by Alex Ander
Hardy pinched the pull-tab on her red dress and ran it down the length of her body. The material separated and his eyes were drawn to the black bra underneath. He slipped his fingers under the straps and slid them off her shoulders.
Cruz crossed her arms in front of her body and covered his hands, stopping him. Playfully, she scolded him. “That’s far enough, Mr. Hardy.” She spun around, a thin smile on her red lips. Her arms crossed, she caught the straps at her elbows. “I can take care of the rest myself.”
His eyebrows went up and a devilish grin washed over his face. “Can I help?”
Cruz zeroed-in on his lips. Yes. “No,” she flashed a smile, “I think I can handle it,” and kissed him. “I believe you have your own room waiting for you.” He dipped his head to return the kiss, but she pulled back. “Besides, my roommate will be home any minute.” She was referring to the President’s daughter. With Natasha’s arrival, the mansion’s third floor was one bedroom short of accommodating everyone’s needs. Cruz had offered to share a room with Abigail. Almost as if on cue, the door swung open and Abigail walked in, standing straight when she saw them.
“Oops, I’m sorry.” She backed out of the room. “I’ll—”
“No, it’s all right.” Cruz pulled the bra straps over her shoulders. “Mr. Hardy was just leaving.”
“Are you sure?” Abigail stood in the doorway, one hand on the doorknob. She was fifteen-years-old, but she had the demeanor and maturity of a young woman at least five years older. Her red straight hair stopped at the middle of her forehead; in back, it fell to the neckline of her modest black dress. Her eyes were narrow behind a pair of thin black plastic eyeglasses that rested on a cute button nose. Thinking she had interrupted an intimate moment, Abigail’s cheeks—laden with faintly visible freckles—turned red.
Hardy gave Cruz a quick peck on the cheek and headed for the door. When he was even with Abigail, he kissed her cheek, too. “Goodnight, Abs.”
Abigail crinkled her nose and squinted, making her eyes even narrower than they already were. Abs was a nickname from her childhood. Now that she was maturing, she wanted the nickname to stay in the past. Plus, she had developed a crush on Hardy, and she wanted him to see her as a more mature girl, a woman.
Seeing the look on her face, Hardy remembered. “I’m sorry. Goodnight, Abby.” As he closed the door, he saw her face soften and the start of a slight smile.
Chapter 7: Fireplace
Hardy nodded at the two men standing guard outside the Premier’s bedroom before reaching for the doorknob to his own bedroom. He stopped, his hand hovering in the air. I’m not that tired. Even though Hardy had been at the mansion since nine o’clock this morning, working with the Secret Service Agents, scoping out the property, his body felt energized. Maybe it was the feel of Cruz’s soft skin, giving him a second wind. Whatever it was, he knew he would probably lose that energy in an hour or so. He did an about-face and strolled toward the stairs.
He made his way to the first-floor kitchen, hoping to find a beer in the refrigerator. Halfway to the kitchen, he glanced toward the fireplace and saw the right-side profile of Natasha. She was sitting in a straight-back chair with her legs crossed. Due to the curvature of the chair’s back, he could see only her face, right arm and hand—holding a wineglass—and her black knee boots.
Having heard footsteps, she turned and saw him. “What are you doing up? I thought you and Cruz were on your way to bed.”
Hardy sauntered into the fireplace room and stood, facing the fire. “She’s beat, but I’m not that tired…yet.” Observing the full glass of wine in her hand, he pointed with his chin. “Where can I get one of those?”
She stood and took a couple of steps toward him, the three-inch heels of her boots landing with soft ‘thuds’ on the heavy rug in front of the fireplace. She wore her form-fitting black cocktail dress from the party. The hem of the dress stopped three inches above her knee. Slightly clinging to her legs, the back part of the dress rose a little higher. She handed him the glass. “Here, I’ve already had one and should probably stop.” Returning to the chair, she slid her hands under her butt and thighs—straightening the dress—and sat. She crossed her right leg over her left leg and placed her folded hands in her lap.
“Thanks.” He sat in the other straight-back chair across from her. He regarded her for a few seconds. “It’s good to see you again. You look great.” He tipped the glass back and drank almost a quarter of the wine.
“Thank you.” She tugged on her dress and pretended to pick a piece of lint from it. “I can say the same about you.”
“So, you’re protecting the Premier, now?” Hardy crossed his right leg over his left leg.
“No, not exactly,” she refolded her hands in front of her belly, “I’m still an FSB agent. The Premier sometimes calls on me to be a part of his security detail. I think with all that’s happened he knows he has at least one person whom he can trust.” She smiled, her white teeth shining brightly in the room’s subdued lighting. “He has a great deal of respect for you, too.”
Hardy raised his eyebrows.
“We’ve talked about you a lot. He was extremely impressed when he learned of everything you had done, especially when you dragged me to safety.”
Hardy squirmed in his chair and stared at the fire.
Natasha put her hands on the armrests, re-crossed her legs and pulled on her dress. “I don’t think you fully appreciate the gravity of what you did. Our two countries have not been on the best of terms. Your actions went a long way toward repairing the communications between my Premier and your President. In fact, that’s why the Premier requested that you be at this summit. He trusts you and he trusts your judgment. I wouldn’t take that lightly.”
Hardy’s mind went to the business card in his pocket. He was sure the Premier did not give out his personal number to everyone he met; however, receiving accolades was not one of Hardy’s strong suits. His silence at such moments could be interpreted the wrong way.
Observing his discomfort, Natasha changed the subject. “Raychel seems to be a real sweetheart; smart and extremely personable, too.”
Hardy smiled, happy to have the conversation shift away from him. He saw Cruz in his mind. “Yes, she’s great.” He took a sip from the goblet. “I can’t tell you how much she means to me.” Watching the flames of the fire dance in the fireplace, his mind drifted. He thought of everything that had transpired since meeting her, especially losing his teammates. Her presence in his life had helped him cope with the most tragic event ever to happen to him. “I met her at a difficult time in my life.”
Natasha stared at him. She could see he was re-living the ordeal he had shared with her. Wanting to bring him back to the present, she steered the conversation toward Cruz. “And, like all intelligent and beautiful women do, she’s made you a better man.”
Hardy smiled and took a drink. “Most definitely; I never thought I’d find someone who was capable of understanding what I do for a living, and be okay with it.” He motioned toward Natasha. “I’m sure you know what that feels like, too.”
Natasha pressed her lips together and dropped her head.
As soon as the words had left his mouth, Hardy wished he could have retracted them. Grimacing, You idiot, he scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
In the spring, Natasha’s boyfriend, Sergei, had been killed in an explosion. For the longest time, she had been angry and blamed herself for his death. She had revisited the incident countless times in her mind, trying to figure out if she could have done something to change the outcome. To console her, Hardy had recanted the story of how he had lost his teammates; specifically, he told her what he did, and continues to do, to honor them. Hearing his story, she had begun to feel some semblance of peace.
Still looking down, she fiddled with the hem of her dress. “It’s okay. You came into my life at a difficult time as well, and helped me move past the loss of Sergei...I’ll be fore
ver grateful to you.” After a brief pause, she grinned. “That earns you the right to an occasional slip-up.”
Hardy pinched the stem of the wineglass and spun it between his fingers. Not knowing what to say, he simply nodded his head.
Natasha stood and walked to the fireplace. She leaned over and put her palms toward the fire, intermittently rubbing them together. Her hair slid over her shoulders, until half of it hung in front of her body. She shifted her weight back and forth for almost a full minute, while she warmed herself. In one fluid motion, she rose to her full height, slid her hands past her cheeks and threw her long hair back over her shoulders. Returning to her chair, she sat, “So,” and crossed her legs, “tell me more about her. Raychel, I mean.”
For the next fifteen minutes, they talked about all manner of things, including Cruz and the mission in St. Petersburg. Hardy inquired about Victor and his team, whom Hardy had met during the mission. Natasha smiled and laughed, while she told him a funny story about Victor. They were still snickering when an agent from the Premier’s security detail approached her, leaned over and whispered in her ear. The muscles in her face drew tight and she closed her eyes. She had a short verbal exchange with the man—in her native language—before he left.
“What was that all about?” Hardy brought the fluted glass to his lips.
Natasha took a deep breath and let the air slowly pass through her pursed lips. “One of our agents was found murdered in his home.”
Hardy lowered the glass. “What?”
“His name was Demitry. It appears he was the victim of a robbery or home invasion. He was shot in the chest just above his vest.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Any leads on who did it?”
“No, his body was found only an hour ago.” She stared at the flames in the fireplace. “He was a good agent. He didn’t have a wife or children.” Natasha recalled the short time she had spent working with him. “He was a good man…he was actually scheduled to be on this security detail. When he didn’t show up for work this morning, we tried contacting him, but there was no answer. I sent a team to his house, but no one answered the door. His car was not in the driveway, so…I was given the assignment of finding a replacement for him at the last minute.” Natasha shook her head and stood. Approaching Hardy, she reached for the wineglass. “I know I said I should stop, but this, changes things.”
As Natasha tipped the goblet back twice, Hardy thought about what she had said. The details were not making sense to him. Plus, the timing was troubling him. “Did this agent have a history of not showing up for work?”
She shook her head and swallowed. “Never…Why do you ask?”
“How do you know it was a robbery or home invasion?”
“The place was trashed. Demitry’s wallet, watch and firearm were missing. And, his car was not there. Investigators think someone, or some people, broke in and stole a few expensive items before stealing the car.”
Hardy watched the fire. The more he thought about the circumstances surrounding the agent’s death, and the implications the agent’s death could have on the summit, the more the alarm bells sounded in his mind. It was possible he was making more out of the situation than what it deserved; however, during his military service, he had learned it was better to be overly cautious than to dismiss something out of hand, no matter how slight. “What are the chances it was made to look like a robbery or home invasion?”
Setting the glass on the small table between the two chairs, Natasha stared at him. “What are you saying?”
“Look at the facts, Natasha. A top tier agent on the Premier’s security team is killed in an apparent robbery right before he is scheduled to leave the country on an important mission. This forces you to bring in a replacement for him at the last minute.” Hardy wagged his finger at her. “Didn’t you also say the agent was shot,” he tapped his chest, “above his protective vest?”
She nodded.
“Untrained criminals will shoot for center-of-mass. And, they will shoot wildly. Only highly trained individuals, who suspect the target is wearing a vest, will know where to aim.” He pointed to his throat and chest area. “That’s a small target area above the vest.” Hardy eyed her, but the low light from the fire made it difficult to see her face. “You don’t find any of that suspicious?”
Natasha stared at the toe of her boot, mulling over his words.
“What do you know about the man who took the murdered agent’s place?”
Natasha let out the breath of air she had been holding. “It was last minute, so we didn’t take as much time as we normally do to vet someone.” She shifted her eyes toward Hardy. “Nothing in his file seemed out of place. He’s been an agent for several years and has a good record. He’s been in the military and received several medals. He served under Colonel Vasik’s—” she faced Hardy, but her eyes gaped past his shoulder, “command.”
Hardy noticed her distraction. He also saw the color drain from her cheeks.
She leaned forward and grabbed the hem of her dress. “Son-of-a—”
Chapter 8: Popovich
Natasha yanked the hem of her dress to her crotch, revealing a small pistol strapped to the inner part of her left thigh.
Hardy leapt to his feet, whipped back the lapel of his suit coat and placed his hand on the Walther PPQ M2, chambered in 9mm. “What is it, Natasha?”
“Colonel Vasik was very loyal to General Popovich.” —General Popovich was the man ultimately responsible for the bombings in and around Moscow earlier in the year. He had managed to escape capture, and it was believed he had fled the country, or was hiding out in a small town on the outskirts of Russia. Either way, Russian authorities had not been able to apprehend him— “I can’t believe I didn’t see this sooner.” She pushed her dress down and ran toward the stairs, her Glock 26 in hand.
Hardy was a step behind her. “Do you think Popovich could be behind the murder of your agent?”
“I don’t know, but right now I’m not taking any chances. First, we need to make sure the Premier is safe. Then, we can investigate.”
Taking two steps at a time, Hardy passed Natasha on the stairs and was the first to make it to the third floor. The President’s room was at the top of the stairs. A Secret Service agent stood to the right of the door, facing Hardy. “I need to get in there and make sure the President is safe.”
The agent held out his hand. “No one is getting in there.”
“I have reason to believe the President’s life might be in danger. We need to make sure he’s safe.” Hardy advanced, but the agent’s extended right arm stopped him. “We don’t have time for this, Charlie.” Hardy had gotten to know the agent fairly well throughout the day. He had the impression the man was thorough, but also rigid in his approach to unorthodox matters. Bursting into the President’s bedchambers at night fit into the category of unorthodox matters. The agent was not going to budge, forcing Hardy to take a different course-of-action. Sorry, Chuck. He grabbed the agent’s outstretched hand, twisted it to the right and spun Charlie in a circle, until he slammed into the wall. The agent’s head bounced off the wallboard, and he dropped to the carpet.
Approaching the third floor, Natasha saw everything. “That’s not going to make you many friends.” She went right and rushed toward the Premier’s room.
Hardy opened the door to the President’s room and entered. Realizing she was not behind him, he stepped into the hall. “Natasha, don’t go in there alone—Natasha.” She moved down the hallway, either not hearing him or ignoring his admonition. “Damn it.”
Hardy quickly cleared the main area of the President’s room before proceeding to the inner bedchamber. With his pistol at the low ready, he threw open the door and charged inside, swinging his firearm back and forth, careful not to point the muzzle at the President and his wife.
The President and first lady were in bed, watching television. They jumped and scrambled to cover their bodies with a blanket. The President frowned and scolded
his agent. “What’s the meaning of this, Hardy?” Squinting, he saw deep lines in Hardy’s forehead and a look on the man’s face that could have killed without saying a word.
The first lady, who had liked Hardy from the first time she had met him, added to her husband’s rebuke. “How dare you barge into our bedroom in the middle of the night—what do you have to say for yourself, young man?”
The President put his hand on his wife’s arm and softened his tone. “What is it, son?”
Hardy saw the President and his wife were alone. He took out his Cold Steel Recon One tactical knife. “Lock the door after I leave and open it for no one, but me.” He tossed the knife onto the bed. “Use that if you have to, sir.”
The President locked eyes with his agent. “Abby.”
“She’s next, sir.” Hardy rushed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
In the hallway, Hardy found the downed agent’s communication device. “Leatherneck is in danger.” Leatherneck was the Secret Service’s codename for the President. “Leatherneck is in danger—all agents converge on the third floor, northeast corner bedroom.” Hardy dropped the earpiece and dashed across the hall to Special Agent Cruz and Abigail’s room. His eyes darted left. The two agents, who were guarding the Premier’s room, were not there. A bad feeling gripped the pit of his stomach.
He opened the door and flicked on the lights. The women had been sleeping. Abigail rolled away from the light, covered her eyes with a pillow and mumbled. “Shut off the light.”
Cruz propped herself on an elbow and rubbed her eyes.
Hardy took two giant steps and ripped open the closet door. “Are you both okay? Is anyone else in here? Have you seen anyone?”
“Hardy, is that you?” Cruz scooted backwards into a sitting position. Shielding her eyes, she looked as if she was saluting him. The soft light coming from the lamps on either side of her bed shone like a spotlight on her face. “What’s going on?”
