The President's Man 2

by Alex Ander

  “I got something.”

  Hardy had not expected her to find anything. “What is it, Charity?”

  “Give me a second, while…I…enlarge…and clean the image.” Charity tapped away at the keyboard. “No, he left.” Charity paused. “At exactly…9:20, I’ve got a figure…well, half of a figure, near the northwest corner, dressed in black clothing and wearing a ski mask.” She reviewed the video footage. “At 9:21, I’ve got a figure in the backyard, running away from the house. It appears to be the same individual.” She paused. “That’s it. No other signs of him.”

  “So, just as we are entering the house, someone is leaving it.” Hardy crossed his forearms and rested them on his slung weapon. “That’s too much of a coincidence. Somehow, this person knew we were here the whole time and waited as long as he could before escaping.” Hardy stood still, lost in thought.

  Draper glimpsed the body in the chair. “So, now what do we do?”

  Hardy studied the dead man. “Henderson, you and Ty do another search of the upstairs and grab anything that may be useful.”

  “Got it,” said Henderson before turning and leaving; Tyler followed.

  “Draper, search the men in the living room and do the same—strip them clean.”

  “Copy that.” She left.

  Hardy knelt in front of the man in the chair and rummaged through his clothes. “Charity, we need another clean-up crew here to sweep this whole thing under the rug.”

  “I’m already on it. There’s a helicopter waiting for you at Westchester County Airport. If you find anything, let me know while you are en route, so I can get started as soon as possible.”

  “Will do,” he said. Finding nothing on the man, Hardy stood. He scowled, reviewing the situation in his mind.

  Five members of a terrorist cell were dead. The one in the chair was most likely the cell’s handler. The email message in the draft folder of Sayed’s phone had made it appear the cell was getting ready to go active. If those members did not carry out their task or their handler did not report, then the leader might activate another cell and Hardy would be back where he started—searching for new terrorists. He needed to find the leader. If there was any good news, it was that it would take time to coordinate with a new cell. His mind drifted…unless…there’s another one already in place.

  There was also the fact that someone was assassinating terrorists. And, that someone had the knowledge and ability to be a step ahead of the United States Government and its vast resources. He heard Draper behind him. When he turned, the first thing that caught his attention was the black hair, covering her forehead. His thoughts went to the woman from the bar. He pictured her bleach blonde hair, covering her forehead. Could she be the one doing all this? If so, what’s her motive?

  Henderson and Tyler trudged down the stairs, while Draper held out her hand, and a mobile device. “I found this stuffed inside the underwear of one of the men. Kind of an odd place to keep your cell phone, isn’t it?”

  “Did the others have any?”

  Draper shook her head, no.

  Hardy flipped the cell over in his hand. “I’m thinking whoever’s responsible for killing these men didn’t have enough time to do a thorough search. We interrupted his,” or her, “plans.” He passed the phone back to Draper. “Contact Charity when we’re airborne and tell her what you’ve found.” He twirled a forefinger in the air. “All right, let’s go. We have a helicopter standing by at Westchester.”

  Chapter 8: Answers

  11:58 p.m.; Washington, D.C.

  Hardy and Charity were seated across from each other at the end of the OR conference table. Draper was to Hardy’s right, while Henderson sat next to Charity. Tyler was next to Henderson.

  “I cross-referenced,” said Charity, “the incoming and outgoing call logs of Sayed’s phone with the call logs from the phone you took from the man at the house in Bedford Hills.” She had gotten the phone’s number from Draper, while everyone was aboard the helicopter, flying back to Washington, D.C. From there, she hacked into the phone and had total access to it. “I found one number that showed up on each phone, so I attempted to find its current location.”

  “And,” said Hardy?

  She shook her head. “Nothing…the phone is shut off, broken, the battery taken out,” she shrugged, “whatever the reason…it’s no longer traceable.”

  Hardy sighed. He really needed some good news. “Is there anything on it that can help us find the cell’s leader?”

  “I’m not sure yet. I wrote a quick algorithm and uploaded it to the cell tower network. As we speak, the program is searching the network for phones that have made contact with the phone number that was listed in the call logs of both cell phones we have in our possession. When I get the results, I’ll be able to disregard those that are obviously meaningless and focus on the rest. I hope to be able to narrow down the remaining numbers to a few suspicious ones. Then, we check them out.”

  Hardy jutted his chin toward her. “When will you have the results?”

  Charity saw the time on her laptop. “It’s been running for almost an hour, so I would say…another hour, maybe two.”

  “How long will it take to sift through the numbers?”

  “That won’t take long at all—less than an hour.”

  He nodded his head. “Okay, let me know as soon as you have a list for us.”

  Charity acknowledged him before jumping to another subject. “On that other matter…” she pressed a couple keys and new images appeared on the laptop, “I had a little time on my hands, while you guys were flying back and I might have found something.”

  Hardy leaned forward. “You mean you’ve identified our mystery assassin?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me. I went over all of the video footage from the area around Goodmans and right after you walked away from that trash receptacle, I saw a figure emerge from a doorway across the street. It was a woman. Using nearby cameras, I watched her get into a dark-colored Jeep Renegade and drive away, heading south. Twenty seconds later, I was able to get this photo.” She spun her laptop around, so it faced Hardy. “As you can see, those are California license plates with three visible letters and one number. I searched California’s DMV records for all vehicles starting with the same letters and number. Of all that matched, there was only one Jeep Renegade, registered to—”

  Hardy waved a hand at her. “Back up, Charity. How can you tell from that photo that you have the right car? I can only see a brake light and part of the rear window.”

  “That brake light,” she pointed at the screen, “What does it look like?”

  Hardy pursed his lips and shook his head. “A cross…an ‘x’ or a ‘plus’ sign,” he replied. “Why?”

  “To me, it looks like the head of a Phillips screw. The first time I saw it, I was driving behind a Jeep Renegade. To my knowledge, no other vehicle uses that type of brake light.”

  Hardy squinted and slowly shook his head.

  “Trust me. I grew up in a home with men who were obsessed with cars. I learned a thing or two about them over the years.” She rotated the laptop and gestured at the screen. “That is a Jeep Renegade.” She pressed a few keys. “The vehicle is registered to Dahlia St. James.” She whirled the computer back toward Hardy. “Now, you’ll have to tell me if—”

  Hardy sprung forward in his chair. “That’s the woman.” He jabbed a finger. “That’s the woman I saw at Goodmans last night. I mean, her hair was longer and bleached blonde, but it’s her all right.”

  Henderson and Tyler came around and stood behind Hardy.

  “Hello, Dahlia.” Hardy grinned. “It’s nice to put a name to the face.” He cupped his chin, tapping his cheek with his forefinger. “Now, why are you killing our suspects?”

  “What’s this?” Jameson had been standing outside the doorway, staring at the photo on the laptop.

  Hardy spun his chair around. “This is—” he saw the look on Jameson’s face. He was studying the photo,
but his mind was somewhere else. His cheeks were slightly pale. “This is Dahlia St. James. We think she’s the woman who’s been killing our terrorists.”

  Jameson’s face was as stoical as his body was rigid.

  Hardy frowned. “Are you okay, sir?”

  Entering the OR, Jameson jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I need everyone to clear out.” He acknowledged Charity. “Leave the computer, Cherry. I need a word with Hardy.”

  When everyone had left, Jameson closed the door and took his seat at the table. With a straight forefinger, he rotated the computer to see the screen. He tipped the chair backward, staring at the woman’s picture, the same distant gaze on his face.

  Hardy’s stomach churned, waiting for his boss. He had questions, but Jameson was the one who needed to start this conversation. Hardy took a drink of water, hoping to settle his nerves.

  “How sure are you she’s the one responsible for the killings?” Jameson never removed his eyes from the screen.

  “Better than fifty percent…And, it wouldn’t take much to push me to ninety.”

  “I read the report from the agents who were in charge of taking care of Sayed’s body. They found a Ruger SR22 pistol with an attached silencer in the toilet tank.”

  Hardy glanced away. “All of the men killed at the house in New York State were shot with a twenty-two caliber weapon, too. I’m assuming there were no fingerprints on the weapon?”

  “It was clean and still had a partially loaded magazine in it.”

  Hardy shifted his weight and squared his body with Jameson. “Sir, I get the feeling you know this woman. Is that true?”

  After a few moments, Jameson walked away from the table. He stood with his back to Hardy. “Almost ten years ago, I trained her at Quantico.”

  Hardy’s jaw fell open. “She’s an FBI agent?”

  “Was,” said Jameson, correcting Hardy. “Back then, I was in charge of the program for training cadets. I recruited her from the police academy the day before her graduation. She ended up being the best student ever to complete the FBI program. Her scores were off the charts in every category.”

  Jameson pushed his hands into the front pockets of his trousers and approached the table. “After she graduated, I took her aside and continued to train her—weapons, tactics…criminal investigation. Everything I knew…I passed it on to her. She showed great promise and had a great career ahead of her,” Jameson paused, remembering the events that led to her termination, “until she was fired.”

  “What happened?”

  “A hostage situation went sideways and she was blamed for the deaths of five people, three of whom were children. The FBI was under a lot of pressure at the time. The media had been reporting on incidents of agents hiring prostitutes as well as rogue agents shooting people first and asking questions later. The agency was under a fine microscope.”

  Jameson rubbed the back of his neck. “Anyway, when this hostage situation ended the way it did, those at the top decided it best to get out in front. They fired her. I’m not sure what happened to her after that.” Jameson stared at the computer. That vacant gaze on his face had returned. “I tried to keep in contact with her, but she just dropped off my radar.” He pointed at the screen. “This is the first time I’ve seen her in almost seven years.”

  Hardy spun the computer. “Well, one-time FBI agent or not,” he pointed, “we need to locate her and find out what her endgame is. She’s interfered with this investigation to the point that we may not be able to stop this terrorist attack.”

  Jameson leaned over and put his hands on the table before looking directly into his agent’s eyes. “Make no mistake, Hardy. This woman was highly trained, extremely disciplined and exceptional at her tradecraft. And, if she’s the one carrying out these killings, then it’s safe to assume she’s maintained her skills.” He pointed at Hardy. “Watch your back and take nothing for granted.”

  “I will, sir.”

  Jameson checked his watch. “What happened in Bedford Hills? Did we find anything?”

  Hardy started to respond, but stopped when the computer jargon became jumbled in his mind. “I better let Charity explain it, sir.” He stood. “This is her area of expertise.”

  Chapter 9: Lower Manhattan

  October 31st, 2:12 a.m.; Lower Manhattan, New York City

  Dahlia lifted the rear door on her Jeep Renegade and stowed two small suitcases. Sliding the black duffle bag off her shoulder, she tossed it alongside the suitcases and, with both hands, slammed shut the door. She climbed inside the vehicle and started the engine before rotating knobs and sliding levers on the control panel, trying to get heat into the compartment. It had been a chilly night, only getting colder as the early morning hours drew nearer.

  Cranking the steering to the left, Dahlia backed the Renegade out of the parking spot before navigating the SUV forward. Her mind settled on the timeframe ahead of her. She would arrive at her destination around 4 am, spend a couple hours doing a search of the area and then make her move. If all went as planned, she would be back on the road before daybreak.

  She pushed down on the turn signal lever and cranked the steering wheel to the left. As the Renegade travelled north onto West Street, her thoughts transitioned to Aaron Hardy. Would he be able to locate Tahir Muhammad? Muhammad was the terrorist cell’s leader, and she planned to kill him. I doubt it. She had taken everything of value from the four men inside the house in Bedford Hills. A thin smile formed on her full lips.

  She had seen the people on the roof of the house across the street and recognized Hardy. They were setting up surveillance equipment. Having worked for the FBI, Dahlia knew how the agency operated, and she knew exactly how much time she had to get out of the house. All she had to do was wait them out.

  After killing the last man, she had waited upstairs. Hearing the teams breech the house, she slipped out the bedroom window and disappeared into the night.

  The smile on Dahlia’s lips faded. Hardy had interrupted her plans at the house, and he had almost caught her with Sayed in the men’s bathroom at Goodmans. Her eyebrows curled downward. She hoped she had seen the last of him. Checking her side mirror, she changed lanes and pushed her foot down on the accelerator. If he gets in my way again, then I’ll just have to… Her thoughts trailed off. Would she be able to kill him? She had ended the life of many a terrorist, but taking the life of an FBI agent was another matter. If life had turned out differently, maybe he and I would have worked together at some point. A quick breath of air slipped past her lips and she saw the irony. In a way, she and Hardy were working together, bringing down a terrorist cell before it could carry out an attack on innocent civilians.

  Buildings and cars zipped by her, while she blankly stared at the road. She blinked her eyes and shook her head. That was then and this is now. I have a job to do, and no one’s going to get in my way.

  Chapter 10: Fahim

  5:55 a.m.; Philadelphia

  Fahim lay on his back, looking at the woman straddling him. Swinging back and forth in front of his face, the tips of her long jet-black hair tickled his nose. She slipped her hand inside his pants, searching. Finding what she was looking for, she shifted her gaze away from his groin and toward his face. Her hazel green eyes peered at him. Her pursed lips were sexy and sultry. Even though Fahim despised American women for their loose moral values, he could not help being attracted to this one. He loved everything about her; the color of her hair, the fullness of her red lips, the provocative clothing she wore. All those qualities had appealed to his animal senses.

  He heard a noise to his left and the woman stood and extended her right arm—pistol in hand—in the same direction. Out of the corners of his eyes, he could see the fuzzy silhouette of her high-heeled red boots planted on either side of his body. The cold that had started in his feet moved to his chest. His fingers were numb. The woman’s image faded and the last thing he saw was the muzzle of her weapon pointed at his head. Knowing he was to die a martyr’s death
, Fahim closed his eyes and smiled. Allahu Akbar.

  Chapter 11: Warehouse

  Three minutes earlier; Philadelphia

  The warehouse had been abandoned for many years, the result of a bad economy, forcing another American business to close its doors. Located east of downtown Philadelphia in the Northern Liberties neighborhood, the dilapidated six-story warehouse sat near the Delaware River, off I-95. Weeds grew in the cracks of the pavement. The chain link fence surrounding the building was broken in several places. Many of the building’s windows were missing. Irregular-shaped shards of glass were still in place in some of the window frames. The warehouse was dark, except for the top floor. Light could be seen coming from a few of the open spaces.

  Standing in the shadows, fifty meters from the back door of the warehouse, Dahlia made sure her wig was securely attached. She ran her fingers through the long jet-black hair, giving it extra body before tugging on the form-fitting red dress, the hem falling a few inches below her crotch. Cupping her breasts, she enhanced her cleavage, stepped out of the shadows and strolled toward the back door of the warehouse and the two men standing near it.

  Twenty-five meters from the door, she saw she had their attention. She slowed her pace, intentionally accentuating her ‘runway model’ gait. With each footfall, the spiked heel of her red thigh boot made a clicking sound on the parking lot. The men gave each other a quick look before smiles broke out on their faces. She muttered to herself. “Enjoy it while it lasts, boys.” Because, this is the last woman you’re going to see before you meet your seventy-two virgins in paradise.

  A few feet from the men, Dahlia stopped. Shifting her weight to one foot, she put a hand on her hip and raised the toe of the other boot off the ground. Through pursed lips, her voice sounded like a cat’s purr. “I seem to be lost. Can you gentlemen help me out?”