by Alex Ander
“The plumbers,” she mumbled, her face buried in his chest, “are doing some repair work at my house and they keep shutting off the water. It was just easier to come over here.” After a pause, she added, “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” he said, running his fingers down her bare arm and thinking about the first time they met.
Three months ago, Hardy was in the hospital after the explosion at the tavern in Washington, D.C. Cruz had been sent to question him about the blast. When he opened his eyes, she was leaning over his bed. The tip of her dark brown ponytail fell over her shoulder and almost touched his arm. She had the most beautiful set of dark brown eyes he had ever seen. Her long face with high cheekbones and perfect complexion was even more attractive. She had captured his heart without ever saying a word.
Cruz sighed heavily and pushed her body away from him. Tilting her head backward, she gazed into his eyes. They were red and his eyelids were half closed. He was sleep-deprived. She put both hands on his chest and gestured toward the living room. “Go lie down and relax. I’ll join you after I’m dressed.” She kissed him again before slinking toward the bathroom.
Hardy watched her. She had wrapped the bath towel tightly around her body. He marveled at the silhouette of her five-feet, eight-inch figure. The towel curved inward at her waist and gradually rolled outward, over her hips, before stopping at her well-toned calf muscles. When she had disappeared into the bathroom, he sloughed into the living room. He sat on the couch and his lungs expelled a long, heavy sigh. He dragged his hands down his face, stopping when his fingertips touched his chin. Leaning to the left, he stretched out and waited for Cruz.
She only took a few minutes to dry her hair before putting on a pair of pink satin shorts and a white tank-top shirt with lace ruffles; however, when she entered the living room, she found Hardy lying on the couch, and in a deep sleep. Her shoulders sagged. Walking past him, she picked up a blue and silver fleece blanket and unfolded it. She glanced at the blanket and crinkled her nose. Having grown up in Dalhart, Texas, she was a lifelong Dallas Cowboys fan. She found it difficult to cover Hardy with the Detroit Lions blanket; however, the Lions were his favorite football team. Carefully bringing the edge of the blanket to his chin, she smiled and glanced at the Lions logo. I’ll have to do something about this someday.
She slid her body down the couch cushion, until she was sitting on her hip, her knees against the bottom of the couch and her ankles touching her smooth satin shorts. Putting her elbow on the edge of the couch cushion, she rested her head on the palm of her hand and observed Hardy’s chest slowly rise and fall. Listening to the deep breaths, she felt at peace. She had not seen him in three days and, even though she would have preferred to talk to him, she was content to be near him, in his presence. She watched him for almost an hour before her drooping eyelids forced her to retreat to the bedroom.
Standing at the side of Hardy’s bed, Cruz reflected on the long hours he worked. He was gone for days at a time and she never knew when she would see him. Normally, such a work schedule would have been a death knell for a relationship; however, she had spent many years of her adult life working hard to advance in her career. She had dated many men, but those relationships had failed when the men became intimidated by her intelligence and drive for excellence. Sometimes, she felt as if she had pushed them away. In a way, maybe she had pushed them away by spending so much time at work.
Dropping to her knees, she felt her relationship with Hardy was different. They understood each other. She knew his job, working for the President, was dangerous. She had seen danger, too, but it was not nearly as extreme as what Hardy had faced—and would continue to face—on missions. She worried every time he left. Even though she and Hardy were not married, Cruz empathized with the wives of police officers, not knowing if their husbands would return home at night. She put her elbows on the bed and folded her hands, praying as she did every night. The posture, though childish, made her feel a little closer to her mother, who had taught her to pray in this manner.
A few seconds later, she touched her forehead, chest and left and right shoulder with the fingertips of her right hand, making the ‘sign of the cross.’ Touching the fingertips of her folded hands to her lips, she recited prayers.
Five minutes later, she interlocked her fingers and put her hands to her forehead. Her voice barely above a whisper, she prayed. “Protect Aaron, Lord, and keep him safe from all harm, while he does your will, protecting your people, the people of this great nation, which you called into existence. I pray all these things through Christ, our Lord, Amen.” Cruz made the ‘sign of the cross,’ stood and threw back the covers of the bed. Sliding under the sheets and letting her head fall onto the pillow, she stared at the ceiling unable to let go of her worries. Closing her eyes, she hoped she would get to talk with Hardy before she left, but she doubted that would happen. Tomorrow was her first day back to work and she needed to get an early start.
Chapter 4: Dahlia
11:59 p.m.; New York City
The top-floor studio apartment in lower Manhattan was small, but it was sufficient. Inside the front door and to the right were a small kitchen/dining area. A coat closet was across the entryway. A common living and sleeping area was combined and located straight ahead, occupying a majority of the apartment space. On the other side of the common area was a large bank of windows with a sliding glass door that led to a small balcony. Past the coat closet, at the end of the wall, was the bathroom.
Dahlia slipped a metal hanger—her overcoat draped around it—over the horizontal bar in the closet. Closing the door, she pinched the inside zipper of her left thigh boot and slid the zipper below her knee. She crossed her left leg over her right knee before continuing to slide the zipper down to her ankle. The tall shaft of the boot flopped outward, as she pushed the rest of the boot off her foot. She went through the same procedure to remove the other boot, leaving them lay wherever they fell. She unbuttoned her black mini skirt. Wiggling her hips, she pushed the tiny article of clothing over her bare skin, letting it drop to the floor. She stepped out of the skirt, curled her arms around her body and lifted her red sweater over her head before pulling her arms out of the sleeves and tossing aside the sweater, inside out.
Wearing only a black bra—barely covering her breasts—and black thong underwear, she stepped over the discarded clothing and headed for the bathroom. Having left the comfort and warmth of the plush rug, she scurried across the cold hardwood floor, only stopping briefly to push the ‘up’ button on the thermostat several times.
The thirty-two-year-old woman had a tall, athletic body that showed no signs the aging process had caught up with her. Her skin was tight and smooth. The only part of her anatomy that moved was the tight muscles of her butt. The lights from the living room highlighted a small tattoo on the back of her right shoulder; a red rose in full bloom with the words, ‘In Loving Memory of’ above and ‘Jean Marie’ below. A date was tattooed beneath the bottommost part of the tattoo.
Dahlia used the facilities and washed her hands. She grabbed a silk robe from the back of the door before leaving the bathroom. Making her way to the living room, she slipped into the red silk robe and cinched it at the waist. The robe’s sleeves stopped an inch below her elbows, while the hem rose above her knees.
In the living room, she made sure her laptop computer and printer were on. Tapping the screen on her cell phone a few times, she sent a document to the printer before setting the phone on the desk and ambling into the kitchen. Over her shoulder, the printer started the warm-up process before printing out a single sheet of paper. She placed a mug of cold water in the microwave and set the timer for three minutes.
On her way to the sliding glass door, she picked up the sheet of paper from the printer tray, along with a black marker and a roll of adhesive tape. She stared at the paper, while she approached the glass windows to the right of the door.
On the window, arranged in a square, were the pictures of four men. T
wo index cards with question marks on them had been placed in the center. Dahlia stuck the marker in her mouth before taping the sheet of paper to the window, to the right of the other men. Biting the cap, she tugged and the marker separated with a ‘pop.’ She drew an ‘X’ over the face of the man in the upper-left part of the square. She drew a big question mark on the sheet of paper she had taped to the window, below the image of a man’s face. Putting the cap on the marker, she slipped the tape and the marker into the pocket of her robe and stepped backwards. She folded her arms in front of her chest and gazed at the photos of the men.
Two minutes later, the microwave stopped running and emitted a long, single ‘beep.’ The sound broke her concentration. Opening the sliding glass door, she walked out onto the balcony, leaned over and placed her forearms on the railing. The wind raced up her legs and under the robe. Goosebumps formed on her arms, but she fought the urge to seek shelter. When she was in New York, this was her favorite place.
Dahlia’s apartment overlooked the Hudson River. From her balcony, she could see the Statue of Liberty to her left; it was lit and beautiful. The Jersey City Skyline was directly across from her. The river was calm and the bright lights from the New Jersey buildings rushed to meet her, crossing the water’s glassy surface. She tilted her head backwards, closed her eyes and breathed in the cold night air. Her long, bleach blonde hair flew in whatever direction the wind blew it. Dahlia put her right foot on top of the other foot. Off in the distance, she heard the horn of a small boat, most likely a fishing vessel. Despite the cold, it was a peaceful night. Her feet traded places, while she tucked her hands into the robe’s sleeves, closed her eyes and listened to the sounds of the night. Waves crashed against the shoreline. Another horn blared. The wind carried the smell of the water below. She breathed deeply, not caring about the past and not thinking about the danger that lay ahead. She wanted more of the present, but her bare feet could no longer withstand the biting temperature and she scurried back inside the apartment.
One hour later, Dahlia drained the last of the black tea from her mug. She started to push her chair away from the desk, but her eye caught a glimpse of a picture and she stopped. As if using a pair of tweezers, she caught the visible corner between her index and middle finger and plucked it from underneath some papers. Holding the picture of her father and mother, she subconsciously placed her free hand on her shoulder, her fingertips touching the tattoo.
Dahlia’s love for her mother went deeper than simply love for a parent. Dahlia had always had a wild side to her personality and that part of her had gotten her into trouble on many occasions. Her mother had been her confidant, someone who had the ability to listen to her and set her feet back on the correct path.
During her teenage years when she was struggling to break free of her youth and grow into adulthood, Dahlia had gotten involved with the wrong people. She was heading down a path to juvenile delinquency. If it had not been for her mother, she may have been in jail at this very moment. In her early twenties, starting a new job, she angered the wrong people, who threatened to end her career before it had even begun. She sought her mother’s advice and those words of wisdom saved her again.
Sliding her thumb over the picture, Dahlia smiled, remembering the numerous talks she had with her mother. She also remembered how she had felt after those talks—Peaceful. Right now, Dahlia would have given anything for one more conversation with her mother, one more chance to hear her mother’s voice. There would be no more conversations, however. Dahlia sniffed sharply, removed her hand from her shoulder and swiped it across her left cheek before rubbing her eyes.
Many years ago, when her mother had needed her the most, Dahlia had not been there. She had been so absorbed in her own life that she did not even find out about her mother’s condition, until it was too late. Dahlia swallowed hard, trying to ram her feelings down her throat. She had carried the guilt with her ever since her mother’s death. She carefully placed the picture on the desk.
Dahlia stood, yawned and stretched her arms over her head, still looking at the picture. Having already shut off all of the lights in her apartment, the illumination from the screen of her computer shone like a spotlight on the image. Shutting down her laptop, she forced herself to turn away, as the last vestiges of light faded. Behind her, sat a pullout futon, always set up for sleeping—the covers unmade. She took off her robe and carefully put it on a nearby chair. Beams of light from the Jersey City Skyline slipped past the edges of the drawn curtains, silhouetting Dahlia’s nearly naked side profile on the wall opposite the drawn curtains. She brought her hands together between her breasts, unfastened the bra and threw it onto the bed before slipping out of her underwear, leaving them on the floor.
Once in bed, she drew the covers to her chin. She moved her feet up and down several times against the sheets, warming them. Turning to her left side, she forced her mind to think of something other than her mother. Her mind found another subject, focusing on the man she had met—she chuckled, or ran into—at Goodmans. She remembered looking into his deep blue eyes and being taken by surprise, while unfamiliar feelings flooded her body; feelings she had thought she had buried a long time ago. Under the covers, the corners of her mouth curled upward and she saw the man’s face and eyes in her mind. She felt the strength in his arms. Her eyelids drooped. Maybe, I’m human after all. A few moments later, still thinking of the man, Dahlia fell asleep.
Chapter 5: Well Rested
October 30th; Washington, D.C.
Hardy’s eyes popped open and he propped himself on his elbows. Behind him, the sun was shining through the partially open windows. He snapped his head to the left. The kitchen and dining area were empty. He blinked his eyes a few times and shook his head. Cruz. Throwing off the fleece blanket, he stood and scampered to the bedroom; it was empty. The bedcovers were nicely made, and two pillows rested perfectly against the headboard. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the mirror in the bathroom. He smiled. The night before was coming back to him. For a moment, he thought last night had been a dream; however, the image of Special Agent Cruz’s bare chest and the well-made bed told him otherwise. He hardly ever made his bed. When he did, it was not as nicely made as it was now.
Walking toward the kitchen, Hardy rubbed his face. He stopped halfway to the kitchen and stretched his arms and legs. They felt stiff, but well rested. He noticed a folded piece of paper on the floor in the living room. His name was on it.
Hardy walked to the couch and scooped up the note. Hardy—I’m sorry I couldn’t stay a little longer this morning. Today is my first day back to work and I wanted to get in early. Thanks for letting me crash at your place. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble. I might be back again tonight or tomorrow, depending on what happens at my house. It was good seeing you. I wish we could have talked more, but I understand. Be careful and I’ll see you soon. —Cruz. She finished by drawing a smiley face after her name. Hardy’s lips curled up when he re-read the last line. ‘Be careful’ had been her parting words to him almost from the beginning of their relationship. She worried about him and deep inside he liked having someone care for him.
Hardy placed the note on the kitchen table before retrieving a mug from the cabinet and filling it with water. Opening the microwave door, he paused. He took a long drink, set the cup on the counter and disappeared into his bedroom.
A few minutes later, he was dressed in a pair of sweatpants, Detroit Lions t-shirt and a pair of white tennis shoes. A towel hung over his shoulder. He was tugging on the second of two fingerless gloves. Apartment keys dangled from his pinky. Leaving the apartment, he headed for the building’s fitness center. It had been a few days since he had exercised and he was not sure he would get another chance in the near future. Jameson’s words bounced around in Hardy’s mind—And, when that happens, I have a feeling things are going to move fast.
Forty-five minutes later, Hardy was in the middle of his last set of reps on the leg machine when his phone ran
g. Without stopping, he picked up the phone, checked the time—8:11—and put the phone to his ear. “Hardy,” he grunted, while his lower legs rotated out and up, lifting the stack of weights behind him.
“Hardy, it’s Jameson. We got something from Sayed’s phone. How soon can you be here?”
Hardy calculated the time he needed to shower and change clothes. “I’ll be there in half an hour—forty-five minutes at the most.”
“Have Cherry let me know when you arrive.” Not waiting for a reply, Jameson disconnected the call.
Chapter 6: Woman
8:48 a.m.; FBI Building, Fourth Floor Underground
Hardy rounded the corner and looked through the window of Charity’s office. She was fixated on her laptop. He wondered when she had come into the office this morning. “Good morning,” he said, walking into the OR, taking his usual seat at the conference table. He had stopped to get a cup of coffee and a bagel. Setting his cup on the table, he took a big bite of the plain blueberry bagel—just the way he liked it. Charity walked past him.
She placed her laptop on the table and sat across from him. “I got to thinking last night about our hit man from the bar. Maybe we’ve been too narrow-minded in our search parameters.” She glanced away from her laptop and raised a forefinger. “What if—” Hardy was staring at her; his mouth was full of food, but he was not chewing. She cocked her head. “What?”
He swallowed. “Did you get any sleep last night?” He did a double take at her clothes. She was wearing the same outfit she had on the day before and her hair was flat to her head, locks of hair protruded from different areas. “For that matter, did you even leave here?”
Self-conscious about her appearance, Charity combed her hair with her fingers and straightened her clothes as best she could. “I fell asleep in my office, but woke up a few hours later. My mind was bothered by something.” Lost in her thoughts again, she forgot about her personal grooming. “What if we missed the person who took Sayed’s phone, because we were looking for a man?”
