was tousled; individual locks and strands stuck out on either side of her head. Her left eye was covered by a large lock; she pushed it away from her face, letting the hair slide between her fingers.

Charity was five-feet, six inches tall and weighed one hundred and fifteen pounds, but her slim figure gave her the appearance of a taller woman with longer legs. The lines of her bust, waist and hips flowed gracefully down her body, creating the outline of an hourglass. Her eyes were dark and large, set beneath dark eyebrows that followed the curvature of her round eyes. Eyeglasses with red plastic frames rested on her short, slender nose. Despite her attractive features, the one characteristic most people saw first was her smile. Her mouth was wide and paired with a full set of lips that Charity loved to color with red lipstick. A broad smile revealed large white teeth, her lips stopping short of showing her gum line. When she smiled, no one could resist the urge to return the gesture. It was her greatest physical quality. Men were enchanted by it. Women were jealous of it. Children were drawn to it.

Charity’s eyes shifted to the man in the driver’s seat. His chin rested on his chest and his head was cocked slightly to the right. One hand rested on his leg, palm up. The palm was bright red—the result of his efforts to stop the flow of blood from a bullet wound in his chest. She could not avert her eyes from the man. “What have I gotten myself into?” Several moments passed, but the body in the front seat still held her gaze. A nearby crow cawed and she blinked her eyes a couple of times before shutting them. Removing her eyeglasses, she set them on her lap and rubbed her eyes with the heels of her palms. I’ve got to do something. Sitting in the backseat of the sedan was not going to save her life.

Charity slid the bows of her eyeglasses past her ears, placed a hand on the back of the front seat and twisted her upper body. Peering through the back window, she saw no other cars in sight. She opened the back door on the driver’s side and stepped out. Her fingers curled over the top of the doorframe and her right foot still inside the vehicle, she whipped her head left and right; her hair flew over one shoulder, and then the other. The road was deserted. Squinting, she gaped through a stand of trees on the other side of the road, her eyes straining to make out a few far away buildings and another road. With no other signs of civilization in the area, the storefronts were her best chance for help. She could not stay here much longer. If those men came, they would kill her for sure this time. They had found her once. They could find her again.

Charity slammed the door and ran across the road. Her thong shower sandals flopped against the heels of her feet. Roused from a late afternoon nap, she only had time to grab the sandals before she was rushed out of the house and pushed into the vehicle. A pair of light blue shorts and a white tank-top shirt accompanied the footwear.

Snaking between two large trees, she went deeper into the woods and disappeared from sight. Stepping over fallen limbs and zigzagging around low-hanging branches, sharp twigs scratched Charity’s arms and legs. She felt the waistband of her shorts stretch to the rear, halting her forward progress. She reached around and grabbed her shorts before they were torn from her body. She stepped backwards and released the branch. Her eyes caught sight of the scratches on her arms. She sighed. “This is going to be fun.”

For twenty minutes, Charity methodically made her way through the woods, until she emerged on the other side. Waving her hand in front of her face to clear away bothersome bugs, she got on her tiptoes to get a better view of the building she had seen from the road. The structure appeared to be a restaurant, but the sign was obscured. She lifted her right foot off the ground and slapped the back of her calf. A mosquito had enjoyed its last meal. Clearing the air in front of her once more, she entered the field, the only thing standing between her and the restaurant.

Tall blades of grass tickled her bare legs. Charity thought back to the moment that had started her current journey. She shook her head, wishing she had never opened her laptop computer that day. Being the inquisitive type, however, she was compelled to take a closer look at what had been displayed on her computer screen. If she had known then that her life would forever change, she would have closed the laptop and gone to the hotel pool. Without breaking her stride, she picked a red-colored wildflower and brought the blossom to her nose, breathing the aroma. She half laughed. No, I wouldn’t have. That’s not me.

Minutes later, Charity’s sandals slapped the concrete parking lot behind the restaurant. In the open, she felt exposed and quickened her pace, her sandals making a ‘flop-flop-flop’ sound. She tossed the flower aside and ran to the front door.

Chapter 2: Jameson

6:05 p.m.; Washington, D.C.

"Slow down, Charity, and tell me what happened." FBI Director Phillip Jameson leaned forward in his chair. Charity was scared and talking fast, taking deep breaths of air in mid-sentence. Even though he had heard enough, he let her continue. Her voice told him she was getting tired. That would calm her nerves.

"Where are you, Charity?" He picked up a pen and slid a pad of paper across his desk. He scribbled. "Listen to me and do exactly what I tell you." He paused, waiting for an acknowledgment. "Stay where you are. Do not leave the restaurant. Don’t even go to the bathroom. Stay where you can be seen at all times. Do you understand me? Good. I’m sending an agent to pick you up. You will be out of there and safe within the hour. Remember to stay visible, Charity. You’re going to be all right." Once Jameson had confirmed she knew what to do, he set the phone's handset back in the cradle. Removing his eyeglasses, he tossed them onto the desk. With his elbows on the desk, he closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead with his fingers. His eight-hour workday had just gotten longer.

Jameson had always worked hard. When he was ten, working as a newspaper carrier, he made a decision to give more to his employer than he received. That work ethic carried over to every job he worked, including his current position. He never expected more than his paycheck at the end of the week. As a result, his superiors had taken special notice and promoted him as soon as the opportunity had arisen. Two years ago, when James Conklin became the President of the United States, he had a short list of names, actually one name, for the position of FBI Director—Phillip Jameson.

During his career with the FBI, Jameson had cultivated a no-nonsense attitude. He was a man who brought to bear rock-steady leadership and decision-making skills and always backed up his agents. The fifty-year-old was physically fit, regularly lifting weights and jogging. He was five-feet, eleven inches tall and weighed one hundred and ninety pounds. He was bald and wore rounded, rectangular eyeglasses with thick black frames.

Jameson sat straight, reached into the pocket of his suit coat and plucked his cell phone. In the upper-right corner of the screen, the time was displayed—6:09. He typed a short text message, pressed the ‘send’ button and put down the phone. Picking up his desk phone, he dialed the cell number of one of his best agents, Special Agent Raychel DelaCruz.

Chapter 3: Ritz

5:09 p.m.; Dallas, Texas

Aaron Hardy reclined in a lounge chair near the outdoor pool at the Ritz-Carlton. The late afternoon sun felt good on his face and bare chest. Contemplating another dip in the pool, he flinched when his satellite phone vibrated on the glass-top table to the right. After swiping a forefinger across the screen, he typed in his password. A new text message appeared from a contact named ‘Boss.’ Hardy’s eyebrows furled downward after he read the short message from Phillip Jameson—‘GO WITH CRUZ.’ Go where?

Still holding the sat phone, he turned his head to the left and observed the woman lying on her stomach in the chair next to him, her arms resting at her sides. She wore a white two-piece bathing suit, the strings of the bikini-style bottom tied at the hips. Her hair was dark and long, matching the skin tone and length of her legs. She was beautiful.

FBI Special Agent Raychel DelaCruz rolled onto her back and got comfortable. Her dark sunglasses blocked the sun, while it made its descent to her left. She closed her eyes and let the sun darken her body. She was Caucasian, but her mixed heritage made the color of her skin darker. She was glad she and Hardy had been able to get away for a few days. After driving from Washington D.C. to Dallas, they had taken Saturday to rest. After a late breakfast on Sunday, they spent the afternoon at a Dallas Cowboys football game. It was mid-September and the Cowboys were hosting the Detroit Lions. Having grown up in Dalhart, a couple of hours north, she had been a lifelong Cowboy's fan. Unfortunately, since she lived and worked in Washington, D.C., finding time to attend a game had become a challenge.

Today, following some light shopping, she and Hardy had spent most of the afternoon by the pool, alternating between sunbathing and swimming. In an hour, they would be travelling to Dalhart to visit her mother. Right now, however, all she wanted was to relax and spend time with Hardy.

A moment later, she heard a familiar song playing—‘Holy Spirit’ by Francesca Battistelli. I thought I silenced that. Removing her sunglasses, she scooped the phone off the table. Since she was going to be on vacation for the next week, it seemed appropriate to change the ringtone on the device to a song by one of her favorite artists.

She tapped the screen and brought the mobile to her ear. “Special Agent Cruz.” Even though her real name was DelaCruz, everyone close to her called her Cruz. She had received the name during her time in the military. Her fellow soldiers had joked with her and said that pronouncing her full name was too difficult. They shortened it to Cruz.

"Cruz, it’s Director Jameson. I'm sorry to bother you while you're on vacation, but I need you for a 'pick-up and delivery' mission."

Cruz sat up and scooted further back in the lounge chair.

"One of the FBI's safe houses in Texas was breached. To my knowledge, all of the agents were killed."

She closed her eyes and put her free hand against her forehead.

"They were protecting a witness in a murder case. One agent was able to get the witness out in time, but he died a short time later."

"Where’s the witness?"

"She's at an Overland Steakhouse near DeSoto. Where are you now?”

"I know the place. I’m close, maybe thirty minutes away." Cruz paused. "With all due respect, why didn't you send some agents from the Dallas field office? They could be on-scene within minutes."

"I have no idea how the safe house was breached. Only a handful of people knew the witness’s whereabouts. That means we may have a leak in Dallas. I need someone I can trust to pick her up."

"I understand, sir. I'll leave right away."

"I'll send you the GPS coordinates for the new safe house. As we speak, I'm putting together a team of handpicked men to meet you there. They will take control of the situation."

“Yes, sir.”

"Oh, and take Hardy with you, Cruz."

Her body stiffened. How does he know I’m with Hardy? She and Hardy had been dating for two months, but she had never mentioned that fact to anyone at work. "Sir, I don't think I should take a civilian into a potentially hostile situation. What if something happens and—"

"I understand your concerns, Cruz, but Hardy has proven he can handle himself." Jameson was referring to the incident two months ago that had brought Hardy and her together. Their actions had been instrumental in bringing a corrupt Senator to justice and finding the men responsible for killing Hardy's Special Operations teammates in an explosion in Washington D.C. "Besides, you need backup, in case anything does happen."

She protested, "Sir—"

"Cruz, take Hardy. That's an order. If there’s any fallout, I’ll take the heat. Call me when you get to the safe house." Jameson ended the call without giving her a chance to respond.

Hardy watched Cruz. She stared at her phone for a few seconds before her dark brown eyes settled on him; the long black eyelashes curled toward the sky, fluttering down and up when she blinked. She wanted to say something, but she was distracted. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever met. She had a long face with high cheekbones and a flawless complexion. Her hair fell below her shoulders. Looking at him with her head tilted to her left, the left half of her hair cascaded over her shoulder, covering half of the upper part of her bathing suit, stopping below her breast.

“How would you like to take a little road trip?” She swung her leg over the chair and rose to her full height—five feet, eight inches.

Hardy tipped his head backward, following her as she stood. The afternoon sun, directly behind her, silhouetted her figure. Her legs were well toned and her narrow waist complemented the gentle curves of her hips. He smiled and gestured toward the pool. “I thought we were already on a road trip.”

Cruz reached to the right to grab the black cover-up, hanging over the back of her chair. She twirled the garment around her shoulders and slid her arms into the sleeves. The short-sleeved cover-up hid her bathing suit, but the hem stopped halfway down her thighs. After wrapping the attached sash around her waist and tying a loose knot, she motioned toward her phone. “That was my boss, Director Jameson. A witness in a murder case was almost killed in an attack on a safe house near here. I need to pick her up and get her to a new location.”

Hardy glimpsed his cell. The text message from Jameson became clear. Though he could not tell her, Jameson wanted Hardy to assist Cruz on the assignment.

For the past two months, Hardy held a top-secret position, created by the President of the United States. He reported directly to FBI Director Jameson. His official job title was Special Agent Consultant to the Director. The President had offered the job to Hardy after becoming aware of his involvement in the incident in July that Director Jameson had alluded to, earlier, during the phone conversation with Cruz. Only a few people knew what Hardy’s job entailed and she was not one of those people. She was unaware that both of them worked for the same man.

The first two months of Hardy and Cruz’s relationship had been somewhat stressful. He would be gone for several days, conducting missions around the world. When he returned, he and Cruz would have a great time together, until he got a call from Jameson and the process started all over again. Hardy was given a direct order not to divulge the details of his job to anyone.

She picked up her mobile. “It shouldn’t take too long, but I need to leave, immediately. Are you in?”

Hardy swung his legs to the left and stood. “I’m in. Let’s go.”

Chapter 4: Hotel Room

Back in her hotel room, Special Agent Cruz did not bother to take off her bathing suit. She removed her cover-up, tossed it into her travel bag and quickly dressed—tan casual pants, light blue V-neck shirt and blue leather shoes. After attaching her Glock 23 pistol and holster to her belt, she flung her shirt over the weapon, grabbed her travel bag and suitcase. Walking to the room’s adjoining door, she wrapped on it with her knuckles. Hearing Hardy’s voice, she entered his room.

He was standing by the bed, dressed in blue jeans, a t-shirt and black tennis shoes, holding his suitcase. She afforded herself a moment to admire his features. He was five-feet, eleven inches tall and had a muscular physique. His upper arms filled out the sleeves of the t-shirt. His light brown hair was cut short. His jaw was square and he had a chin that came to a slight point; a small dimple was centered on it. The quality that had first attracted her, however, was his eyes. They were deep blue. Peering into them, she felt as if she could see the ocean. She snapped out of the trance. “Are you ready?”

“All set.” He slung her travel bag over his shoulder and they exited the hotel room, heading for the main lobby. Since Hardy had already paid the hotel bill when he arranged for a later checkout time, they hurried past the desk and through the front doors.

Cruz handed Hardy the keys to her black Dodge Charger. “You can drive.” She shifted her suitcase to the other hand and fished for her phone. “I need to call Mom and tell her we’re going to be getting in later than expected.”

Hardy pushed buttons on the key fob. The Charger’s doors unlocked and the trunk popped open. He put their luggage in the trunk, slammed the lid and got in on the driver’s side. She was already dialing the number to her mother’s house. Starting the engine, he put the gear selector in ‘drive’ and drove away.

Cruz turned her head toward Hardy. “Head south on 35E.” She turned back and spoke into the phone. “Hi, Mom, it’s me…I’m afraid I have bad news…No, no, we’re still coming. I just have to take care of some work here and then we’ll be on our way. It shouldn’t be long, but I wanted to let you know, so you don’t worry about us.” Cruz listened.

Hardy navigated the vehicle through traffic. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her look at him a couple of times, smiling.

“All right, Mom. I love you…we’ll be there soon.” She ended the call, stowed the phone in the center console and faced Hardy, a smile still on her face.

“Is everything all right? You look like the cat that ate the canary.”

“Everything’s fine.” Her smile remained.

“What is it then?” Her infectious smile forced him to return the gesture.

“It’s my mother…she’s really excited to meet you.” As an adult, Cruz had dated many men; however, she had never taken any of them home to meet her mother. Cruz had heard in her mother’s voice the eagerness to meet him, the man who Mrs. DelaCruz had heard so much about through phone calls with her daughter.

Hardy laughed and checked the rearview mirror. “Well, let’s hope I don’t disappoint her.” He changed the subject. “So, what are we heading into? What’s the situation?”

Chapter 5: Overland

5:42 p.m.

Hardy watched Special Agent Cruz double-check the status of her pistol. “Do you have an extra one of those?” They were sitting in the Charger parked to the right of the front doors to the Overland Steakhouse. The restaurant was empty, except for the few patrons that could be seen from their vantage point. None of them matched Charity Sinclair’s description. Jameson had sent a picture along with the coordinates to the new safe house.

Cruz shook her head. “You’re a civilian. Plus, I want you to stay with the car, so we can leave as soon as I pick her up.” She cranked her head in all directions. “I’m not hanging around here any longer than necessary.”

“Are you sure that’s wise? It’s kind of hard to watch your back from here.”

“Nothing’s going to happen.” She liked his concern for her safety. Being an FBI agent, she had to be tough, controlling. Those qualities did not allow her to relax, let someone else care for her needs. Time with Hardy meant she could let down her guard and not feel the need to be in charge. This situation was not one of those times. This required her to exercise her authority. She was the federal agent and the safety of the witness was her responsibility. “Besides, the witness is expecting me. If you’re there, she might get spooked and run.”

Hardy nodded his head. The thought of her going into the restaurant alone did not set well with him. She was unaware of why Jameson had insisted she bring him, and Hardy was not in a position to tip his hand.

Cruz exited the vehicle and stuck her head through the open window. “Keep the engine running. I’ll be right back.” She tapped the door with her hand and hurried toward the restaurant.

She paused at the front doors, looking through the glass. After a few moments, she swung open the glass door and entered the building.

Hardy checked the time on his watch. He was giving her three minutes to reappear or he was going in after her. She might not like it, but he did not like her going in alone, either. Call it a compromise.

After a minute had passed, Hardy observed three large men approach the restaurant, coming from the other way. They were dark-skinned and wearing dark suits with white dress shirts. They seemed out of place for the area this time of the day, especially such a hot day. The temperature was close to ninety degrees and they were wearing dark suits. Plus, their body language set off alarm bells in his head. His pulse quickened and his muscles tensed. His body was getting ready for a fight.

When the lead man reached around his body to grab the door handle to the restaurant, Hardy noticed a bulge under the man’s jacket. Concealing full-size firearms under a suit coat was difficult. Suit coats were fitted to the shape of the wearer. Stuff two pounds of steel underneath and the result was always the same, a telltale bulge.

Chapter 6: Contact

Special Agent Cruz stood inside the front door and removed her sunglasses. She tucked one of the bows inside her shirt, letting the sunglasses hang from the neckline. Not seeing Charity in the immediate vicinity, Cruz went to the back. In the corner, sitting in a booth, she saw someone matching the description she had been given. After viewing Charity’s photo on her mobile, Cruz slowly approached the booth, her FBI credentials in her hand.

Charity rested her forehead on her crossed hands. Sensing someone was standing near her, she lifted her head. Her eyes were drawn to the badge in Cruz’s hand and she relaxed when she saw the letters FBI.

“Charity Sinclair?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“I’m Special Agent Raychel DelaCruz. Director Jameson sent me.” She spotted the scratches on the woman’s arms and legs. “Are you hurt? Do you need any immediate medical attention?”

Charity held out her arms in front of her, examining the red lines. Inwardly, she laughed. She looked as if someone had used her for a piece of paper. “No, these are just scratches from tree limbs.” She pointed over her shoulder. “I walked through the woods back there to get here. I’m fine.”

Cruz motioned. “We should get going, Miss Sinclair.”

Charity nodded and stood.

The two women walked toward the front doors, Cruz in the lead. Rounding the last booth, they stopped. Cruz grabbed Charity’s right arm, ready to push or pull her in whatever direction was necessary.

Her voice cracking, Charity put her fingers to her lips. “Oh, no, they found me.” Blocking their way out the front were three men in dark suits. She recognized the one in the middle. She had caught a glimpse of him when the agent had escorted her out of the safe house. He was the one who had shot the agent who saved her life.

“Stay calm.” Cruz’s eyes shifted left and right and back again. She sized up each man, determining which one was the most dangerous. The only way out of the restaurant was through the front door. The man to her right was blocking the way to the exit at the back of the restaurant. Even if she drew her pistol first, taking out three men without being shot was a tough act. Plus, she had Charity’s safety to consider. Her eyes continued to scan the men and the immediate area, searching for another option.

“Special Agent Cruz of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, I believe.” The man standing in front of her took off his sunglasses and held them up to the light, checking for smudges.

She faced him. He had an arrogant demeanor and was extremely calm. He appeared to be Latino and wore a dark gray suit, white dress shirt and shiny black shoes. His forehead was perspiring. The man smiled and removed a white handkerchief from the front pocket of his trousers before rubbing his cloth-covered fingers over the lenses of the sunglasses. Afterward, he used the handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his face.

“You’re wondering how I know your name, no.” He tucked his sunglasses inside the left breast pocket of his jacket and folded the handkerchief before returning it to his trouser pocket. “We, Latinos, are not stupid like you Americans think we are. We have our intelligence sources, too.” He pulled back the lapels of his jacket and slid his hands inside his trouser pockets. He lowered his head, but raised his eyes toward Cruz. “I’ll make you a deal.” He tipped his head toward the back corner. “If you go over there, sit down and have yourself a cup of coffee, I promise not to kill you.”

Charity’s fear came through her trembling arm. Cruz gave her a sideways glance and shook her head, reassuring her witness that the man’s offer had no traction.

“I’m a reasonable man. There’s no reason for both of you to die, today.” He motioned toward the men on either side of him. “Do you really think you can outdraw three of us?”

If she drew her weapon, she could get two of them, but not the third. The scene before her was starting to move in slow motion. She was trying to come up with a plan that would give her and Charity the best chance for survival. Pushing her witness to the floor and drawing her weapon would save a second. A second was a lot of time in a gunfight. Since the man to the left was closest, he would get the first bullet. Gray Suit would be last; he still had his hands in his pockets and he would take a split-second longer to reach his gun. Flexing the fingers of her right hand, she visualized the moves she would have to make. Chairs scraped across the floor and patrons scurried away. The kitchen staff ran toward the back door. At first, Cruz thought the people had seen the pending fight. A familiar deep voice from behind the man in the dark gray suit told her otherwise.

“The real question is do you really think you can outdraw a man who has a rifle pointed at your back?” Hardy had an MP5 rifle, swinging it back and forth, pointing the muzzle at each one of the men. Back in Washington, D.C., when Hardy put the suitcases in the Charger’s trunk, he had noticed a black duffle bag. He knew it was a cache of weapons and gear. Everyone in the industry had one.

“And, you must be the one named Hardy.” Gray Suit turned.

“Not so fast, slick.” Hardy raised the MP5 and aimed it at the man’s head. The man stopped. “Now, slowly take your hands out of your pockets. And, if I see anything in them, you won’t see anything ever again. Comprende, Amigo?”

The man showed his hands and chuckled. “You Americans butcher our language.” He shook his head. “Now, I suppose you’re going to call this a ‘Mexican standoff.’”

Hardy ignored the man.

“You won’t make it out of here alive. My men will be waiting for you outside. They will gun you down the minute you step through those doors.”

Hardy knew the man was bluffing. “Since you like deals so much, here’s one for you. From now on, every time you speak I put a round in the back of your knees. Open your trap enough times and you’ll never walk again. It’s your choice…stop talking, or you stop walking. Now, one at a time, I want you to remove your pistolas and throw them on the floor.” Hardy aimed his rifle at the man on the left. “Starting with you big fella.”

Gray Suit saw that Hardy and Cruz, now holding her weapon, were focused on the same man. He saw an opportunity to save his own life. Without moving his head, he caught his henchman’s gaze. He gave him a barely perceptible nod of his head and the man on the left threw open his suit coat.

Hardy pressed the trigger and the MP5 barked three times; the rifle was set to ‘three-round burst.’ All three bullets found their target. A split-second later, Cruz fired three rounds at the same man. He spun around and landed on a small café table. The table toppled over and the man spilled onto the floor. Before Hardy could bring the rifle back, Gray Suit had grabbed the barrel and driven it downward. Three more rounds let loose, ricocheting off the floor.

Cruz swung her pistol to her left and shoved Charity to the floor. The second henchman fired his weapon. Cruz dove on top of Charity, while firing several rounds at him. Of the five bullets that hit the mark, the second one was the most important. That bullet had entered through the man’s mouth, shattering his teeth and severing his spinal cord. He crumpled to the floor.

Two men down, Cruz found Gray Suit. Through the legs of tables and chairs, she saw him and Hardy struggling for control of the rifle. There were too many obstacles in the way to take a clean shot. The man kneed Hardy in the ribs. Three rounds fired from the rifle and three holes appeared in the ceiling. Cruz stayed on top of Charity, protecting her witness from stray bullets.

Gray Suit jerked backward on the rifle before pushing forward with all of his might. The sudden change in direction was too much for Hardy. He lost his balance and fell backward, landing hard on the floor. Three rounds shot out of the rifle’s muzzle before the man came down on him. Both men lay on the floor. Neither one was moving.

Cruz shouted, “Hardy,” getting to her feet. Not looking at her witness, she shot a finger in Charity’s direction, “Stay down,” and moved around a table. Standing next to the commingled arms and legs of Hardy and the attacker, she saw Hardy’s face. His eyes were staring at the ceiling and his mouth was slightly open. During her career, she had seen death up close. The faces of the dead had one thing in common; they were void of all expression. Hardy had that look. Cruz felt her throat closing and her stomach muscles convulsing. Her pistol felt as if it weighed a hundred pounds. The only thing heavier was the lump in her chest. She knelt next to Hardy.

A fraction of a second later, he coughed and expelled a long breath before taking a huge gulp of air. He coughed again and rolled the body to the left; the wooden handle of a steak knife protruding from of the corpse’s chest. A growing circle of blood stained the white dress shirt.

As he fell, Hardy had grabbed the knife from one of the tables. The man came down on the blade, while his knee rammed into Hardy’s groin. Still coughing, he reached for Cruz.

“Thank God.” She wrapped his arm around her shoulders and helped him stand. “I thought you were dead.”

He bent over and cradled his smarting testicles. “Right now,” his chest heaved, “I think I’d prefer that.”

“Shall I rub it? Would that help?”

He rose to his full height, a devilish grin spreading across his lips, while his mind went to a far off place. He ogled her out of one eye, his half smile still present. “Yes…and no.”

She patted his chest. “Down boy…I was kidding. Are you okay to stand?” He frowned before nodding his head. “Good. I’ll get Charity and we can get out of here.”

Hardy picked up the MP5 and removed the magazine—two rounds. He put the magazine back in and pulled back on the bolt, until he saw the rim of a nine-millimeter case. Three rounds left.

Cruz returned with Charity and the three of them left the restaurant. Cruz hurried around the front bumper of the vehicle. “Charity, get in back and stay down.” She climbed into the driver’s seat. Once Hardy was inside, she jammed her foot down on the accelerator and the tires squealed. Smoke rose into the air and two black lines appeared on the pavement behind the Charger’s spinning tires.

Cruz pressed buttons on the Charger’s built-in GPS navigation screen. She had entered the safe house coordinates from Director Jameson on the way to the restaurant. Confirming they were going in the right direction, south on 35E, she adjusted the rear-view mirror to see Charity. “We’re on our way to another safe house. Hang in there, Miss Sinclair.” She glanced at Hardy, who was cupping his... “How are your—” she shook her head, “you holding up?”

“I’ll be fine.” He maneuvered the MP5 rifle and managed a brief smile. “Don’t worry. You still have a future with me.”

Blushing, Cruz glimpsed the rifle. “Lucky for us, you found my secret hiding place.”

Chapter 7: Safe House

6:04 p.m.

Director Jameson had provided the coordinates to a safe house south of Lancaster near Bear Creek. The house, a short drive from the Overland Steakhouse, was at the end of a long dirt driveway and surrounded by trees. The nearest tree line was no less than fifty meters from the house, so the occupants had a clear line of sight in all directions. Special Agent Cruz steered the Charger toward the two-story house, the roof’s pitch almost flat. The window shades were closed. The exterior of the house was worn, the paint peeling and faded. Sections of siding hung at angles. It was evident the house had seen better days.

She checked the GPS.

Hardy read her thoughts. “Are you sure this is the right place?” He surveyed the house and the surrounding terrain. Tall weeds flanked the Charger. The brown grass had not been mowed in weeks. Dropping a match or flicking a cigarette would have started a forest fire. An old sedan was parked out back. The tires were flat and the driver’s door, along with the windows, was missing. Weeds found their way into the shell of what at one time had been a nice car.

Cruz stepped on the brake pedal. “The GPS says we’re here.”

Hardy put a shoulder to the door. “Well, let’s hope we’re all current on our tetanus shots.” He got out and ascended the stairs that led to the front porch.

Cruz joined him; Charity was two paces behind them.

“Uh…how do we get in?” He eyed the solid steel door with no doorknob.

Cruz ran her fingers around the bottom of a mailbox attached to the side of the house. Finding what she was looking for, she pushed up and the right side of the mailbox popped open. A numeric keypad had been built into the siding. She pressed numbers, corresponding to the security code Jameson had sent, and hit ‘enter.’ A sound similar to briefcase latches releasing—only louder—was heard and the heavy door opened a crack.

“Cool. You FBI people have the neatest gadgets.”

Cruz and Charity exchanged a glance. Men and their toys.

He shoved the door the rest of the way open. The house was dark, but a faint light came from around the window shades. Feeling for a switch on the wall, he slid his hand upward and three lamps lit the room. Judging by the condition of the exterior, Hardy had expected the inside to be a mess.

The living room was nicely decorated. To the left, a stone fireplace with a flat-screen television was mounted above the opening. The fireplace faced a large wooden coffee table to his right. The table was surrounded by sectional sofas, arranged in the shape of a ‘U.’ Behind each sectional, a sofa table supported a lamp. In the far right corner, another flat-screen television, two straight back lounge chairs, two ottomans and a coffee table—complete with a video game console—formed a cozy gaming area.

Hardy advanced further into the room, admiring the hardwood flooring. Letting out a low whistle, he said, “Very nice.” A wooden staircase, accessed from the right side of the fireplace, rose to the second floor. The staircase passed in front of the chimney on a diagonal.

Cruz slipped past him and headed straight for the kitchen at the back of the house. Passing the dining area, she noted the large oak table surrounded by six solid wood chairs. The kitchen cabinets, baseboard trim and flooring were also made of hardwood and stained a dark color.

While she continued to inspect the kitchen, Hardy walked past the fireplace and made a button hook. “I’m going to check out the upstairs.”

He did a ‘one-eighty’ at the top of the stairs, his fingers dragging across the rough stones of the chimney and walked down the upstairs’ hallway. He leaned over a wooden railing to the right and could see most of the main floor.

Four doors were lined up on the left side. The first and last one led to bedrooms, each room set up the same—bunk beds against the left wall and a flat-screen television on the wall across from them. A desk and chair in one corner and two dressers in the opposite corner rounded out the floor plan.

The second and third doors led to bathrooms. The left bathroom had the sink, toilet and shower against the right wall. Shelves holding towels, washcloths, bathmats and toiletries were on the left wall. The right bathroom was a ‘mirror-image’ of the left.

Hardy descended the stairs and saw Charity rummaging through the refrigerator. He veered left and checked out the two rooms on the first floor. One was a bedroom, arranged like the others, except with a queen size bed, and the other was a third bathroom. Can’t have too many bathrooms, I guess.

A duffle bag slung over a shoulder, Cruz entered the back door and dumped her suitcase on the kitchen floor. She poked a finger at the luggage and glanced at Charity. “You should be able to find some clothes in there that fit.”

“Thank you.” Charity closed the refrigerator and picked up the suitcase. “There’s not much to eat.” She took a bite of a juicy Jonagold apple and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I’m,” she chewed and talked, “going to take a hot shower.”

“You have your choice of two upstairs,” Hardy jerked a thumb behind him, “or one down here.”

Charity sunk her teeth into the apple and sloughed upstairs, the suitcase bouncing off her leg with every other step.

Cruz slipped the duffle bag off her shoulder, dropped it onto the dining room table and unzipped it. “I parked the car around back, so it wouldn’t be seen from the road.” She fumbled around inside the bag before handing Hardy two full magazines for the MP5. After clipping a double-magazine pouch—two full pistol magazines inside—to her belt, she slid the zipper on the duffle all the way to the right and faced Hardy, who had already inserted one of the magazines into the rifle and was shoving the second into the back pocket of his jeans. The hiss of water sounded from the upstairs shower.

Hardy set the rifle on the table and pulled out a chair. “How long before someone from your agency shows up?” He sat and let out a sigh. “And, how did that guy know my name?”

Cruz shook her head. “He knew mine, too.” She put her cell phone to her ear and ran her fingers through her hair. “Whoever he was, he seemed—” she stopped talking to Hardy and spoke to the cell. “Director Jameson, it’s Cruz. We’re at the safe house. The witness is secure. How far out is your team?”

“They’re airborne and should be on-site in ninety minutes.”

She caught Hardy’s eye and mouthed the words ‘ninety minutes.’ “We were almost too late.”

“What do you mean?”

She relayed the events to Jameson. “How many people knew the witness was at the restaurant? Unless those men followed Charity, how could they have gotten there so fast?” She paused. “Who was with you when you called me?”

Jameson was lost in his thoughts.

“Sir, are you still there?”

Jameson shook his head. “I’m here. I was alone in my office with the door closed. I contacted nobody, except the men who are on their way to you right now.”

“Then my question still stands. How did they know the witness was at the restaurant?”

“I don’t know, Cruz, but I plan to get to the bottom of this.”

“In what case is our witness testifying? Who’s being charged with murder?”

“Hector Gutierrez,” said Jameson.

“You mean the Mexican mafia crime boss?”

“Yes. A prostitute was killed in a hotel room in Texas, near the border. Miss Sinclair was staying at the same hotel. She is very…proficient with computers. While she was working with her laptop, she gained access to the hotel’s security cameras and witnessed the murder.”

“I’m assuming that when you say she gained access, you mean she hacked the system.” The shower stopped running and her eyes shifted upstairs. “Why didn’t she go to the police?”

“She did. By the time the police arrived, the security footage had been corrupted. That’s when the FBI got involved and put Miss Sinclair in protective custody.”

Cruz put her fingers to her lips. “So, the FBI is attempting to prosecute a man based on a woman witnessing a murder through security footage that is now corrupt. I’m not a lawyer, but that sounds like quite a stretch.”

“It is, but if we can get this charge to stick, then we can take one more criminal out of the equation. It’s worth a try.”

“Where’s Gutierrez, now?”

“He’s in federal custody, waiting for his trial.”

“Then, it’s safe to say that the men who broke into the safe house and the men who were at the restaurant are working for Gutierrez.”

“It’s a very good chance. I’ll call you when I get more. I think it’s also wise to keep our phone calls to a minimum. We don’t know how they’re getting their information, so watch your back, Cruz.” Jameson ended the call.

Chapter 8: SS7

Special Agent Cruz set the mobile phone on the table. “The Director doesn’t know how they knew where to find Charity. He says he was alone in his office when he called me.” She ran her fingers through her hair, flipping the locks backwards when she got to the back of her head.

“They didn’t follow her to the restaurant.” Hardy was fiddling with the MP5 rifle. “They came from down the street and didn’t appear to have been walking all that long.” He tapped the rifle’s stock with his middle finger. “No, they were parked down the street from the restaurant. I’m sure of it. They had inside information on Charity’s location. They knew she was there.”

Cruz leaned forward and showed him her palms. “What about the man who knew our names? How would he have gotten that information? Jameson told no one…No one was with him when he called. What if—”

“There’s another possibility.”

Hardy and Cruz tipped their heads back.

Charity was standing near the upstairs handrail. She had a large white bath towel wrapped around her body. Near her left armpit, the ends of the towel overlapped and rolled inward. The towel left a good portion of her body exposed. From their vantage point, both Hardy and Cruz could see Charity’s entire left leg up to her waist. Her head was cocked to her right and she was holding a second towel in her hands, rubbing her hair as it hung down. The vigorous drying motion threatened to release the towel, barely clinging to her body.

Hardy could feel his cheeks getting warm. “What do you mean?” He saw Cruz in his peripheral vision, her eyes shifting from him to Charity.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I overheard your conversation and it got me thinking.” She stuck a finger in Cruz’s direction. “Agent DelaCruz, you said that—”

“Please call me Agent Cruz.”

Charity smiled and went back to drying her hair. “Agent Cruz, you said that Director Jameson was alone in his office when he called you.” Her eyes shifted to Hardy. “And, you’re certain those men didn’t follow me to the restaurant. I agree. No one was on the road when I got out of the car and walked into the woods. I could’ve gone in any direction, yet those men showed up at the restaurant too quickly. So, I’m thinking somebody was listening in,” she pointed at Cruz, “on your conversation with Jameson, Agent Cruz.”

“I’m not following you.” Hardy pointed across the table. “She said that Jameson was alone with the door closed. How can someone be listening?”

Charity tilted her head backwards and shook it a few times, her hair swinging back and forth like a clock pendulum. “I mean electronically.” She threw the towel over the railing and ran her fingers through the full length of her hair several times. “Someone could have been listening to your conversation over the Internet. I’m assuming either you or Director Jameson used a cell phone during the call, am I right?”

Cruz nodded. “He called me on my cell from his office line.”

“I’m sure Mr. Jameson has a cell phone of his own, too. And, it is most likely near him most of the time. So, those people could have been listening to the conversation through either one of those devices.”

His arms folded over his chest, Hardy cupped his chin. “How’s that possible?”

“Cell phones today are like supercomputers. There is so much technology in them they rival laptops. People don’t think of their cell phones as computers, so they don’t take precautions to safeguard them.” Charity leaned forward and rested her forearms on the railing before crossing her feet at the ankles. “Even if they did, there’s a little known thing called SS7.”

Hardy looked at Cruz; she shrugged her shoulders.

“Yeah, not many people are aware of it. SS7 is the crux of the problem. Billions of communications pass through it every day. It’s crucial in allowing mobile phones to roam. Experienced hackers know how to exploit SS7 and can do everything from listening to live conversations to spying on people through a phone’s camera and even activating the device’s microphone.”

Cruz sliced her fingers across her neck. “What if the power was killed…shut the phone off?”

Charity cocked her head. “Who does that? Besides, the mobile network is independent from the GPS chip and knows where the phone is at all times.”

Hardy stared at Cruz’s phone. “What does it take to gain access to someone’s phone?”

“Not much, really,” replied Charity, slowly shaking her head. “It could be something as simple as the phone’s number.”

Hardy snatched Cruz’s phone and stood. He dropped it onto the floor and smashed it under his foot, sending pieces in all directions.

Cruz sprang from her chair. “What did you do that for?”

Hardy pointed at Charity. “Get dressed. We’re leaving.” He pointed at the remnants of Cruz’s phone. “Jameson called you on that and told you,” he motioned upstairs with his head, “where she was. Jameson also sent you the coordinates to this place via that phone. This safe house may have been compromised already. We can’t stay here any longer.” He jerked a thumb. “If what she says is true, then those men may be tracking us through your communications.”

Cruz stared at the plastic parts. Son-of-a-gun…he could be right.

“Think about it, Cruz. How did that man at the restaurant know our names?” Hardy felt a vibration in his left front pocket. He stuffed a hand into the pocket. “These people have been ahead of us the whole time. Your phone may have been their tracking device.” He glanced at his phone—‘Boss.’

Cruz pointed. “You can’t take that. What if they’ve hacked yours as well?”

“Trust me, no one can hack this.” He had a state-of-the-art piece of technology two generations ahead of anything on the market. Given to him by Director Jameson, Hardy’s mobile was a satellite phone. Looking like any other ordinary cell phone, it was anything but ordinary, capable of getting a signal in places where normal phones could not. The GPS tracker was accurate to within a block of his location. “Hardy.”

“Hardy, it’s Jameson. You’ve got to shut off Cruz’s phone. We think they may have hacked into my cell and—”

“We know. I’ve destroyed it and we’re getting ready to leave this place. We can’t stay here.”

Cruz made eye contact with Hardy. “Who’s that?”

He went back to his conversation. “What are you calling me on, sir?”

“Don’t worry. I’m on my sat phone. They can’t hear us.”

Cruz heard Jameson’s voice. “Is that Director Jameson?” Why is he contacting Hardy?

Chapter 9: Crossfire

Hardy whipped his head around and darted to the front window. He drew back the curtain. “It’s too late, sir. They’ve found us. We’ve got to go now.” Hardy disconnected the call and jammed the phone into his pocket.

Having joined him at the window, Special Agent Cruz eased back the other curtain. Three vehicles were lined up at the tree line, facing the house. She counted twelve men fanning out and approaching the house. “Even if we could get to the Charger in time, they have the only escape route blocked.”

Hardy spied the sectional sofas. “Give me a hand.” They slid one sofa in front of the front door and dragged the other two to the window. Tipping them on end, they leaned them against the window. “That should slow them down.”

Running into the dining area, he hauled—Cruz pushed—the heavy wooden kitchen table toward the back door. Hardy joined her and they lifted the table and let it fall against the door. “That’s all we can do. Let’s go.” He raced toward the stairs. Cruz grabbed her duffle bag and followed.

Charity was standing at the top, dressed in Cruz’s clothes—shorts, t-shirt and tennis shoes. “What’s going on? Aren’t we leaving?”

Hardy jabbed his forefinger over her shoulder. “Change of plans—we need to shelter in place. Get to the bathroom.” Stopping and pressing his body against the handrail, he grabbed Cruz’s arm and pulled her past him, “Get her to safety,” before bounding down the stairs.

“Where are you going?”

“I forgot to get the lights.” Hardy moved from lamp to lamp, breaking each bulb. The main floor was in near darkness. With the lights out, they were on a more level playing field. Hardy’s team knew the layout, but the opposing force did not. He took the stairs two at a time and joined the women in the bathroom.

Hardy threw back the shower curtain and motioned toward Charity. “Get in the tub and lie down. It’s not perfect, but it might help stop bullets.” He helped her into the tub and held her arm, while she got on her belly. “Make yourself as flat as possible.”

Cruz drew and checked the status of her pistol. “How are we going to play this?”

Hardy motioned toward the stone chimney. “You take a position behind the chimney.” He tilted his head toward the opposite end of the hallway. “I’ll be over there.” He made an ‘X’ with his forearms. “We’ll set up a killing field and get them in the crossfire. We need to maintain the advantage of height and keep them on the first floor.”

Hardy ran to the end of the hallway, while Cruz knelt by the chimney. He wanted to ask her how long before her men arrived, but he knew the answer—too long. His phone vibrated. “We’re kind of in the middle of—”

Jameson cut him off. “The team I sent will never make it in time. We’re going to plan ‘B.’ Backup will be there in ten minutes.”

Hardy crouched and got as low as possible. “I’m not sure we have ten minutes, but copy that.” Changing the rate of fire on the MP5 to single-shot, he spied Cruz. “Okay, let’s make every shot count.”

Chapter 10: Cover Me

They did not have to wait long for the armed men to begin their assault. Glass broke at the front and back of the house. The sofa nearest the front door crashed into the living room. Two men entered through the window.

Hardy waited until the first man was inside. He fired three times and the man dropped to the floor, his leg hanging on the windowsill. The second man had one foot inside and could not back out soon enough. Hardy shot him twice in the head. The man’s body went limp and lay over the windowsill. Gunshots sounded to the right.

Special Agent Cruz fired on intruders at the back of the house. One man came in through the window over the kitchen sink. She shot him twice. When he did not go down, she fired two more times and he dropped onto the sink, his body sliding over the edge and landing on the floor. A barrage of gunfire came from the kitchen window. Chips from the stone fireplace flew in all directions and Cruz took cover, pressing her back against the chimney.

Gunfire came from the window in the living room. Bullets punched holes in the wall above Hardy’s head. He dropped to the floor, got into a prone position and returned fire. The bolt on his rifle locked open. Jettisoning the spent magazine and yanking a fresh one from his jean pocket, he jammed it into the rifle and released the bolt. “How we doing over there, Cruz?”

She leaned out and saw a man inside the kitchen and a second one jumping off the sink. Not having enough time to acquire a sight-picture, she extended her weapon and fired several times before the men disappeared from sight. Getting Hardy’s attention, she pointed two fingers at her eyes before holding up those fingers and motioning toward the main floor.

Hardy nodded and ran toward her in a low crouch. Back to back, they leaned against the chimney. He peered around the corner and had a clear view of the front window. Focusing on the wall facing the top of the stairs, he saw light from the kitchen window shining on it. Shadows danced on the pale-colored surface. The dark images moved, growing bigger. He held off as long as he could before pivoting his body around the chimney. His rifle up, he pressed the trigger six times, sending three bullets at each man.; the first one fell forward, while the second clutched his chest and toppled over backwards, his rifle discharging when he landed. Pivoting back behind cover, Hardy saw a man attempting to enter through the front window. He took careful aim and pressed the trigger once. The attacker disappeared from sight. Incoming rounds slammed against the chimney, which did not afford much protection for two people. Cruz’s body was pressed against Hardy’s back. He ejected the rifle’s magazine. Eight rounds left.

Cruz spun around and fired, until her weapon’s slide locked open. More men climbed through the kitchen window. Tapping the magazine release button on her pistol, while slipping her fingers under her shirt, she grabbed a full magazine and elbowed Hardy. She held up the magazine, “Last mag,” before inserting it into the pistol and running the slide forward.

By his count, Hardy had killed four or five attackers. “How many have you shot?”

“I got at least two. There are more inside the house, now.”

Hardy watched the wall at the top of the stairs for shadows. They were low on ammunition and there were still a half-a-dozen armed men nearby. His sat phone’s speaker squelched. A deep and muffled voice bellowed from his pocket. “Shepherd, this is Bigfoot. Do you copy—over?” Shepherd was Hardy’s call sign.

Cruz spun her head around. “What was that?”

Hardy dug out his phone. “Bigfoot, this is Shepherd. I hear you loud and clear—over.”

Cruz stared at Hardy. Shepherd? Bigfoot?

“Shepherd, be advised AR-1 has a fix on your position. We’re two minutes out. What’s your situation—over?” Bigfoot was the call sign for Tom Henderson. He was the leader of AR-1, an assault and rescue team created by Director Jameson to provide support for Hardy when he was on missions. Jameson had dispatched AR-1 soon after getting the call from Charity. The team had been conducting training in Little Rock, Arkansas and he wanted the team close in case they were needed.

Bullets came through the second floor hallway, sending faint beams of light toward the ceiling. Cruz drove her body harder against Hardy, nearly pushing him beyond the cover of the chimney. “They’re firing through the floor.” She leaned out and fired over the railing.

“We’re on the second floor. OpFor,”—opposing force—“is on the main floor, all heavily armed.” More bullet holes appeared in the floor; one a few inches from Cruz’s leg. Hardy yelled above the gunfire. “We’re pinned down and running out of ammo—over.”

“Roger that, Shepherd. We’re coming to you—over.”

Hardy jammed the sat phone back into his pocket, spun out from the chimney and emptied his rifle at the first floor figures. One man ducked into the bathroom, while a second took cover in the main floor bedroom. A third dove to the floor, but Hardy doubted the man had been struck by a bullet. He reeled around and rammed the last magazine into the rifle; a partial—two rounds left. Cruz and he did not have the two minutes AR-1 needed to get there. He spotted Cruz’s duffle bag on the floor. Kneeling, he rummaged through its contents. Grabbing a road flare, he rushed past her. “Get ready to cover me.”

Hardy went into the first bathroom and re-emerged with several folded bath towels. He ignited the road flare and held it up to a towel. “Cover me.” Cruz moved to the corner of the chimney, nearest the stairs. One by one, he lit and tossed the flaming towels over the railing, hoping the fireballs would dissuade the attackers from coming up the stairs. Adding to the blaze, Hardy tossed the road flare over the railing.

Cruz and the first floor gunmen exchanged gunfire, stone chips spitting at her face. Taking cover behind the chimney, she felt a sharp pain on the right side of her stomach. Her back to the chimney, she closed her eyes and crinkled her nose. The pain shot up the right side of her body. Her stomach was on fire. Hardy approached and she held up her empty weapon. “I’m all done.” Her arm fell to her side and the weapon slipped from her grasp.

Moving around her, Hardy relinquished his rifle. “You’ve got two rounds.” He withdrew his Cold Steel Recon 1 tactical knife, locked open the blade and assumed a fighter’s stance at the corner of the chimney. Crouching, he squeezed the knife. Come and get some, you son’s-of—

Chapter 11: Neutralized

Smoke from the smoldering towels rose toward the ceiling. The smoke alarm above the first bathroom door wailed. Blocking the ear closest to the alarm, Hardy heard what sounded like suppressed weapon’s fire. A few moments later, his phone vibrated and the speaker crackled. He retrieved the cell. “This is Shepherd. Say again—over.”

“Shepherd, this is Bigfoot. All targets have been neutralized. Your path is clear. I repeat—all targets neutralized. The structure is clear—over.”

“Copy that.” Hardy hurried to get Charity. The two of them were greeted by the sights, sound and smells of heavy, but dissipating smoke and a blaring alarm. Escorting Charity toward the stairs, he saw Special Agent Cruz. She had slid down the chimney and was sitting on the floor, covering her stomach. He knelt. “What’s wrong?”

She raised her head and peeled back her hand; it was covered in blood. There was a circular stain on her light blue shirt, growing larger. “I thought it was a sharp stone.” Her head dropped and she examined her wound.

Hardy screamed into his phone. “Man down, man down, I need immediate medical attention on the second floor.” He ran back to the bathroom and returned with two bath towels. He pushed aside her hand and pressed a towel against the wound.

Cruz screamed and arched her back. She grabbed Hardy’s forearm, her fingernails digging into his arm. He felt the pain, but never moved. Her body convulsed and her head rocked backwards, bouncing off the chimney. Hardy cradled her head with his free hand. Her breathing was labored and every breath of air sent new waves of agony up her right side. “Damn it. Where’s that medic?” he bellowed. Seconds later, Tom Henderson and Eva Draper appeared.

Draper, the team’s medical specialist, skirted by Henderson and dropped to both knees on Cruz’s left. Draper was short, standing five-feet, three inches tall and weighing a little over one hundred pounds. Her black hair was cut short, stopping at the neck. The bangs of her hair covered her forehead, ending at the top of her eyebrows. She was twenty-seven-years-old, but her facial features made her look as if she was in her late teens. She had grown up and spent her entire life in Michigan, Hardy’s home state. The two of them had connected from their first conversation, talking about all things related to Michigan. Like Hardy, she was a die-hard fan of the Detroit Lions and they had had numerous conversations about the team and its prospects at a winning season this year. Right now, however, the only thing on Draper’s mind was Cruz. “Where is she hit?” Draper bobbed her head back and forth, searching for wounds.

“Stomach, right side,” Hardy replied. “I’ve had pressure on it. There’s a lot of blood.”

Draper shuffled to the left and straddled Cruz’s leg. She reached for the towel Hardy was holding, “Move,” and pushed.

Hardy did not budge.

The medical specialist faced him. He was staring at Cruz. Draper leaned forward and got his attention. Knowing this was difficult, she employed her best soothing voice. “Let go, Hardy. I’ve got it from here.”

Henderson put a hand on Hardy’s shoulder. “Come on, let Drape do her job.” He reached under Hardy’s armpit and pulled him to his feet. Hardy could not have resisted Henderson’s strength even if he had tried.

Tom Henderson stood six-feet, three inches tall and weighed two hundred and thirty-five pounds of solid muscle. He was thirty-six-years-old and had spent half of his life in the service of his country. The hair under his helmet was dark; patches of gray peeked out. His facial features matched his wide frame. His eyes were set far apart and his nose was broad; a full, handlebar mustache lay beneath it. He was proud of the mustache and could be seen stroking it with his fingers at every opportunity.

Draper examined Cruz. “She’s lost a lot of blood. I see an exit wound on her back, so I think the bullet went straight though. I can’t tell if any major organs have been hit. We need to stop the bleeding and get her to a hospital ASAP.”

Henderson brought a radio to his mouth. “This is Bigfoot. We need that bird back here, now! We have an injured soldier that needs immediate medevac. Do you copy—over?”

A voice from the radio: “Copy that. We are coming in now on the south side of the structure—over.”

Hardy faced Charity and pointed. “Go with him.” He spun his head toward Henderson. “Where’s Ty?” Hardy was referring to the last member of AR-1, Tyler Pendleton.

“He’s outside, watching our backs.”

“Good. Get everyone ready to go. I want to lift off,” he gestured toward Cruz, “as soon as she’s on board.”

Henderson grabbed Charity’s hand and led her toward the stairs. “Copy that.” Over his shoulder: “The stairs are clear. You have no obstructions to the chopper.”

Hardy knelt next to Cruz. She plopped her hand onto his thigh and he slipped his hand under it, squeezing gently. She lifted her head. Her eyes were barely open, her eyelids fluttering up and down. She mumbled something. He leaned closer and put his ear to her mouth.

“Who…who are…these people? Jameson, why did he…call…you?” Her chest rose and fell. The spent oxygen barely made it to Hardy’s cheek. “I swear…I don’t think…I know you…at…all.”

Hardy closed the distance between them—their cheeks touching—and slammed shut his eyes. A six-inch knife had been thrust into his heart. At that moment, he wanted to tell her everything, everything about himself—his job, his family, his likes and dislikes, his favorite color, his favorite food. He wanted to tell her those things every other couple shared when they were getting to know each other. Putting his lips to her ear, he opened his mouth to speak. Bound by an oath to the President, he shut his mouth. The oath kept him from sharing what he did for a living. The oath was tearing him up inside, threatening to destroy his relationship with possibly the only woman who could understand him.

Cruz’s head slumped forward and Hardy held her face in his hands. “Cruz, talk to me…Cruz.”

Draper put her fingers under the woman’s chin. “It’s okay, Hardy. I have a pulse, but we need to move, now!” She collected her medical supplies and stood. “Hardy, let’s move.”

He snapped to attention, sliding his right arm under Cruz’s knees and his left arm under her back. Lifting her from the floor, he hurried toward the stairs. Her head hung down. He brought his left elbow up and her head came forward, coming to rest on his shoulder. With Draper in the lead, making sure there were no obstacles in his path and providing support in case he lost his footing, Hardy carried Cruz down the stairs.

Once outside, Henderson and Draper took Cruz and put her into the aircraft, while Tyler scanned the area for threats. Hardy climbed inside and got on the floor next to her. When Draper, Henderson and Tyler were aboard, the Bell 412EP helicopter lifted off. Banking right, the aircraft headed for the hospital.

Hardy cradled Cruz in his arms, whispering in her ear. Even though the noise from the aircraft’s rotors and engine drowned out his words, everyone suspected what he was saying. Draper leaned forward and placed a hand on his shoulder.

Chapter 12: Baylor

The helicopter touched down at Baylor University Medical Center in Dallas, Texas. Henderson had contacted Director Jameson, who made a few calls and had a team of doctors and nurses standing by on the roof. They quickly got Special Agent Cruz on a gurney and examined her on the way to the operating room. Doctors determined she needed immediate surgery.

While Cruz was wheeled to the operating room, Doctor Raj stayed behind. He spoke in a thick Indian accent. “The surgery could take up to three hours, depending on what I find when I open her up. As soon as I know more, I’ll let you know.” He turned to leave.

Hardy put a hand on the doctor’s shoulder. “Is she going to be all right, doctor?”

“It’s too early to tell.” He removed the hand. “I need to get prepped. Leave your contact information at the front desk.” He disappeared behind the double-doors before anyone had a chance to ask more questions.

Hardy stood with his hands on his head, fingers interlocked, facing the slowly closing double-doors. He watched the doctors and nurses take the gurney—and Cruz—out of his sight.

Charity and the members of AR-1 had gathered around him. Several moments passed before Draper stood alongside Hardy and put her hand on his lower back. “She’s going to be okay, Hardy.”

Hardy dropped his hands and made eye contact with everyone. When he came to Charity, he stopped and stared. He could nothing for Cruz, but he could fulfill her duty to the witness. “Miss Sinclair, we’re going to move you to a safer location. I’ll contact Director Jameson and get another safe house lined up for you.” He turned his head toward Draper and gestured toward Charity. “Draper, I want you to—”

“The hell you are,” said Charity, raising her voice and interrupting him. All eyes focused on her. She pointed at the doors. “Twice, that woman risked her life to save me. I’m not going anywhere, until I know she’s going to be okay. I owe her at least that much.”

“This isn’t open for debate, Miss Sinclair. Your safety is my responsibility now and I make the decisions. And, I say we’re moving you.”

Charity put her hands on her hips and glimpsed him from head to toe. “I can see you’re a man who’s used to getting his own way—that’s fine with me. In this case, however,” she poked her forefinger into Hardy’s chest, “you will not be getting your way.” She jerked her thumb at her chest. “You will not be ordering me around. And, if you try to remove me from this hospital,” she moved her right foot back, transformed her hands into fists and brought them to her chest, “you may succeed, but I guarantee you I will not go quietly.” Still in a fighting stance, she gestured toward Henderson and his team. “Besides, how much safer can I get with all of you around me.”

Hardy’s mouth fell slightly open and his eyebrows went up. After a few seconds, he lowered his head and his nostrils flared. His fingernails dug into his palms. She was right. He was used to getting what he wanted. He had been in positions of authority for many years and no one had spoken to him that way. If Charity had been a man, she would have been picking her teeth off the floor. Since she was a woman, however, he could not correct her insolence with his fists. He glimpsed Henderson and Tyler.

Raising their hands in surrender, they stared at the floor and shook their heads. Hardy moved on to Draper, who poorly hid a small grin.

“Don’t look at me. I’m on her side.”

Coming back to Charity, Hardy’s eyes narrowed before he unclenched his fists. What am I doing? He was not going to hit a woman.

“She has a point, Hardy.” Draper made a circular motion with a finger. “There’s no safer place for her than with those who’ve already killed to defend her.”

Not feeling up to arguing, he threw up his arms. “Fine,” he grunted, departing from the group. “Have it your way.” Over his shoulder: “For future reference, the next time you plan to hit someone, you might want to make a proper fist.” He disappeared down the hallway.

Charity glanced at her hands. They were in the shape of fists, but she had her thumbs tucked under the rest of her fingers. If she had thrown a punch, she would have most likely dislocated or broken her thumb.

“Come on, slugger.” Draper wrapped an arm around Charity’s shoulder. “Let’s get some coffee. We’ve got a few hours before we know anything.”

Chapter 13: Tick,Tick,Tick

Aaron Hardy found a small waiting room void of people. He sat in a cloth chair in the far corner. Resting his elbows on his knees, he leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. He remained in that position for several minutes. The room was quiet, except for the second-hand on the wall clock above him. Each time the second-hand moved, it made a sound—tick…tick…tick. The noise would have been maddening for most people. Hardy focused on the consistency and matched his breathing to the beat. He was thinking of many people and things—Special Agent Cruz’s health and his relationship with her, Miss Sinclair’s safety, Jameson, his job and Gutierrez, the s.o.b. responsible for all of this. His mind was unable to concentrate on a specific one.

With his fingertips, he rubbed his eyes before transitioning to his temples. He needed to call Jameson. Right now, his nerves were raw and he was concerned about what he might say to him. On some level, Hardy held Jameson responsible for Cruz’s condition; however, on a deeper level, he knew his emotions were getting the better of him. She was a federal agent. She was performing her duty. Gutierrez was ultimately liable. He was the one who started this, forcing Charity to go into protective custody. His men carried out the attack on the safe houses. Yes, Gutierrez was the one on whom Hardy wanted to unleash his anger.

His thoughts went back to Cruz and the look in her eyes before she lost consciousness. She did not trust him anymore. At the very least, she was losing faith in him. That was almost too much to bear. His phone vibrated a few minutes later. He leaned back in the chair and stuck his hand inside his pocket. He knew it was Jameson before he saw the phone’s screen. He gave himself a mental pep talk and finished by saying aloud, “Keep it together, Hardy.” He put the phone to his ear. “Hardy.”

Chapter 14: Justice

“Hardy, this is Jameson. What’s the word on Cruz? How’s she doing?”

“She’s in surgery. The doctors were unsure of her injuries and said it could take up to three hours before the surgery is complete. They’ll let us know as soon as they know more.” Hardy put his hand to his forehead before running his fingers through his hair. He sat straight in the chair and put his hand on the armrest.

The line was quiet for a few seconds before Jameson spoke. “She’s tough. She’ll pull through.”

Hardy squeezed the armrest tighter. The veins in his arm stuck out. “You smug, arrogant jackass—you don’t give a damn about her. You only want to know when you can have her back in the field. It’s your fault she’s here in the first place.” That was what Hardy wanted to say. His reply came in a monotone voice. “Yes, she will.”

“Hardy, I’ve got bad news. I’ve been informed by the Attorney General that the government has decided not to pursue the case against Gutierrez.”

“What,” said Hardy, rising from the chair? “They can’t do that.”

“I’m afraid Gutierrez has already been released from federal custody. He got on a plane headed for Mexico.”

Hardy could not believe what he was hearing. He made a fist with his left hand and reared back to punch the wall. He caught himself. “What about those agents who lost their lives at the safe house? They were your agents.”

“Hardy—”

“What about Cruz,” continued Hardy, glimpsing his hand, still stained with her blood? “She took a bullet to protect your freaking witness?” His mind had queued up the word freaking; however, the word that slipped past his lips was something else. “She was following your orders and now you’re giving up. You put her in harm’s way and now you are abandoning her.”

“Agent Hardy,” shot back Jameson, “You need to calm down and—”

“Don’t tell me to calm down. I’m the one who’s here. I’m the one who’s dodging bullets. I’m the one having to carry Cruz to a helicopter and watch her being wheeled away for surgery. I’m not the one playing politics in Washington, however, while good agents are losing their lives.” As soon as the words left his mouth, Hardy knew he had crossed the line. His temper had taken over and he could not take back what he had said. He bordered on insubordination.

“Damn it, Hardy, that’s enough,” shouted Jameson. His voice came through so loudly that Hardy removed the sat phone from his ear. “Now, I order you to shut your mouth and listen to me. I give the orders and you listen. Is that clear, Agent Hardy?”

Hardy opened his mouth to tell Jameson what he could do with his orders, but remained silent.

“I said is that clear?”

“Perfectly,” replied Hardy through clenched teeth.

“Good.” Jameson took a few moments to get his anger under control. “This matter with Gutierrez is complicated and I don’t have the time to explain it to you. The decision to let him go was not my call to make. I don’t agree with it, but there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“You could have used—”

“Hardy,” said Jameson, his voice rising. “Just because I don’t agree with the decision to let him go, doesn’t mean my hands are tied in the matter.”

Hardy felt a glimmer of hope. “I’m not following you.”

“We’ve been tracking Gutierrez’s plane since it took off. It landed in Mexico. We have an asset in the country who has confirmed that Gutierrez is currently at a small villa just over the U.S. border. Our asset believes Gutierrez will be at the villa for another two hours, maybe three. We only have a small window of opportunity.”

Hardy switched the phone to his other ear. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I have a jet waiting on the tarmac at Dallas/Fort Worth all gassed up and ready to go. Once you’re aboard, I’ll send you the details. You’ll have free reign to do whatever is necessary to bring Gutierrez to justice. Take Henderson and his team along for support.”

Hardy stood still, thinking. He wanted justice for Cruz, but how could he leave her? He wanted to be the first one to know when she was out of surgery. He wanted a familiar face there when she opened her eyes. In any other circumstance, his decision would have been certain and immediate. His thoughts scattered when he heard Jameson’s voice.

“The clock’s ticking, Hardy. What’s it going to be?”

Chapter 15: Tango Down

8:51 p.m. (local time); Mexico—just over the United States border

The sun had set more than an hour ago, but the air remained humid. Hardy could feel the sweat beads on his forehead. He looked toward the sky. A half-moon provided enough light to make out the figures moving back and forth around the perimeter of the small villa. He had agreed to lead this covert incursion into Mexico on the condition that Draper remain at the hospital and watch over Charity and Special Agent Cruz. He requested regular updates on her condition via text messages. Jameson had arranged for a team of trusted agents to see to Charity’s safety.

“Three tangos down—over.” Henderson had made three long-range shots from his vantage point on a small hill, two hundred meters away from the northeast corner of the villa. His specialty was long-range sniping and Hardy was convinced Henderson was the best. “You’re clear to proceed.”

“Copy that.” Hardy motioned it was time to move out. Crouching, Hardy and Tyler ran to a row of hedges fifty meters away from the southwest corner of the structure. They located the two sentries guarding the front door and sent two silenced rounds from their MP5 rifles toward each man. The men dropped. Hardy and Tyler sprinted to the villa and took positions on either side of the front door—Hardy on the left, Tyler on the right. They waited for Henderson’s update. Hardy gripped his rifle tighter. Come on, Big Man. Give us a report. If any one of the remaining men emerged, Hardy and Tyler would be forced to shoot him, exposing their presence and losing the element of surprise. Hardy’s earpiece crackled.

“Bigfoot is in position—stand by.” A few seconds passed, while Henderson peered through the scope on his sniper rifle. “You have six confirmed targets and three potential targets on the first floor, concentrated in the center of the room—over.”

“Copy that.” Hardy signaled to Tyler and readied his rifle.

Tyler pushed open the door.

The structure was small and simple. Three couches were grouped together in a ‘U’ shape in the center. A chandelier above the couches was lit, but a few bulbs were missing. Two large windows took up most of the wall space on the east and west side. A staircase was located on the east wall that led to an upper level walkway running east to west. On the north side of the walkway were three doors. Beneath the staircase, on the east wall, was a closed door. At the far end of the main floor was a kitchen area.

Hardy advanced into the room and moved right. Tyler followed and went left, flanking the house’s occupants. Six men were sitting on the couches, while three topless women danced on the floor between the couches. The women stopped dancing and the men stopped ogling and turned their attention toward Hardy and Tyler. The women, having been around men with weapons, were not surprised by the tactical team’s entrance. Seeing the rifles, the smiles on the men’s faces disappeared.

Tyler was the first to engage. He let loose a volley of suppressed weapon’s fire at the two men on the right couch. They never got to their feet. Their heads tilted backwards, hitting the headrest.

Hardy moved right and discharged his rifle at the two men on the couch nearest the front door. Each trigger press sent a three-round burst. Like the two on the right couch, the men remained in a seated position, as they expired from gunshot wounds to the back of the head.

The final two men on the far couch—opposite the three women—were more difficult to put down. Hardy did not want the women to become collateral damage. Secretly, he hated that term. In his mind, if a mission was properly planned and executed, there was no collateral damage. That occurred when people got careless. Moving further and further, he cleared the last woman and dropped the man on the right, who had stood, only to fall backward into a seated position when Hardy’s bullets ripped open the man’s shirt. The women screamed and dove for the floor. The last man alive grabbed a handful of one woman’s black hair before she could hit the floor. He put the muzzle of his pistol against her right temple. She tried to scream, but only produced a whimper.

The man’s head darted out from behind her, alternating from one side of the woman’s head to the other. He stepped back, but his knees hit the sofa, impeding his rearward movement.

Tyler advanced, while Hardy transitioned to his suppressed pistol and crept closer. Their weapons were pointed at the man’s head each time he appeared from behind the woman. When Tyler was within arm’s reach, he stopped.

Glimpsing his teammate, Hardy clenched the pistol tighter, drew in a short breath and let out half. Timing was crucial for the next move. A woman’s life depended on a precise combination of Tyler’s speed and Hardy’s accuracy. Come on. Show me your beady little eyes you son-of-a—

The skittish head jutted out toward Hardy, the left eye lining up perfectly with Hardy’s front sight. Striking like a coiled snake, Tyler leapt forward. Hardy fired one round. Twelve hundred feet-per-second later, the 9mm bullet found its target, as Tyler clutched the man’s gun hand and jerked the pistol toward the ceiling; the weapon discharged before he could wrench it from the limp hand. The lifeless body and the terrified, screaming woman collapsed onto the floor. The women were shaking and crying, but unharmed.

Holstering the pistol and grabbing his rifle, Hardy motioned for Tyler to open the door under the staircase. “We are no longer silent. Move forward and assault—over.”

“Copy that,” confirmed Henderson.

Hardy kept his rifle trained on the door, while Tyler opened it and stepped back, allowing Hardy to enter and clear the room. He re-emerged and headed toward the staircase, swapping out the partially spent magazine in his rifle for a full one.

The two men crept up the stairs. At the top, Hardy signaled and Tyler kicked in the first door. They cleared the room and moved on to the second one, repeating the process. Exiting, the doorframe above their heads came apart, sending splinters into the air. They backed up and took cover. “Bigfoot, this is Shepherd. T-Rex and I are on the second floor, taking fire. The shooter’s on the main floor. What’s your position—over?”

Before Tyler joined the team, his call sign had been T-Man; however, he changed it to T-Rex when he discovered Henderson’s call sign was Bigfoot. Since Tyler was six-feet, four inches tall and outweighed Henderson by at least twenty pounds, Tyler had to have a name that reflected his larger physical stature. It was a classic ‘mine is bigger than yours’ scenario.

Getting no response, Hardy was about to re-issue the command when three shots from Henderson’s Smith and Wesson M&P pistol, chambered in 45 auto, filled the villa.

“This is Bigfoot. One of you needs to spend some time on the shooting range. Thanks to me, your tango is down for good. You are clear to proceed—over.” One of the men Hardy had shot had still been alive.

“Copy that, Bigfoot.” Hardy and Tyler positioned themselves near the last room. Hardy nodded his head and Tyler put a boot to the door; it flew open, slamming against an inside wall.

Hardy entered the room and darted left, while Tyler went straight along the right wall. Three half-naked women were sitting on a huge bed against the far wall. The bed was almost the size of two king-size beds. They were huddled together near the headboard, covering their bodies with bed sheets, blankets, pillows, whatever they had grabbed. The room was smaller than the first two and the bed took up most of the floor space. There were no windows and no place for someone to hide, except under the bed; Tyler checked it, stood and shook his head. Hardy inspected the entire room, his head pivoting in all directions. He studied the women. They were afraid, but their body language was sending other signals, too. At different times, each woman shifted her eyes toward the wall behind Hardy before coming back to him. It was subtle, but he noticed it. He turned around and examined the wall. There was nothing special about it. Taking a few steps backward, he made mental calculations of the room’s size. Even though it was smaller, it appeared to occupy the same amount of cubic feet as the other bedrooms.

After walking to the door and inspecting the wall, Hardy raised his hand and motioned toward the wall. Tyler hefted his rifle. Hardy fired down the length of the wall, while Tyler sprayed it from the side, until their weapons ran dry.

Hardy strode the length of the wall, swapping magazines. He spotted something at the far end. Stopping and examining the section, which appeared to be a thin, moveable panel, he glanced at Tyler and slid the panel to the left, revealing a secret hiding place. Hardy clicked the flashlight mounted to his rifle. The immediate area was clear. He took a step forward and pointed his rifle down the narrow cavity. Halfway down, a man lay motionless. Hardy advanced, his rifle trained on him. Standing next to the corpse, he recognized it as the former Hector Gutierrez, the man’s bare chest covered with bullet wounds. Lifeless eyes stared back at Hardy. That was for Cruz. Making sure he accomplished the mission, he put one round into the head, “And, that’s for me,” before pivoting and leaving the room.

Henderson had joined them and was standing next to Tyler. He tilted his head back and raised his eyebrows. “Did we get him?”

Hardy nodded. “Eagle, this is Shepherd.” Eagle was the call sign for the helicopter that had dropped them near the villa. “Mission accomplished—we will meet you at the rendezvous point in twenty minutes. Do you copy—over?”

“Copy that, Shepherd. We will be waiting your arrival—over.”

Twenty minutes later, safely aboard the helicopter, Hardy took out his sat phone and sent a text to Draper. Ten seconds later, she responded. She’s out of surgery and in post-op recovery. Still haven’t heard from the doctors.

Chapter 16: Waiting

11:02 p.m.; Baylor University Medical Center, Dallas, Texas

Hardy rounded the last corner and made a beeline for the room where Draper had said she and Charity were waiting. Henderson and Tyler were a step behind. Barging into the waiting room, Hardy looked for Draper. “Where the hell is she?” He wheeled around and nearly collided with her.

“Come with me.” She grabbed a handful of his shirt and yanked. “A nurse escorted Charity and me to a consultation room. She said the doctor would be with us, shortly.”

“So, any word on how the surgery went?”

“No.” She led him into the consultation room.

Small and minimally furnished, it was evident the room was only meant for short conversations between doctors and family members. Charity was sitting at a small table—the only table—facing Hardy. There was a chair next to her and another opposite the table. She stood and offered him her seat.

Hardy waved her off and motioned for her to sit. “How are you doing?” Charity appeared tired, worn out. The day’s events had taken a toll on her. “Have you managed to get some sleep?”

She regarded him. After everything he had experienced, he still had the decency to inquire about someone else’s well-being. His face was haggard and the lines on his forehead were set deeper. Wherever he had been for the last couple of hours, it was obvious he had not gotten any rest. She flashed a smile. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”

Hardy nodded and turned around when the doctor entered. “How is she? Is she going to be all right? When can I see her? What about—”

The doctor raised a hand. “Hold on.” He pushed the door, but jumped back when a meaty hand prevented him from closing it.

Henderson and Tyler forced their way inside.

Doctor Raj pushed back. “I’m sorry, but this room is for family members only. You’ll have to—”

Hardy put a hand on the doctor’s shoulder. “It’s okay, doctor. They’re with me.”

The tiny space became smaller with the addition of two people, two large people.

Doctor Raj slid out a chair. He was a short man with a thin build. He was in his mid-forties. His skin was dark and his hair was black. A pair of wire-rimmed eyeglasses rested on a small nose. He was dressed in light blue scrubs and was still wearing a cap from surgery. Tied around his neck, a surgical mask rested on his chest; the untied strings of the mask swayed back and forth when he moved. After sitting across from Charity, he swiped the cap from his head and tossed it onto the table.

Hardy motioned for Draper to take the last chair. She shook her head and pointed. He could tell there would be no negotiating with her. Plus, he was exhausted and welcomed the time off his feet. “Thanks.” Draper stood next to him, while Henderson and Tyler moved around the doctor and stood behind Charity. Everyone faced the doctor.

Before Doctor Raj spoke, he slowly moved his head from left to right and examined each person. During his time in medicine, he had met with many people to discuss operations. These people, however, were most unusual; three men and one woman wearing black tactical clothing and combat boots, looking as if they had just come off the battlefield. Lastly, he spied Charity and her minimal clothing. She seemed different from the others. “How are you related to the patient?”

Hardy was direct. “She’s a very close friend. Now, tell us how she’s doing.”

Raj’s eyes settled on Hardy and assumed him to be in charge. “All right, let me first say that the surgery went very well, and she is out of post-op, resting in her room.”

Hardy relaxed a little. Good news.

“When I got her on the operating table, I saw there were two entry wounds, extremely close together. They were touching, in fact. However, there was only one exit wound. Knowing it was very unlikely that both bullets would have exited the body in the same spot, I took a closer look and found a bullet lodged near her lung. I was able to remove it and there were no signs that the bullet had fragmented. I believe it was in one piece.”

Hardy leaned forward. “So, she’s going to be all right.”

The doctor removed his eyeglasses and set them on the table. He rubbed the indentations left by the nose pads. “One of the bullets nicked her kidney.”

Hardy arched his eyebrows. His stomach muscles contracted. Bad news.

“I was able to stitch up the kidney, but I’m concerned about an infection. The entry wound had a lot of debris in it.”

Hardy and Draper looked at each other. They had worked on Cruz at the safe house, trying to get her bleeding under control. Did they cause the infection?

“Now, I understand that whoever stopped the flow of blood did so with whatever materials available.” He pumped his hands. “Don’t get me wrong, if that wound had been left alone, she could have died before even making it here. That was a good field dressing; however, at this point, there is a risk of infection. I have started her on some antibiotics and she’s heavily medicated to help her body fight. Rest is the best thing for her right now.”

Hardy stood. “Can I see her?”

Raj shook his head. “I’m afraid not, son. She won’t open her eyes for at least twelve to eighteen hours. As I said, she’s on some strong medications.” He stood and eyed Hardy. “The only thing we can do is wait.” He took another glance at the others, especially their attire. “I presume your friend is a soldier?”

Hardy’s mind was a million miles away. “What?” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. Yes, she’s FBI…an FBI agent.”

“Good. That fighting spirit can only serve to help her get better.” The doctor opened the door. “If you have any questions, I’ll be around. Just tell one of the nurses.”

Everyone thanked the doctor before he left.

Hardy stared at the open doorway. The room was quiet, except for the usual hospital noise at the nearby nurse’s station. He ran his fingers through his short hair and vigorously scratched the top of his head. Glancing at the members of AR-1, he waved a hand. “You don’t have to stay here. Go get a hot shower and some rest. You heard the doctor. There’s nothing we can do for the next eighteen hours.” He took a couple steps toward the door. “I appreciate—” Draper grabbed his elbow. He glanced at the hand before making eye contact.

“We’re not leaving you, Hardy.” She tilted her head toward Henderson and Tyler. “That’s not how we do things.”

“We don’t,” said Tyler, “leave a man—or in this case, a woman—behind.”

Hardy cranked his head toward the voice.

Henderson locked eyes with Hardy. “Damn straight we don’t.”

Hardy pursed his lips and nodded. “Thanks.” He shuffled through the doorway. “I need some air.”

Chapter 17: Penland

Hardy roamed the hospital hallways for the next half an hour. Lost in thought, he passed by nurses, doctors and people visiting family members and friends. He glanced inside rooms and saw patients lying in beds. Loved ones were gathered around the bed. Some were crying. He kept walking, not wanting to contemplate a similar scene with him and Special Agent Cruz.

He turned a corner, his mind replaying the images of her being taken away for surgery. He had no idea how long he had been walking, but when he stopped and looked up, he was standing at the door to Penland Chapel. He stared at the door for a full minute, breaking away to glance up and down the hallway. What the hell. Opening the door, his heart beat faster and his body temperature went up. Mustering the courage to take the first step, he slipped inside and closed the door behind him. As soon as the latch caught, he seemed shut off from the rest of the world.

For a few moments, he stood by the door, unsure if he was scrutinizing the chapel, or the chapel was scrutinizing him. He chose a chair in the back corner, crossed his legs and leaned back. A split-second later, he put both feet on the floor and sat erect, not knowing if his posture was disrespectful. He folded his arms over his chest and stared straight ahead. Maybe this was a mistake. Places like these made him feel awkward. They were tolerable with others around, but being alone was nerve-racking. The silence seemed to shine a spotlight on his soul, his closely guarded inner thoughts.

He got up to leave, but stopped and sat again. Where am I going to go? He had nothing to do, but wait. Being a man of action, Hardy hated to wait. Waiting made him feel powerless, unable to achieve results. Minutes later, he held his head in his hand. His body shook and his broad shoulders rocked up and down, matching his labored breaths. He wiped his face and rubbed his hands together. “Get it together, Hardy,” he whispered. He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled.

“God, you know I’m not a religious man.” Hardy shook his head. What am I doing? I’ve got no right…he paused…Where am I going to go? “God, you know the things I’ve done. I have no right to ask you for anything.” Washing his hands down his face, he sniffed. “Still, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know where to go. I’m at the end of my rope.” Hardy thought of his teammates, killed in the explosion two months earlier. “I don’t know if I can take another loss. Please help Cruz pull through. Please, don’t punish her for what I’ve done.” His head slumped and he closed his eyes. Thoughts and images rushed through his mind. He could not process them or control their coming and going. Fatigue made it difficult to concentrate. Several moments passed. All he could do was let his thoughts take him wherever they wanted him to go. In the midst of the mental chaos, he prayed repeatedly, “Please, God, save her.” Time seemed to stand still and the mental confusion subsided. He slouched in the seat, his body perspiring.

Ten minutes later, the door opened.

“Hardy,” said Draper, “we’ve been looking all over for you. Cruz woke up ten minutes ago.”

“What,” he said, standing?

“Yeah, she just opened her eyes and said your name. A nurse was with her at the time. She—”

“She woke up ten minutes ago and you’re only now telling me.” He charged out of the chapel.

“Well, excuse me.” Draper held up her hands and glanced around. “This isn’t exactly the first place I’d expect to find you.” She followed him out of the chapel.

Chapter 18: Peace

A nurse held up her hands. “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t let you in there.”

Hardy reached for the doorknob. “Is she awake? I want to see her.”

She intercepted his hand. “I have strict orders. No one is to go in there without the doctor’s permission.”

“Okay. Get the doctor’s permission.” He eased her to the side. “I’ll be in here when he comes.”

Pushing past Henderson, who stood next to the nurse, Doctor Raj forced his body between Hardy and the nurse. “What’s going on here?”

“I was told she asked for me.” Hardy pointed at the door with his forehead and his voice grew louder. “Now, I want to see her.”

Hearing the commotion, two nurses cranked their heads around and stared at the group. One picked up a phone and dialed security.

“I understand how you feel, but I must re-iterate how important it is for her to get her rest. This is not about you, sir. It’s about the well-being of the patient, my patient.” He grabbed Hardy’s hand, which was still on the doorknob. “Now, please—”

“For crying out loud, Doc,” Henderson jutted his chin toward the door and the woman on the other side, “She asked for him.” He made the ‘peace’ sign. “Just give him two minutes in there. Two minutes isn’t going to hurt her.”

Doctor Raj studied Hardy for a few seconds before holding up his index finger. “You’ve got one minute.” He stepped back and motioned toward the nurse, who set the phone back in the cradle.

Not giving the doctor the opportunity to change his mind, Hardy sneaked into the room and slowly closed the door. He tiptoed to her bed, picking up a chair on the way. Careful not to make a sound, he sat and stuck his arm between the slots on the bed’s handrail. Holding Cruz’s hand, he stroked her hair and pushed the locks away from her face. She tightened her grip on him. Her eyes fluttered before opening. He folded his hands around hers, careful not to dislodge the IV. “Hey there,” he said, smiling. “I’m here.”

Even though she had been given a strong dose of medication, Cruz recognized him. She returned a feeble smile. There was an intubation tube down her throat and two plastic oxygen tubes in her nose. She tried to speak, but her throat was sore and it hurt to talk. She coughed and let out a groan.

“Shhh, that’s all right. Don’t speak.” He patted her arm. “Charity is safe. You accomplished your mission. The doctor said the surgery went well.” He omitted the part about the possible risk of infection. She did not need that on her mind. She only needed to focus on getting better. He leaned closer. She seemed relaxed, almost at peace. He assumed it was the medication. “Everything is going to be all right. You just need to take it easy.” She closed her eyes, but her grip remained strong.

The doctor had given him one minute and he had stolen another four. Her chest rose and fell with each breath. Combing her matted hair, he felt her hand go limp. He held on. His thoughts turned to his prayer—his words—in the chapel and the timing. Ten minutes after asking…God…for help, Draper entered the chapel and told him Cruz had opened her eyes and called his name ten minutes earlier. Hardy lowered his head. Is it possible that… He was still holding her hand, contemplating the connection when someone, the nurse placed her hands on his shoulders. His head shot upward.

“Please, sir, it’s time for you to go and let her sleep.” She kept her hands on his shoulders, until he rose from the chair and slid his hand through the bed’s railing. He wanted to stay, but he understood it was best for her if he left.

Turning around, he had a strange feeling of calmness wash over him. He looked back at Cruz. He did not know how, but at the very depth of his being, he knew she was going to be all right. A smile crossed his lips and he left the room, his mind and heart at peace.

Chapter 19: Surprise

September 20th, 7:37 a.m.; Baylor University Medical Center, Dallas, Texas

“She’s still kind of out of it from all the medication, but the doctors say she’s steadily improving.” Hardy strolled down the hallway at the hospital.

“That’s good news.” Draper and the rest of AR-1 had stayed with Hardy, until he had received news from the doctor that Special Agent Cruz’s risk of infection was extremely low; she was recovering quicker than expected. The team left to finish their training in Little Rock. Since leaving the hospital, Draper had called Hardy every morning at 7:30 to check on Cruz’s condition. “Give it time. She’s going in the right direction. From what you’ve told me about her, she’s tough and will beat this.”

“Thanks Drape.” Hardy stopped in the hallway. “Listen, I want to thank you again for what you did for Cruz…treating her at the safe house, staying behind to be with her. I know you wanted to be a part of that mission in Mexico, but I needed to know that someone was going to be here for her.”

“You’re welcome. I’d do it all over again…for you and for Cruz.” Draper paused. “Maybe someday we can all get together for dinner and have a proper introduction—your treat.”

Hardy laughed. “I’d like that.” The smile faded. He knew as long as Cruz was not privy to what he did for a living, he could never introduce her to AR-1.

“Take care, Hardy. I’ll talk to you, soon.”

“Thanks, again, Draper.” He disconnected the call and slipped the phone into his pocket. Approaching the nurse’s station, he smiled at a middle-aged woman with short blonde hair. She stood and came around the desk.

“Good morning, Aaron.” Janet sidestepped him and headed down the hall. “Did you get a good night’s sleep?”

Hardy had practically lived at the hospital for the past three days. Most of the nurses had gotten to know him on a first-name basis. Last night, Janet had arranged for him to sleep in an empty room down the hall, so long as he did not make too much of a mess. Hardy had gladly accepted the offer. It was the first time he had been able to get some quality sleep. This morning, he felt refreshed and full of energy.

He fell in step behind her. “Yes, ma’am, I did. Thank you again for getting me that room. I promise I left it exactly the way it was.”

“You’re in for quite a surprise, I think.” She knocked on Cruz’s door before opening it slowly and poking her head inside. “Knock, knock.” She walked around to the far side of the bed.

Entering, Hardy’s eyebrows arched. Cruz’s mechanical bed formed the letter ‘L’ and she was sitting. The intubation and oxygen tubes were gone, but the IV remained. Her long dark hair, which had been greasy and plastered to her head was clean and brushed, falling to the sides of her shoulders and stopping below her elbows. Coming closer to the bed, he noticed she was not only awake, but also alert; her eyes were sharp and focused. Even though he had spent the past three days with her, she had been sleeping most of the time. When she was awake, the medication had made her groggy. At those times, Hardy had wondered if she even knew he was there.

“How are you feeling?” Janet asked, swiping her badge across a computer keyboard.

“A little tired,” said Cruz before turning toward Hardy and the bouquet of flowers in his hand. “I’m hungry, too. Is there any chance I can get something to eat?”

Janet smiled. “Absolutely,” she said. “That’s a good sign, dear.” She went back to the screen, punched a few more keys and clicked the computer mouse several times. “First, we need to get you up and moving. I was just getting ready to take you for a walk.” She looked at Hardy. “I think I found someone who might want to take my place, however.”

Cruz cocked her head and gestured at the flowers. “What do you have there?”

He stepped forward and handed them to her. “These are for you.” He glanced at a glass vase of flowers on her tray table. “But, I see someone else got here before me.”

She took the flowers from him and smelled them. “Yes, Charity was here earlier. She wanted to see how I was doing before she went back home.” Cruz gave the flowers to Janet, who was waiting to take them. “She’s such a sweet person, isn’t she?”

Hardy’s mind formed a picture of Charity, a determined look on her face, fists up and ready to punch him for wanting to move her to a safe location. “Yeah, she’s a sweetheart all right.”

“Okay, let’s get you on your feet.” Janet slipped a pair of pink socks on Cruz’s feet and helped her stand.

Cruz looked over her shoulder and flicked her eyes downward. “Will you do the honors?”

Hardy overlapped the gown and tied the strings together, covering her bare butt.

“Now, remember,” said Janet. “Take it slow and don’t go too far. You don’t want to tear your stitches.”

Janet, with Hardy’s assistance, helped her patient get to the door. At the nurse’s station, she let him take over after another word of caution about the stitches.

Cruz curled her arm around his elbow and took small steps, careful not to overextend her gait. She still had many questions for him. What did he do for a living? What happened at the safe house? Who were those men he was talking to on the phone? The details of the incident at the safe house were foggy and she wanted answers to her questions. Right now, however, she was simply enjoying walking with him, arm-in-arm.

Fifteen minutes later, she was back in her bed, tired, but still feeling good. She placed an order for breakfast. When it arrived, she ate every morsel. Janet had put the flowers from Hardy in another vase and set the vase on the opposite side of the room.

Hardy had kept the conversation to safe topics, not wanting to broach the subject of the safe house events. She needed to heal, not dredge up memories he could not explain. There would be plenty of time to discuss that issue. Besides, she had been somewhat aloof with him and he sensed she had been thinking about the same thing. As much as he may have wanted to tell her everything, he could not defy a direct order from the President. Hardy came around to the left side of her bed and pivoted the tray table ninety degrees to give her more room. Sitting down, there was a knock at the door and Director Jameson entered. “Hello, Agent Cruz.”

Director Jameson was dressed in a black suit, white dress shirt and a red tie with black diagonal stripes. A gold tie bar held the tie in place. His black shoes—perfectly polished.

“Director,” said Cruz, digging her palms into the mattress and trying to push her body further up the bed.

Hardy pushed himself to his feet. “Sir.”

Jameson waved a hand at them. “Please, as you were,” he said, striding past the foot of the bed and taking a position beside her bed. Hardy remained standing. “How are you feeling?”

She did not want to get into the specifics. “Good, I’m feeling good—a little tired, but good.”

Jameson nodded his head, pleased to hear the news. He shot a glance at Hardy, but remained silent.

Hardy stared back at the man. Dallas was a long way from Washington and it was a little odd for the FBI Director to come this far to inquire about her health.

Jameson spotted the vase. “Nice flowers.”

Cruz squirmed. “Charity brought them in before she left this morning.”

“That was nice.” He grabbed a chair from the corner. Pushing the tray table further away, he placed the chair as close as he could to the bed, removed his suit coat and laid it across the chair’s back. Sitting and facing Cruz, Jameson leaned back and crossed his legs before resting his arms on the chair’s armrests.

Cruz glanced at Hardy; he was sitting. She turned her head back toward her boss.

There was more silence, as Jameson focused more of his attention on Hardy than her. Jameson picked a piece of lint from his pants and let go of it, watching it float to the floor. He lifted his head and locked eyes with her. “Cruz, I have something to tell you about Mr. Hardy. Do you feel up to hearing it?”

The muscles in Hardy’s arms and chest tightened. His eyes moved toward Cruz.

She met Hardy’s gaze before whirling her head back toward Jameson. “Of course, sir.” Even though she was feeling a bit tired, she did not want to say ‘no’ to her boss, especially since Hardy was the topic of the conversation.

“Good.” Jameson rested his elbows on the chair’s armrests and brought his fingertips together. “What I’m about to tell you is highly confidential and must not leave this room. Is that clear?”

She slowly nodded her head. “I understand, sir.” She glimpsed Hardy, who looked as if he was bracing for a car accident. What’s going on here?

“Special Agent Cruz, Mr. Hardy works for me,” Jameson waited a beat, “and for the President of the United States.”

Cruz’s jaw dropped open. “Excuse me, sir?”

Jameson spent fifteen minutes explaining the details of Hardy’s coming to work for the President. She had glanced at Hardy several times. Each time she looked at him, it seemed as if she was on a date, more precisely, a speed date. The bits and pieces about his life, and who he was, were racing toward her. In the end, the information overload was worth the stress. When Jameson finished, she stared at Hardy. The questions and doubts that had plagued her were gone. The truth was out there. She stretched out her hand and he took it.

“Now you know,” Jameson continued, “why I wanted you to take Hardy to pick up Charity, as well as why I couldn’t tell you the reason.” Jameson nodded at Hardy with his forehead. “His employment activities are a matter of national security. As such, only a few individuals have access to that information.”

Hardy maintained her gaze. She smiled. Her face softened. They would be okay. Jameson had divulged Hardy’s secret, freeing him to pursue a normal relationship with her. He chuckled to himself. Normal. Whatever that was going to be, he planned to make it work.

Jameson stood, put on his suit coat and returned the chair back to its original place in the corner. Straightening the lapels of his suit coat and pulling on his shirt cuffs, he eyed his agents, holding hands. “I can see that the two of you have a relationship that goes beyond the professional realm.”

Both of them pivoted toward their boss.

He pointed a finger at them. “What you do in your personal time is none of my business; however, if I suspect that your personal relationship is affecting your work,” he paused to add emphasis, “It will become my business. Am I clear?”

Cruz nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Crystal,” said Hardy.

Jameson adjusted his suit coat. “Take as much time as you need to get better, Cruz. Then, take a couple extra days for yourself. I have already assigned other agents to your cases, so don’t worry about that. Just let me know when I can expect you back at work.”

“I will, sir.”

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Hardy said, standing, “How did you get the President to agree to bring Cruz on board? I thought my job was on a need-to-know basis.”

Wrinkles formed on Jameson’s forehead. Gazing at the end of the mattress, he drew back the lapels of his suit coat and slipped his hands inside his trouser pockets. “The President doesn’t know yet.”

Hardy’s eyes widened.

“I haven’t quite figured out how I’m going to tell him.” Jameson withdrew his left hand and waved it in front of his chest. “But, that’s my problem.” He lifted his eyes and regarded his female agent. “After all you’ve done for your country, Cruz—and me—I thought you deserved to know the truth.” He stood erect and maintained eye contact. “You took a bullet for your country, Cruz, protecting a witness.” The words triggered the phone conversation he had with Hardy and a sliver of a grin passed over his lips. He glanced left. “Or, as Mr. Hardy so eloquently stated it…” Jameson waved a hand and came back to Cruz. “Anyway, I’m sure my suffering the President’s anger won’t be as bad as what you’ve endured.”

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate that.”

Jameson got Hardy’s attention. “That was nice work in Mexico. With Gutierrez and his son out of the picture, Miss Sinclair should be safe now.” The man Hardy had killed with the steak knife was the only son, and blood relative, of Hector Gutierrez. “The Gutierrez Cartel will have a difficult time regaining its power any time soon.” Jameson included Cruz. “If it were not for your efforts, she would not be alive today. Both of you…good work.”

“Thank you, sir,” Cruz said before adding, “Did you ever find out how they were tracking us?”

“Not exactly, but we think it was most likely through my cell phone. Once they gained access to it, they knew everything we were doing. As a result, new security protocols have been implemented throughout the agency, including updating the encryption on every agent’s phone. I’m just relieved there wasn’t a leak in the agency. That would have been worse.” Jameson wished her well again and left the room.

Hardy turned toward Cruz. She was grinning. One eyebrow was slightly higher than the other one. Hardy had seen the look on a few occasions. She had something to say, something cute or funny.

“So,” she began, dragging out the word. “Do I call you Shepherd, now?”

Hardy chuckled and lowered the handrail on her bed.

She scooted over to make room. “Or, do you have some sort of secret agent number I’m supposed to use? Tell me. I’ve never known a secret agent man before.”

Taking care not to bump her, he climbed into the bed. Wow. She’s going all in on this.

Cruz pressed him. “So, what’s the story behind the name?”

Lying next to her, he leaned back and put his left arm around her shoulder. She lowered her head onto his chest. He tucked his right hand behind his head and stared at the ceiling. This is nice.

“Are you going to tell me, or what?” She poked him in the stomach.

“I like German Shepherds. When I was a child, my parents had German Shepherds as pets. During my time in the military, I worked with them, too. They’re intelligent and loyal animals that would defend the ones they love, even if it meant losing their own lives.” He lowered his eyes to look at her and breathed in the scent of her hair. “Most people expect to hear a heroic story of how I saved my team from the enemy or something like that.” He looked up again. “It’s a very boring story, actually.”

Cruz tilted her head back to see him. “I like it.” Thinking of the qualities he had used to describe the German Shepherd breed of dog, she added, “And, I think the name fits you, perfectly.” Touching a forefinger to his cheek, she turned his head toward her and kissed him. A few seconds later, she laid her head on his chest.

Hardy squeezed her shoulder and kissed the top of her head. Yes, this is very nice.

YOUR FREE BOOK…

The London Operation is not for sale. The only way to get a copy is to click the image above. You’ll be taken to Bookfunnel to begin the download process. Or, you can send me an email at Alex@AlexAnderNovelist.com, and I’ll send you the link to Bookfunnel.

NOTE: It is recommended you read at least one Aaron Hardy book (preferably The Unsanctioned Patriot – Book #1) to understand the backstory before starting The London Operation (Book #2.5).

… … … … …

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The

London

Operation

(Preview)

Aaron Hardy

Patriotic Action

Alex Ander

.

Chapter 1: Self-Preservation

July 30th; 3:55 p.m.

London, England

Three weeks after Hardy accepts the President’s job offer

CROSSING KING’S ARMS Yard, Aaron Hardy walked south on Moorgate. There was nearly five hours of daylight left, but the tall buildings surrounding him blocked the sun and cast a faint shadow over the cityscape. The temperature was in the mid-sixties. The absence of direct sunlight, coupled with a gentle breeze, made Hardy glad he had grabbed his black leather jacket.

Foot traffic on the streets was increasing. Having been trapped in office buildings for the workweek’s last eight hours, people were emerging and scurrying for a destination—home, the bar, a store, anywhere but where their employer had held them captive for five days.

Hardy passed Basildon House and tilted his head to see around a well-dressed man, a few paces ahead. The man Hardy was most concerned with crossed Moorgate and continued south. The overcoat-clad banker jogged through the intersection at Lothbury, holding out his hand and impeding a car’s forward progress. His arrogance was rewarded with a blaring horn.

Hardy stayed the course. Moorgate turned into Princess St. and the Bank of China passed him on the right. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and stared at the sidewalk, keeping one eye on Mahmoud Taziz, who strolled along the opposite side of Princess St., fifty yards further up the street.

The intelligence on Taziz pointed to regular Monday, Wednesday and Friday afternoon visits (four o’clock to be precise) to a five-star hotel for a rendezvous with his mistress. Impressive for a man of his advanced years, Hardy had thought, while reading the man’s dossier.

Hardy eclipsed two more banks on the right, Isbank and Kookmin before approaching the Bank of London. As expected, on the other side of the street, Taziz turned left at Threadneedle St. Hardy shot a look over his shoulder, waited for a car to drive by and fell in step behind his mark.

... … … … …

Her long, straight and dark hair flowing behind her, the tall woman—easily six-foot in her chunky two-inch high heels—rounded the corner at Princess St. and trailed the man in the black leather jacket and blue jeans. Their worlds had collided a few years ago. He seemed different now; his appearance for sure, but his persona was what grabbed her attention. He had been deadly back when they first met. Now, a stronger vibe resonated from him. Searching for the right word, her mind settled on pure lethality. To anyone else, he would have looked like a tourist, sightseeing in London. She knew better. He had a reason, a purpose for being here. In the past, violence had accompanied that objective. Whatever the motivation for his presence, she would find the answer.

Reaching inside her knee-length overcoat, she wrapped a hand around the weapon dangling under her left armpit. Her strides lengthened and she drew nearer to the danger in front of her. The only way to fight violence is with more violence. Her thumb flicked a snap and she drew the pistol, but kept it concealed under the coat.

Farther ahead, Taziz ducked into a hotel. The woman rotated the gun toward the man in black, her long legs making short work of the sidewalk between them.

... … … … …

Hardy picked up his pace and closed to within twenty-five yards of his prey. Following someone from directly behind was more difficult. If Taziz made a detour, Hardy needed to know. Surprises were unwelcome in his line of work. They usually preceded something bad.

Hardy passed by the beautiful columns of yet another bank, the Bank of England. Bartholomew Lane came and went and slowly London took on a more modern look, tall buildings with lots of glass. The stoic and cold appearance of stone and concrete reappeared once past Old Broad St. Up ahead, Taziz darted across the street and disappeared into one of the monolith structures. Hardy started to step off the sidewalk, but stopped when something hard jabbed him in the ribs and a female voice came from behind.

“Don’t turn around.”

Hardy raised his hands.

“Put your hands down,” she commanded, “but keep them visible.”

He complied.

“Keep walking. And stay close…like two lovers going for a stroll.”

Hardy and the woman ambled down Threadneedle St. He glanced left at a shop’s windows, hoping to get a glimpse of her. The muzzle pressed harder into his back.

“Look straight ahead and keep your mouth shut.” She spoke to Hardy through the thin smile with which she acknowledged a passerby. “Try something and I’ll drop you where you stand.” Thirty steps later, she grabbed his arm and guided him left. “In here.”

Hardy read the neon sign—‘Burger and Lobster.’ “I’m kind of in the middle of something. I really don’t have time for a bite.”

She pushed him into the restaurant. “Two words, Hardy. Shut. Up. What’s so hard to understand?” She stole a quick look around the establishment before holstering her weapon. “You’re losing your touch, letting me get the jump on you like that.”

Hardy turned. “I saw you parked outside the bank, Hamilton,” —she arched her eyebrows— “Black four-door Nissan. Nice rims by the way…Are those custom?”

She steered him toward a table in the corner.

“By the way,” he pointed at the window, “what’s with the gun to my back out there? You know me.”

“That’s right. I do know you. And, you’re not the kind of person I want to sneak up on from behind without some way to defend myself. Call it self-preservation.”

Hardy snickered. “Fair enough.”

She sat, but Hardy remained standing. “Care to tell me why you’re in my country, specifically, why you’re shadowing one of my citizens?”

“I’d love to,” he spied the hotel, “but it’ll have to wait. As I said, I’m in the middle—”

She kicked out a chair from under the table. “Sit down, Hardy. You’re not going anywhere, until you tell me what’s going on.”

His eyes went from the chair to her. You’re not going anywhere, until you tell me what’s going on. Hardy mused. For having lived all her life in England, she only had a hint of the British accent. Maybe it skips a generation.

“I’d rather this meeting be cordial,” she tapped the badge on her belt, “but if I have to...”

Ellen Hamilton was an NCA officer (National Crime Agency—Britain’s closest version of America’s Federal Bureau of Investigation) and held the powers of constable, customs officer and immigration officer. This combination was known in law enforcement circles as “Triple Warranted” or “Tri Powers.”

Thirty-five years old, Hamilton had more than a decade of law enforcement experience. That experience led to her being one of the first officers of the National Crime Agency, created a few years ago. Some say her familial ties to the Director-General of the agency got her the job. Those close to her knew nepotism played no part. Hamilton was tough. She pursued leads and tracked down criminals better than most of her male counterparts.

Rubbing a hand over the stubble on his cheeks, Hardy regarded her. Dark eyebrows, piercing brown eyes with long lashes, and smooth cheeks, she was attractive without much effort. There was no doubt in his mind she would be stunning in a black dress, pumps and makeup.

After a last look at the hotel, Hardy flipped around the chair, straddled the seat and sat. Resting his forearms on the chair’s back, he thrust a finger at her. “You have no idea what’s at stake here, Ellen.”

She leaned back and folded her arms over her chest. “Enlighten me.”

“People’s lives are at risk. The longer we play this game—” He stared at her. She was unmoved. Undoubtedly, she had heard the same song and dance before. Hamilton’s arrival had thrown a monkey wrench into his plans. His window of opportunity to have a private chat with Taziz was closing. If the situation was a football game, there were two minutes to go in the fourth quarter and he was out of timeouts. He expelled a gust of air. “All right, here it is. The clock’s ticking, so no questions…just listen.”

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

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Thank You

Thank you for purchasing and reading this book. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. I wanted to dig deeper into the relationship between Hardy and Cruz. The mission to protect Charity gave Hardy and Cruz an opportunity to work together and begin to establish a bond with each other.

If you liked Deadly Assignment, please take the time to visit your favorite bookseller and leave a review.

I hope you’re looking forward to the next book in the series, Patriot Assassin. Keep reading for a sneak peek.

Sincerely,

Alex J. Ander

Patriot Assassin

By

Alex Ander

Continue reading for a preview

of the next book in the Aaron Hardy series…

Chapter 1: Surveillance

October 29th, 9:00 p.m.; New York City

Wearing a long-sleeved dark t-shirt under a black leather jacket, a pair of blue jeans and black five-inch tactical boots from 5.11 Tactical, Aaron Hardy hurried down 11th Street. The night was cool. A biting wind against his face reminded him that fall had come to the Northeast. Nights like these made him reminisce of his childhood, growing up in Northern Lower Michigan. He loved this time of the year. After enduring the hot and humid months of June, July and August, Hardy looked forward to the cold fresh air of autumn. He could match his clothing to the changing temperatures of fall much easier than he could during the stifling heat of summer. You can only take off so many layers of clothing, he thought, moving to his left to pass a meandering couple, who were in love and had no particular place to be this night.

As a young boy, he would have been sighting-in his hunting rifle right about now, eagerly waiting for the first day of deer season. Opening day was considered a holiday in his part of the state. He smiled, picturing his Marlin 336 lever-action rifle, chambered in .30-30 Winchester. The gun had been a gift from his father for his sixteenth birthday. Up to that point, Hardy had used his father’s guns. The Marlin was his, however. Giving Hardy the rifle, his father had said to him, ‘Son, it’s time you had one of your own.’ Hardy still owned that Marlin, vowing he would never sell it.

Hardy’s jacket flared open, as the wind slipped inside it and sent a shiver up his spine. Fiddling with the zipper, he ran the pull-tab on the jacket to his chest, shielding his body from the cold. A voice in his head shattered the happy thoughts.

“He just turned right,” said Charity, “onto 12th Street. It seems like he’s picked up his pace a little.”

“I’m on it.” Hardy trotted to the corner of 11th Street and 5th Avenue. He grabbed the metal handrail and propelled his body forward down 5th Avenue, heading toward 12th Street. Slowing his pace, he waited for an update. Charity and Hardy were communicating through Hardy’s wireless earpiece. She was in Washington D.C., tracking their target via the target’s cell phone. With Charity acting as his eyes, Hardy could maintain a safe distance and not alert the man to Hardy’s presence.

The target, Abdul Sayed, was a member of a terrorist cell and his skittish behavior this evening made Hardy nervous. Sayed had made several consecutive left turns, doubling-back over his route. Hardy knew the technique. He had used it many times to make sure no one was following him. But, why now? Hardy had been following him all over New York City for three days and not once had he attempted to disguise his routes.

During the day, Sayed worked at an office supply store, taking his lunch break at 12:30 p.m. every day. He would walk to a coffee shop and pick up food and coffee before proceeding to Washington Square Park, where he would eat his lunch; an hour after he left, he would be back to work. At five o’clock, he walked home to his apartment near Avenue of the Americas and Twenty-Third Street. He had stayed home the first two nights, but last night he went out for the evening, having dinner at a restaurant before spending an hour at a bookstore on Broadway. He left the bookstore and went home. His mannerisms had suggested he did not care who was following him. Tonight, however, was different.

Anxiety crept into Charity’s voice. “I lost him.”

“You what,” Hardy shot back?

“I’m not sure what happened. His signal disappeared from my computer screen halfway down 12th Street.”

Hardy ran along 5th Avenue. He turned right and came face to face with a group of people at the corner of 5th Avenue and 12th Street. He sidestepped them and dashed down 12th Street, scanning the street for Sayed. “What was his last location?”

Charity zoomed in on the map. “He was right in front of Goodmans.”

Hardy slowed to a jog when he approached Goodman’s Bar and Grill. Standing under the blue awning outside the establishment, he peered inside. “Are you sure this is the spot?”

“I’m positive. The computer doesn’t lie.”

“Yeah,” he mumbled, “the computer doesn’t lose targets either.”

“Say again…I couldn’t hear you.”

“I’m going inside. Let me know if you get his signal back.” He opened the door and walked into the restaurant. He passed through an open door, turned left and ascended a couple of steps, his eyes moving left and right. At the top of the stairs, he went left, analyzing every patron in the establishment. Absorbed in the search for Sayed, he was unaware of the approaching woman. Her head down, she was focused on a cell phone. The two collided and she recoiled, her arms flailing. The mobile device slipped from her hands, clattering as it slid across the floor.

Hardy took a long step forward and wrapped his arms around her waist. His left hand supported her upper back, while his right hand held the small of her back. Her head bobbing back before coming forward, she threw her hands upward and clutched his shoulders. Those who had not witnessed the accident would have thought the two were dancing, and Hardy had ‘dipped’ his partner.

The woman felt the power in the stranger’s arms. A moment ago, she had braced for a rough landing. Now, feeling safe and secure in his grasp, she let her body relax. Her fingers maintained their vise-like grip on the muscular shoulders, while her eyes darted left and right, up and down. His hair was short and light brown in color. He had a square jaw that came to a slight point at his chin, which had a small dimple in the center. Settling on his eyes, she felt as if time was standing still. Never before had she seen such deep blue eyes. As the man brought her to a standing position, she found it impossible to turn away.

“I’m sorry, miss. Are you okay?” Hardy took a small step backward and glanced at her from head to toe. She was a few inches shorter, but the three-inch heels of her black thigh boots brought her even with his height. Under a long overcoat, she wore a black mini-skirt. The hem rose to the upper portion of her thighs. A tight, dark red sweater accentuated her rounded breasts. Long and straight bleached blonde hair fell to the middle of her back; the bangs stopped less than an inch above her well-manicured dark eyebrows, which curved slightly toward the bridge of her petite nose and the outer corner of her eye. She had a round face with hazel green eyes, narrowly spaced. Her full lips, colored to match her sweater, seemed to be permanently pursed.

The woman blinked her eyes a few times, shaking off the strange feeling. “Yes…I’m fine.” Gazing into the man’s eyes, she remembered why she was in this swanky bar in the first place. Sliding her hands down the strong arms, she cupped the back pockets of his jeans and drew his body closer. Manufacturing a seductive half-smile and tilting her head, she glanced at his lips before batting her eyelids. “I like it rough, anyway.”

Hardy arched his back. This isn’t exactly what I had in mind tonight. Peeling the smooth fingers from his backside, he picked up her phone and handed it to her. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he flashed a smile, “but I’m looking for someone.”

She watched him walk away, eyeing his physical qualities from behind. Dragging out her words, she said, “If you don’t find whoever it is you’re looking for, I’d be happy to take her place.”

Sayed’s picture was back in the forefront of Hardy’s mind, while he scanned the rest of the restaurant.

“What was that all about?” Charity had heard the exchange between Hardy and the woman. “Did you make a new friend?”

He ignored the question. “Have you found our man yet?”

“Still nothing,” she replied.

Hardy had made it to the other end of the restaurant—no Sayed. He walked down a short flight of stairs. “He’s not in the restaurant area. I’m going to check out the bathroom.”

Entering men’s room, he saw a man washing his hands. Hardy nodded his head and the man returned the gesture before drying his hands and leaving. Hardy peered under the stalls. They were empty, except for the last one. He unzipped his jacket and wrapped his fingers around his firearm; a Walther PPQ M2, chambered in nine millimeter.

Hardy pushed open the door to the first stall; it was empty. He repeated the process, until he came to the last one. The stall was occupied, but the door was ajar. His mental synapses were firing. A man doesn’t drop his pants without locking the door. He drew his pistol and put it behind his back. He slowly pushed the door inward. His eyebrows shot upward. Staring back at him was a man sitting on the toilet, fully clothed. The man’s head was down and cocked off to one side. Both of his hands were hanging at his sides. Hardy stretched out a hand and felt for a pulse under the man’s chin. He was dead. Hardy examined the body; two bullet wounds in the chest and the left eye was missing, the result of a third bullet.

Holstering his pistol, he searched the man and stepped back. What the hell happened here? A few seconds later, Charity’s high-pitched voice broke his concentration.

“Hardy, I’ve got him. Sayed is on the move again. He’s heading east on 12th Street.”

Hardy studied what was left of the man’s face. “That’s not possible. I’m looking at Sayed’s corpse right now. Somebody killed him.”

“I’m telling you his signal just appeared on my screen. He’s getting away.”

“All right, I’m on my way.” Hardy exited the stall and ran toward the door. “Have Jameson send some agents to clean this mess up.” He did not want this getting to the media, sending Sayed’s friends into hiding.

On the street, Hardy glanced up and down 12th Street. Realizing Sayed was dead, he did not know whom he was trying to find. “Charity, what am I looking for? Where’s the signal coming from?” Not getting a reply, he repeated the command. “Damn it, Charity, where the hell is it coming from?” His voice startled a couple who were entering the bar. The man hurried his female companion past Hardy and through the doors.

“It’s not moving. The signal is stationary at the corner of 12th and University—west side of the street.”

Hardy rushed to the corner of 12th Street and University, hoping his pace would not alert the person, or persons, who had taken Sayed’s phone. Standing at the corner, he searched in all directions. Nothing seemed out of place. A man stood near a trash receptacle, his back to Hardy and his head down, looking at something in his hand. Hardy whispered. “Charity, dial the number to Sayed’s phone. Let it ring once and hang up. Keep doing it until I say otherwise.”

“Dialing now…”

Directly in front of Hardy, a muffled ringtone sounded once. The man near the trash container looked around. Hardy rushed forward, hearing the cell phone emit a single ring two more times. The man fished around in the trash before pulling out a cell phone. The mobile rang one time. Closing the distance, Hardy snatched the device from the man’s hand.

“Hey, what the f—” the man noticed the pistol on Hardy’s belt.

Hardy’s eyes narrowed and his jaw muscles clenched. “Move along. This has nothing to do with you.”

The man took several steps backward before turning around and scurrying away.

The phone rang again. “Charity, you can stop dialing. I’ve got the phone.”

She had heard the verbal confrontation. “Is everything okay?”

He examined the phone. How did this get in the trashcan? He scanned the immediate area for anyone taking special interest in him. People were distracted by their cell phones, talking to others or rushing to their destination; nothing was suspicious. The person who had discarded the phone was gone.

“What happened? Hardy, are you okay?”

“I’ll tell you when I get there.” He turned the phone over in his hand. “I need a ride. Have Jameson set it up for me.” Hardy took one more look around the area before walking back the way he had come. Had he glanced over his shoulder, he would have seen a figure slowly emerging from the shadows of a doorway, across University Place.

…………………………

.

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Also by Alex Ander

Action & Adventure - Special Agent Cruz

Vengeance is Mine

Defense of Innocents

Plea For Justice

Jacob St. Christopher Action & Adventure

Protect & Defend

Word of Honor

A Vow to the Innocent

Above & Beyond

Patriotic Action & Adventure - Aaron Hardy

The Unsanctioned Patriot

American Influence

Deadly Assignment

Patriot Assassin

The Nemesis Protocol

Necessary Means

Foreign Soil

Of Patriots and Tyrants

Act of Justice

Standalone

The President's Man

The President's Man 2

Special Agent Cruz Crime Series

Against All Enemies

Watch for more at Alex Ander’s site.

About the Author

Living in the middle of Michigan, Alex Ander writes Action & Adventure/Thriller novels. He has three series in production, focusing on the exploits of the protagonists Aaron Hardy, Jacob St. Christopher and FBI Special Agent Raychel DelaCruz (Cruz to those who know her).

His writing style mixes fast-paced action scenes with suspense, humor and sharp dialogue. Each book is wrapped up at the end with NO cliffhangers. Characters and relationships do develop and evolve over the course of the series, so it is best to read the books in order.

Mission Statement:

Write clean, fast-paced action that draws readers into the story, making them feel they are part of the adventure.

From the Author:

My goal is to craft stories that entertain and leave a positive, lasting impression on you. I seek to create protagonists with good character, and surround them with allies you’ll want to read about as much as you do the main character.

You won’t find any vulgarity in my work (F-bombs and the like). Yes, an occasional mild, cuss word is used; however, even those are kept to a bare minimum.

And what about graphic sex scenes that leave nothing to the imagination? Nope. Not in my books.

So if you enjoy clean, fast-paced action & adventure stories with humor, crisp dialogue and camaraderie among the characters, then pick up a copy of one of my books today.

Best Wishes,

Alex

Read more at Alex Ander’s site.