by Alex Ander
The heels of Dahlia’s knee boots made contact with the sidewalk, sending out a rhythmic sound of click…click…click. Methodically placing one foot in front of the other, she strolled toward her vehicle. She turned up the collar of her long black overcoat to protect her from the cool breeze blowing from the north. Stuffing her hands into the coat’s pockets, she maintained her gaze with the sidewalk. She could not remember the last time she had enjoyed the company of friends.
Approaching the Jeep Renegade, she thought of her days at the FBI. They seemed so far away. She had lived a different life. She had been a different person, nothing like the woman she was today. Dahlia had made some good friends, or so she had thought, until one by one her fellow agents betrayed her when she needed them the most. A single teardrop escaped her eye. She raised a gloved hand and swiped at her cheek. She did not allow herself to cry anymore. Crying made one weak and weakness got in the way of her job.
Dahlia stood straight and threw her head back. She yanked open the door to her vehicle. The door swung open before bouncing back at her. She stuck out an arm and stopped the door’s return. After slipping into the Renegade and slamming the door, she sat for a moment. Her eyes grew narrow and her chest felt heavy. A few deep breaths did not produce the desired effect. Unable to resist the urge, she threw her hands to her face and let her guard down.
Dahlia cried for five minutes before her cell phone rang. She wiped her eyes and answered the phone. A gruff voice on the other end spoke in a thick Italian accent.
“We need to meet. I have a job for you.”
Dahlia closed her eyes and let her head fall against the headrest. This was the last thing she wanted; however, doing what she did best, she tamped down her feelings and sighed. I guess it’s time to go back to work. Her voice monotone, she replied, “Where and when?”
The NEMESIS PROTOCOL
Aaron Hardy Series
Book #5
Chapter 1: Rescue
One week before the American holiday of Thanksgiving, 10 p.m. (local time); somewhere in the countryside of Gablitz, Austria, near Vienna
Jack Stevens sat with his back against a brick wall—knees to his chest, arms wrapped around them—shivering from having spent the past twelve hours in a cold, damp and dark basement. With each breath he took, the stink of mold and mildew slipped past his nostrils. He rubbed the backs of his upper arms, warming them. Something brushed past his foot and he kicked at it. He had been sharing this space with several small creatures, which he assumed were rodents. Deprived of light, except for one brief moment when a man opened the door and dropped a tray of food on the floor, he had not been able to confirm his suspicions. Stevens never touched the food. He was sure his ‘roommates’ were grateful for the meal.
Stevens had no idea who his captors were or what they wanted. The last thing he remembered seeing was several armed men bursting into his office and knocking him to the floor before putting a black hood over his head. He was forcibly taken to a vehicle and driven a short distance away. Jerked from the vehicle, he was thrown into a room that had the smell and feel of an old basement.
The gunfire and his co-worker’s screams repeatedly played in his mind. Janet, his secretary, had entered the office right before the armed men. The image of her contorted face when several bullets ripped through her body and lodged into the wall next to him flashed before his eyes. He was positive he had been the only one to survive the attack. Why? What do they want—ransom, a political statement?
Stevens buried his face in his hands, thinking of his wife. How is she going to handle the news of my death? He prayed to God these people would not parade his corpse around or string it up for her to see on the nightly news. He let out a quick puff of air, grateful he and his wife did not have any children. They had tried, but each pregnancy ended soon after conception. Perhaps this is the reason why God had not blessed them with children; so, they would not have to feel the pain of losing their father to such senseless violence. A hint of a smile formed on his face, and he found a reason to be thankful in the midst of his suffering. Stevens folded his hands in front of his face. “Dear Lord, please take care of my wife and be with her as she grieves—”
He stopped in the middle of the prayer and listened. Several pairs of boots stomped across the floor above him, followed by shouting, gunfire and loud bangs. Heavy items landed on the floor. Wooden beams vibrated overhead. Particles of dust and debris fell onto his head and arms. As quickly as the commotion had started, it stopped. Stevens cocked his head. An eerie silence surrounded him. Even the terrible funk music that had been playing for the last several hours was gone. Goose bumps formed on his goose bumps. He wanted rub his bare arms, but he sat still, his ears straining to hear a voice, a sound, something. Anything would be better than this dead silence. He shook his head. Dead. Did you have to use that—a quick, sharp creaking noise caught his attention. Seconds later, he heard it again, coming from the other side of the door, the distinctive sound of a loose board groaning under a heavy weight. Stairs. Stevens’ heart beat faster. A bead of sweat ran down his temple. His spine tingled. Is this it, the end?
The door flew inward, slamming against the concrete wall. The impact echoed throughout the concrete enclosure. Stevens flinched before raising his hands in front of his face, trying to protect his eyes from the blinding light. Stealing glimpses between his fingers, he saw a beam of light moving around the area. A man hurried toward him and went to one knee, blocking the light from the doorway. The black clad warrior pulled on a balaclava that covered everything but his eyes. Stevens saw a man around thirty with deep blue eyes and a squared-off jaw. A small dimple rested in the middle of a slightly pointed chin.
A deep voice bounced off the walls. “Ambassador Stevens, I’m here to get you to safety. Are you injured? Do you need medical attention?”
“Who…who are you?” Stevens lowered his hands, his eyes adjusting to the light. “Are you an American?”
The man nodded. “Damn proud of it.” He stood and helped the diplomat to his feet. “Now, if you’ll follow me, sir, we need to leave, immediately.”
Stevens took a long stride to the left, trying to get his balance. His body was stiff from sitting on the cold concrete.
The man leapt forward and grabbed the ambassador’s arm. “Are you all right, sir?”
“I will be.”
“Can you walk?”
Stevens nodded his head. “To get out of this crap hole, I’ll sprint if I have to.”
“Stay behind me and keep close.” The man whirled around. “There may be hostiles nearby.”
Once they had made it up the stairs, the rescuer led Stevens through a small room. Looking around, he saw the bodies of five men sprawled on the floor. Four of them had bullet holes in their foreheads and were motionless. The fifth man was alive, writhing on the floor. Stevens watched as his champion swung his rifle toward the suffering terrorist and, never taking his eyes off the area ahead, discharged the weapon twice.
Leaving the room, the man led Stevens down a long hallway. At the far end, another soldier was dressed in black and wore a balaclava. Stevens stopped.
The man backtracked and took the Ambassador by the arm. “It’s okay. He’s with me. Keep moving.”
Halfway down the hallway, Stevens saw the man at the front door raise his rifle and say something in a foreign language. Before he knew what had happened, he was on his back, several bullets zipping over his head. He tilted his head backwards and saw one of his captors sliding down the wall, a red smear following the body to the floor. As quickly as he had been tackled, he was on his feet and being hustled toward the door.
Outside the structure, the persistent thumping of helicopter blades grew louder. Two more men, dressed in black tactical clothing, faced in different directions, scanning the area. The man who had led him out of the basement had a hold of Stevens’ upper arm, escorting him toward the helicopter, while the fourth man lagged behind, securing their escape.
Whe
n everyone was aboard the Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk, the aircraft lifted off and banked sharply to the left, heading for Vienna International Airport. Stevens faced forward, flanked by two men, while the other two sat across from him. He leaned right and said to his savior, “Kristina?”
The man shouted above the noise from the aircraft’s rotors. “We are rendezvousing with your wife at the airport, sir.”
Stevens nodded his head and accepted a blanket from another soldier. He wrapped it around his shoulders and overlapped the ends in front of him, sighing when the warm fabric touched his skin. Simple pleasures.
When the helicopter touched down, the man to Stevens’ right jumped to the tarmac and helped him safely exit the Sikorsky. An entourage of people ran toward him—security and medical personnel as well as those who appeared to have a political persona. As the pack swelled in size, his eyes scanned each person. Not finding the woman he was looking for, he shifted his gaze further toward the airport terminal. Twenty feet beyond the group was the one he wanted to see the most, Kristina. She was holding her hands to her face. Stevens could see only her eyes and her long blonde hair, which was being tossed by the wind and the air wash from the helicopter blades. He swallowed hard. I never thought I’d see you again. A heavy hand landed on his shoulder, followed by a loud voice near his ear.
“You’re in good hands now, Ambassador. These people will see to the safety of you and your wife.”
Stevens cranked his head around before his body followed. “Thank you.” He shook hands with his rescuer before reaching around and giving the man a combined handshake and hug. “Thank you very much. If there’s anything I can do for you, do not hesitate to ask. I owe you my life.” The tactical operator nodded and boarded the helicopter. Stevens hurried toward his wife before pivoting and running back to the aircraft. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouted. “I never asked. What’s your name?” The wheels of the Sikorsky were more than three feet off the ground and quickly rising when the man shouted back, “Aaron Hardy.”
Chapter 2: Demitry
Two days before Thanksgiving, 7:13 p.m.; Moscow, Russia
Light blue and in need of a fresh coat of paint, the small two-bedroom, two-story house was located outside of Moscow. Ten years ago, that chore was Demitry’s top priority. When he and his wife, Ivanka, had bought the house, it was only intended to be a starter home. Once he had a better job, they would upgrade to a larger house and begin a family. Before he had opened a can of paint, life happened.
He slipped a key into the lock and opened the door, thinking of his ex-wife. Shortly after their wedding, she had become dismayed with married life, quickly becoming distant. A year later, she wanted a divorce, telling him she only wanted a few personal items from her childhood—nothing else. He could even keep the house. She wanted no reminders of him.
Demitry stepped inside and closed the front door, his mind recalling how devastated he had been when she broke the news to him. He tossed his keys onto a nearby table. They slid, until the wall next to the table stopped them. He removed his suit coat and placed it over the chair pushed under the table. Unclipping the magazine holster and drawing his pistol, he set them on the table and walked toward the kitchen, unbuttoning and rolling his shirtsleeves to his elbows.
Demitry had secured that better job many years ago and was now working on the security detail for the Premier of the Russian Federation. He worked long hours, but he was paid very well. And, since he did not have a wife or a family to support, he had become a very wealthy man; however, anyone who entered his house would have thought otherwise. Demitry was a simple man, who enjoyed simple pleasures—meat and potatoes and a beer put a smile on his face after a day of guarding the highest-ranking official in the country. The home’s meager furnishings matched the owner’s down-to-earth mentality.
Loosening his tie, he opened the refrigerator, grabbed a beer and twisted off the top. Taking a long drink, his cheeks expanded and he let the liquid remain in his mouth, savoring the taste before swallowing and tipping the bottle once again, taking a longer pull. He closed the refrigerator door and ambled toward the living room. Standing in front of an easy chair, he let his six-feet, two-inch tall, lanky frame fall backwards. As his butt landed on the leather seat, his feet came off the floor before settling back down. Putting the beer bottle on the small table next to the chair, he leaned back and closed his eyes. The next few days promised to be long and busy. Maybe, I’ll get started on some sleep right now.
Minutes later, Demitry’s eyes popped open. He leaned forward and reached for his pistol. Damn. He had left it at the door. His only solace for the blunder was that the man standing less than ten feet away had the upper hand. A gun on his hip would have been useless. Demitry heard the roar of the weapon, followed by the brilliant flash of light. His eyes were completely adjusted to the darkness and the exploding gases ballooned into a huge fireball. The bullets pierced his upper chest, above the bulletproof vest. The pain was excruciating, but it only lasted for a few moments.
In those moments, Demitry sat, unable to move. He heard the sound of drawers being pulled out, their contents spilling onto the floor. Furniture was overturned and glass broke. Having served his country in the military and spent the last five years protecting the Premier, Demitry saw the irony of the situation, losing his life to a robber. Have mercy on me, God. Forgive me of my many sins, he prayed in his mind. And, look after my wife. Demitry’s last thoughts were of Ivanka. Since their divorce, he had not remarried or even dated another woman. He loved her, until his dying breath, even though he never saw her again after they separated.
The pain in Demitry’s chest dulled, while a bright light shone all around him. A figure in the center drew closer. The sounds of the burglar ransacking the house faded away, while an outstretched hand appeared before Demitry’s eyes. As his life in this world was ending, he felt an overwhelming sense of peace, unlike anything he had ever experienced, surround and consume him.
Chapter 3: Summit
The day before Thanksgiving; 6:07 p.m.
The three-story, ten-bedroom, colonial revival, red brick mansion was centered on a ten-acre estate on the southeastern edge of the largest island off the coast of Maine, and the second-largest island along the Eastern seaboard, Mount Desert Island. The heavily wooded estate bordered Hunter’s Beach Cove, which led to the Atlantic Ocean, to the east and Cooksey Drive to the west. The northern and southern borders of the property were Hunter’s Beach and Cooksey Drive Overlook, respectively. Situated almost four miles south of Cadillac Mountain—the highest point on the North Atlantic coastline—the mansion was built in the late nineteenth century by the wealthy owner of a logging company. It remained in the family’s possession, until it was purchased five years ago by James Conklin, the current President of the United States.
Wide concrete steps led to the mansion’s large front door, made of solid oak. Outside the door was an ornately decorated, rounded portico supported by four Roman columns. Two wide banks of double-hung windows, with dark-colored shutters, flanked the front door. Above them, another set of windows were on either side of a wide single-paned window, directly above the front door. Above the single-paned window and centered along the forward-slanting roof, jutted out three dormers. Finally, two fireplace chimneys rose well above the mansion on the left and right side.
Five years ago, when he was the Governor of Massachusetts, Conklin bought the mansion to serve as a second home, a getaway for his family. The Conklin Family used it extensively as a personal residence. The President used it as a retreat to host parties and meet with other politicians to discuss important legislation. The mansion, specifically the front of the structure, provided the perfect backdrop for the ceremonial signing of that legislation. The meeting taking place during this Thanksgiving holiday, however, would trump every formal gathering that had come before it.
The President of the United States was hosting a summit with the Premier of the Russian Federation. The topic of conv
ersation was to determine how the two great nations could work together to combat terrorism and its growing reach in the world. The conversations the President and the Premier would be having over the next two days would be crucial to establishing a bond between them. Hopefully, that bond would lead to the sharing of intelligence and resources to defeat terrorism on a global scale.
Standing on the top step under the mansion’s portico, the President’s wife and daughter, Caroline and Abigail, were to his left. Aaron Hardy and FBI Special Agent Raychel DelaCruz stood on the opposite side of the President. The President looked out across his property and at the mansion behind him. He enjoyed coming here. It did not matter that the current visit was business. Any amount of time he spent here was a vacation. His mind drifted to tomorrow morning. Like a kid on Christmas Eve, he was filled with joyful anticipation.
In the morning, from his third-floor bedroom on the northeast corner, President Conklin would see the sun’s rays shine on the Peak of Cadillac Mountain, even though darkness would be all around him. In the United States, Cadillac Mountain was the first place to see the sunrise between early October and early March. Shortly after the sun made its appearance on the mountain, he would turn his head to the right and look toward the east, over Hunters Head, and see the first beams of light come over the horizon. It was always a beautiful start to the morning; one of the many pleasures the mansion afforded him. A member of the Secret Service approached from behind and leaned in to the commander in chief.
