The President's Man 2

by Alex Ander

  Hardy stood alongside her and held up the last MP5 magazine before slipping it into her left thigh boot.

  Feeling the cold magazine against her bare leg, she stopped shooting. “It seems you’ve had some practice doing that.” She winked. “Now, get ready to run.” She sent a volley of rounds down the stairwell, raised the muzzle of the rifle and yelled, “Go.”

  Hardy took off running. At the top of the stairwell, he opened the door and fired several rounds toward the bottom of the stairs, providing cover fire for Dahlia.

  Dahlia came out of the room, but instead of meeting him at the door, she moved to the other side of the hallway and pressed her back against the wall. She inserted the last magazine and threw the bolt forward.

  “What are you doing?” Hardy jerked his head. “Let’s go.”

  “I’ve changed my mind. I’m just not ready to see daddy, yet.”

  “What,” said Hardy, his eyebrows furled downward? “What the hell are you talking about? We’ve got to go.”

  “You go. I’ll slow them down.”

  “That’s suicide. You don’t know what’s waiting for you down there.”

  “It’s been nice working with you, Hardy.” She spun on her heels and fired down the stairs.

  Hardy started to go after her, but stopped when he heard Charity.

  “The chopper can’t hold its position for much longer, Hardy. People are starting to notice. How far out are you?”

  “Damn it,” said Hardy. “Dahlia, wait.” She turned back to him. He slid his Walther and a spare magazine across the floor.

  Dahlia stuffed them into her boots, gave him a smile and a wink and disappeared from sight, the muffled shots from the MP5 growing more faint.

  Hardy’s feet were anchored in place. He should have gone after her. No, he should have never let her leave in the first place. He heard Charity’s voice again in his earpiece. It was the last voice he wanted to hear.

  “Hardy—”

  “All right, all right, Charity,” he growled, running for the roof. “I’m on my way, all right. Do you hear me?” His voice grew louder with each syllable. “Damn it, I’m on my way.”

  Chapter 16: Debrief

  9:19 a.m.; Operation’s Room, FBI Building, Washington, D.C.

  Jameson, Hardy, Charity and the members of AR-1 were seated at the conference table in the Operation’s Room. The mission debriefing had started at nine o’clock.

  Jameson motioned. “Henderson, you were the first to arrive. What did you see?”

  Henderson re-positioned his six-feet, three-inch two hundred and thirty-five pound frame and leaned forward to rest his thick forearms on the table. He was thirty-six-years-old and had spent eighteen years in the military before becoming team leader for AR-1. A few strands of gray mixed with his dark hair. His facial features matched his wide frame. His eyes were set far apart and a full handlebar mustache covered his upper lip. Stroking the mustache, he envisioned the scene at the warehouse. “Actually, I haven’t seen anything like it, since my days in the military. I counted seven bodies between the main floor and the top floor, where I found five more.”

  Hardy nodded. “Those were the ones Dahlia and I took out before we—” he was still regretting his decision not to go after her, “before I made my way to the chopper.”

  “It’s not your fault.” Draper was seated next to Hardy. “She’s not one of our own. You didn’t leave anyone behind.”

  Hardy jerked his head around. “You know as well as I do that the line between ‘us’ and ‘them’ is a fluid one. Regardless of what she’s done, she saved my life back there and bought me time to get to the helicopter. I’d say that qualifies her to be in the ‘us’ camp. Don’t you?”

  Draper’s eyes got bigger and she leaned backward. Her cheeks flushed and her eyebrows were curled so far downward it appeared as if she had one continuous eyebrow. “Look,” she growled, “all I’m saying is—”

  Jameson unclasped his hands from behind his head and sat erect. “All right, that’s enough. Let’s not get sidetracked.” Turning his attention back to Henderson, the director nodded his head.

  “They were all middle-eastern men,” continued Henderson, “killed by small arm’s fire—nine millimeter, except for the two in the room on the top floor. They were killed by a twenty-two caliber weapon.”

  Hardy nodded his head.

  Jameson’s eyes bore a hole through Henderson. “Did you see anything that could point to the assassin’s whereabouts?”

  “This is the only thing I found.” Henderson placed a scrap of red clothing on the table and unfolded it one corner at a time, revealing a three-inch spiked heel from a woman’s shoe or boot. The heel and the material had dried blood on it. The remnant had been ripped away from the main body of clothing. “It was in the stairwell between the second and third floors. Three bodies were nearby. If I had to make a guess, I’d say there was one intense CQB”—close quarter’s battle—“there. Two of the men were shot. The third had a broken neck. All of them showed signs of physical trauma around the head and neck.” He paused a moment before finishing, “To put it simply, they took a beating and didn’t live to tell about it. Whoever killed those men, he…or she…did so with incredible skill.”

  Jameson sat on the edge of his chair, staring at Henderson. “Do you remember anything else that could tell us what happened to her?”

  Henderson shrugged and shook his head. “No, sir.”

  Jameson stood, faced the wall and planted his hands on his hips.

  “What about Muhammad?” Draper checked the time on her cell phone. It was 9:28. They had not discussed the leader of the terrorist cell, and if he had been killed. “Do we know if he’s dead and poses no further—”

  Jameson whirled around. “Hardy, you spent time with this woman. Did she say anything that would explain why she did this?” He rested his forearms on the back of his chair. “Did she say or do anything out of the ordinary?”

  Everyone in the room saw Jameson’s keen interest in the assassin.

  Hardy shook his head slowly. “She didn’t say anything to me. Shortly after I made contact with her, she shot the man behind me and the gunfight started. After that, I was too busy trying to come up with a way—” Hardy cocked his head and held up a forefinger. “She did say something odd at the last minute.”

  “What was it?” said Jameson.

  “She said ‘I don’t want to…’ Hardy paused. “No, her words were ‘I’m just not ready to see daddy, yet.’” Hardy glanced around the table before coming back to his boss. “I thought that was—” he noticed Jameson had lost the color in his cheeks and a couple sweat beads appeared on his forehead. Hardy brought his eyebrows together. He’s holding back on us. “Sir, what aren’t you telling us about this assassin, this former FBI agent?” All eyes zeroed in on him.

  Draper, her chin dropping to her chest, voiced everyone’s thoughts. “You mean to tell me she was an FBI agent? That would have been a nice piece of information to have before the mission.” The anger in her voice eclipsed the sarcasm. “Why the hell—”

  Henderson shot her down with a quick shake of his head.

  Jameson stood straight, pulled back the lapels of his suit coat and slid his hands into the front pockets of his pants. He made eye contact with every person in the room.

  Sensing Draper was about to say something, Hardy, without taking his eyes off Jameson, showed her the back of his hand.

  Draper shut her mouth and exhaled noisily through her nose, upset he would dismiss her with a wave of his hand. She let it go. They knew each other well enough for him to get away with such a move.

  Jameson expelled a huge breath of air. “For starters, her name is not Dahlia St. James.” He pursed his lips and stared at the center of the table. “Her name is Dahlia Jameson.”

  Hardy leaned closer. “As in—”

  Jameson’s eyes never left the table. “She’s my daughter.”

  Hardy regarded the others in the room. Their raise
d eyebrows captured his feelings, except he took a step further. He stood and squared his body with Jameson. He felt his heart beating faster. “Why didn’t you tell me she was your daughter?” His cheeks flushed, as he saw Dahlia’s chest centered in the scope of his MP5. He could feel his finger pulling back on the trigger. Hardy held up his thumb and forefinger a fraction of an inch apart from each other. “I was,” his voice was gravelly, “this close to ending her life.”

  The FBI director snapped his head toward Hardy. “I didn’t tell you for the same reason I chose not to tell,” he gestured toward the others, “any of you. If you’d known she was my daughter, you’d have approached this mission with a different mindset. If faced with the possibility of having to shoot your boss’s daughter, you might have hesitated. And, that hesitation may have cost you your life.” He looked Hardy squarely in the eye. “I’m,” his fist hammered the table, “not going to jeopardize the life of anyone on this team.”

  Jameson’s words hit Hardy in the chest. He plopped into his chair, which rolled a few inches away from the table. He’s willing to lose his daughter to protect us. Hardy’s emotions ranged from concern that his boss had lost all humanity to a tenfold increase in respect for the man. He was unsure if he could have been so cold and calculating if someone he cared about was in danger.

  Her anger gone, Draper countered. “But, sir, she’s your daughter. Shouldn’t we try to find her? Maybe, take a closer look at the warehouse…find out if she walked out of there alive or…” Draper caught herself and did not finish the sentence.

  Jameson looked at her. “In light of recent events, I don’t know who, or what, she has become.” He glanced around the table. “As far as mounting an investigation into her whereabouts, Draper’s right. She’s not one of our own, and we will not use our resources to find her. Besides, if she is alive, I have a feeling we’ll be seeing more of her in the future.” He sat in his chair. It took every ounce of energy he had to control his emotions and remain professional in the presence of his team. Draper’s assessment of the situation may have been correct, but this was his daughter. No matter what had happened, he was her father and not knowing if his little girl was alive or dead was ripping him apart inside. He removed his eyeglasses and rubbed his face with his free hand. “So, Hardy…do we know if we got Muhammad?”

  A few moments of silence passed. “Yes, sir…We got him. He poses no threat to national security.”

  The team spent the next ninety minutes debriefing the mission. The meeting ended a little after eleven o’clock. Jameson and Hardy stayed behind and discussed other matters for another fifteen minutes before the director left the OR.

  Hardy retrieved his cell phone. He was planning a surprise for Special Agent Cruz for tomorrow and had a few last minute details to finalize.

  At noon, he stuffed the phone into his pocket and grabbed his leather jacket from the back of the chair. Walking out of the OR, he glanced into Charity’s office. She was sitting at her desk, her head resting on her crossed arms, fast asleep. He crept into the office and approached her desk. She exhaled and the top piece of paper from a pad of sticky notes fluttered. Finding a pen and grabbing the yellow pad, he scribbled something, peeled off the top sheet and stuck it to the cover of her closed laptop. Gently placing his jacket over her shoulders—having gotten less sleep than he had, she never budged—he left the office and headed for the elevator.

  Chapter 17: Dew

  12:34 p.m.; Hardy’s Apartment

  Hardy parked the Raptor and shuffled toward his apartment. He glanced at the fitness room and half-thought about getting in a workout, but he needed some sleep. He had been awake for nearly thirty hours. Rubbing his eyes, he poked the key around the deadbolt, until he found the keyhole. Closing the door, his nose picked up the scent of strawberries. He smiled. Cruz must’ve been here again.

  Opening the refrigerator, he searched for a can of Mountain Dew he knew to be hidden in the back. I haven’t had one of these in a long time. He lifted the tab and the can hissed. After a long drink, he spotted an MP5 rifle on the living room couch. His muscles tensed. His left hand closed tighter around the pop can. Dahlia had his MP5. Someone’s here. Yanking on his t-shirt, he reached for his Walther PPQ, but his fingers closed around air. Dahlia had that weapon, too. He set the pop can on the counter, grabbed his Cold Steel Recon One tactical knife and opened the blade. A satisfying ‘click’ told him the blade had locked into place. He took a fighter’s stance and started to make a dash for the MP5. He stopped and straightened when a figure emerged from the bedroom. “Dahlia?”

  Naked, she stood outside the bedroom, rubbing her eyes. Her bleach blonde hair was tousled. She eyed the knife. “You don’t need that.” She held her hands out to her sides. “As you can see, I’m…unarmed.”

  Hardy’s eyes never strayed from her face, while he fired questions at her. “What are you doing here? How’d you know where I lived?” He pointed the knife at the door. “How’d you get in here?”

  She held up her forefinger and disappeared into the bedroom. A few seconds later, she came out wearing a Detroit Lions jersey that stopped at her knees. She met him halfway between the bedroom and the kitchen. “I think this…” yawning, she handed him a leather bi-fold, “will answer…all your questions.”

  Taking the bi-fold, Hardy recognized his FBI credentials, which he thought he had lost or misplaced during the mission. His mind went back to Goodmans, and he felt Dahlia grabbing his butt. She wasn’t interested in me at all. Wow, she’s good.

  “Sorry about that…” she flashed a sheepish grin, “old habits.” She sauntered toward the couch. “I needed a shower and some sleep.” She wagged her finger at the bi-fold. “And, I remembered how those things opened doors.” She picked up the MP5 and brought it to him. “Plus, I needed to return this to you.” She smiled. “But, you should know I’m keeping the Walther.”

  Hardy slipped the knife into his pocket. “Dahlia, you can’t—”

  “Relax. I’m kidding.” She smiled. “You’re so uptight.”

  He propped the rifle against an end table and nodded his head. 30 hours without sleep can do that.

  She tipped her head backward. “It’s in the bedroom with my things. I’ll get dressed,” she turned, “and be out of your hair.”

  Hardy caught her by the elbow and swung her around. “I don’t think so.” He moved a finger back and forth between them. “We have a lot to talk about, Miss Jameson.”

  Dahlia squinted and stared at him. “He told you?”

  Hardy nodded. “What happened? Why are you assassinating terrorists, instead of kicking in doors wearing an FBI vest?”

  She continued the death glare. “So, he didn’t tell you the whole story.”

  “He said a hostage situation went south and you were blamed for it.”

  Dahlia gazed at a cabinet door beyond his shoulder. “Yeah,” she drew out the word, “I was blamed for it, all right.” Her eyes darted back to Hardy. “And, dear old daddy,” her voice grew louder, “didn’t do a damn thing to help me. He let them screw me out of a job with the bureau…as well as every other agency in the country.” She spun around, crossed her arms over her chest. She took two steps before whirling around. “I was,” she jabbed a finger into his chest, “poison. I couldn’t get a job as a,” she stabbed the same spot, “rent-a-cop. I busted my butt, working low-paying jobs just to keep the lights on. I—” she dismissed him with a wave of her hand before sloughing into the living room and plopping onto the couch.

  Hardy had seen the pain in her eyes—he massaged his chest—and felt her anger. Gaping at the carpet, he ambled toward her.

  She leaned forward and put her elbows on her knees before covering her face. Don’t you cry, Dahlia. Push it down. She folded her hands over her nose and mouth before flicking her eyes toward Hardy. She had no right to dump on him; however, the release felt good. She had never talked to anyone about the incident. No, her way of dealing it had been to stuff her feelings deeper inside, jus
t as she was doing now. Just breathe and let it go…let it go.

  Hardy lifted a leg and sat on the arm of the couch. “What happened, Dahlia…at that standoff back then?”

  She leaned back, crossed her arms over her chest and ogled his deep blue eyes. Her mind went back to Goodmans, where she had felt safe and secure in his arms. Maybe he’s the one person who could understand. The deep breath she had been holding left her lungs, and she looked across the room. “The guy had already killed two people before taking the family hostage. The S.A.C.,”—Special Agent in Charge—“had his head up his…” She shook her head. “He wanted to wait for a hostage negotiator. We heard gunshots and he still wouldn’t make the call to send us in.”

  “So,” said Hardy, “you made the unilateral decision to go in.”

  Hearing disapproval in his tone, she whipped her head to face him. After all these years, her heart told her she had done the right thing. “You’re damn right I did. And, my only regret is that I waited as long as I did to make that decision.” She turned away. “When I got in the house, everyone was dead, including the chil—” her voice cracked, as the image of the three children lying on the floor flashed across her mind. Push it down, Dahlia.

  Hardy glanced away, until she had composed herself.

  “The S-O-B pointed his weapon at me and I put him down. End of story.” She fiddled with the hem of the jersey. “Or, at least it should have been. I’m sure you know the rest.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Dahlia. It sounds as if you made a call that a senior agent wasn’t capable of making, and you paid the price for it.”

  “I don’t want your pity.” She felt vulnerable. She had shared arguably the most devastating event to happen to her with a virtual stranger. This was new territory. She was the one who wanted—needed—to be in control. Pushing the strange feelings aside, she attempted to regain the upper hand. “Life is what it is.” Her voice was monotone, almost robotic. “Things don’t always go our way. We make what we can of it.”