Patriot Assassin

by Alex Ander

  After some basic training at the FBI Academy, Charity joined the team. She had worked with Hardy on a couple of missions prior to their current assignment. The two had gotten off to a rough start, and she was aware of Hardy’s displeasure with Jameson’s decision to bring her onboard, citing her lack of maturity and experience. She had overheard an argument between the two men. Hardy’s exact words had been, ‘I can’t believe you want me to trust someone who is so young and inexperienced—this is my life we are talking about.’

  Charity heard the elevator chime. Footfalls thumped off the carpet. The Director walked fast and took long strides. She glanced at her clothes, a navy blue suit—the skirt’s hem stopping above her knees—white blouse and blue one-inch high-heeled shoes. As the new person to the team, she was self-conscious of her appearance. She stepped back into her office and glanced at her reflection in the office window to confirm her shoulder-length dark hair, tinged red, was in place. Her eyes were dark and large, set beneath dark eyebrows that followed the curvature of her round eyes. Eyeglasses with red plastic frames rested on her slender, short nose. Her mouth was wide and paired with full lips that Charity loved to color with red lipstick.

  The twenty-two-year-old exited her office and crossed the hall. Standing five-feet, six-inches tall and weighing one hundred and fifteen pounds, she had a slim figure that moved gracefully. She entered the OR and took a seat across from Hardy. Seconds later, her boss appeared in the doorway.

  At age fifty, Phillip Jameson was a man who defied the aging process. He was five-feet, eleven-inches tall and weighed a fit one hundred and ninety pounds. Regularly lifting weights and jogging, he was in excellent physical condition. He was bald and wore rounded, rectangular eyeglasses with thick black frames. His attire had become synonymous with his rock-steady leadership skills. He always wore a black suit with a white shirt and red tie. The shade and print of the tie changed, but the color was always red. Lastly, his black shoes never showed any defects. The smooth polished surface reflected even the tiniest amount of light.

  Before becoming the director of the FBI, Jameson built a career in the agency by following orders, obeying the rules and making sure his superiors received all of the credit. Because of his hard work, others in the agency noticed him and wanted him on their team, quickly promoting him. As the director, he expected the same level of commitment from those who worked for him. He also expected them to obey his orders and the rules. If agents followed his directions, Jameson would stand in front of them and take any disciplinary action that was coming to them. He was tough, but fair.

  Crossing the threshold of the door, Jameson headed for his chair. The spring in his step was almost gone. He had opened the door to his office at seven thirty this morning and had not left the building all day. He was physically tired, but his mind was sharp. Truthfully, he did not mind working long hours. No one was waiting for him at home.

  Jameson’s wife had passed away five years ago, a victim of breast cancer. She was in her mid-forties. She had battled the disease for nearly two years before losing the fight. Before her death, he had taken a six-month leave of absence to be with her. The loss of his wife of more than twenty-five years had crushed him. To make matters worse, he had not spoken to their only child, since before his wife was diagnosed with cancer. With no one to talk to, confide in, he was alone.

  Jameson had stayed home from work for more than two weeks after his wife died. He could not function, mentally. He started consuming more alcohol than usual and some days did not even get out of bed. Halfway through week number three, he closed the door on the medicine cabinet and saw his reflection in the mirror. Having not shaved or attended to his personal grooming for two weeks, he did not recognize the man staring back at him. If his wife had been alive, she would not have recognized him either. The next day, Jameson was back at work, having made a commitment to his deceased wife. He would carry on and become a better man for having known and loved her.

  “Okay, let’s get to it.” Jameson passed Hardy and sat at the head of the table, Hardy to his right, Charity to his left. “I’ve got an early morning meeting with the President and I need answers.” He leaned back in his chair and interlocked his fingers behind his head. “What happened in New York?” He glanced at Charity before his eyes settled on Hardy.

  For the next fifteen minutes, Hardy and Charity took turns outlining the surveillance incident in New York.

  Jameson leaned forward in his chair, clasped his hands together and set them on the table. “Do you think Sayed was the victim of a mugging?”

  Hardy slowly shook his head back and forth. “I don’t think so, sir. I found a wad of cash in his pocket. It wasn’t much, but a thief would have easily found it.” Hardy paused. “Plus, Sayed didn’t look like a robbery victim. There would have been signs of a struggle. There were no marks on his face, indicating he had been struck by his attacker. And, his hands showed no signs that he fought back, either. He was fully clothed and sitting on the toilet.”

  “So, what do you think happened?”

  “My gut tells me this was a professional hit.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Hardy grabbed a pitcher on the table and filled a glass with water. He took a drink and set the glass on the table. “There were two bullet wounds,” he tapped his chest, “right over the heart and another bullet wound in the head—in the eye. Any one of those shots would have killed Sayed. The fact that the killer took the time to put two more rounds into him tells me he wanted to make sure Sayed was dead. A mugger wants money and only shoots if he is forced to shoot. And, those shots are not going to be that accurate.”

  “Who would want Sayed dead? He’s the one who’s plotting to kill innocent Americans.” Jameson shook his head. “I don’t know, Hardy. I see your point, but without more evidence, I don’t think we can pursue that angle.”

  Charity joined the conversation. “Now that we have Sayed’s phone, I can see if there’s any information on it that would point us to his killer. Plus, I’ve already begun gathering video footage from outside Goodmans. Maybe something there will give us a snapshot of someone coming or going from the bar. It will take some time to pour over the footage and isolate the images, but something may come of it.”

  Hardy reached for the water glass. “If there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know.” He took a sip. “I am not as good as you with computers, but if you show me what to do, I can punch keys, too.”

  Charity nodded before turning toward Jameson. “Sir, I need to know what your priority is. Do you want me to focus on Sayed’s phone or finding his killer? Both of them are going to take a fair amount of time.”

  Jameson glanced at his agents. They appeared exhausted. They had been following Sayed day and night for almost three days. Charity slipped her fingers under her glasses and rubbed her eyes before massaging the bridge of her nose. “You two look worn out. When was the last time either of you got a full night’s sleep?”

  Hardy and Charity glimpsed each other, but said nothing.

  “That’s what I thought.” Jameson stood. “I want both of you to go home and get some sleep. I’ll turn this,” he held up Sayed’s mobile, “over to an agent upstairs. I want you fresh and ready to go when we find something. And, when that happens, I have a feeling things are going to move fast.” He had taken only a couple of steps toward the door when Hardy called to him.

  “Sir, could I have a moment?”

  Jameson nodded his head at Charity. “Would you excuse us, please?”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied. Closing the door on her way out, she crossed the hall, a bad feeling sneaking into her stomach, the feeling that she was the topic of the conversation. Maybe she was a bit too self-conscious, but she was uneasy around Hardy. It took time for people to build good working relationships. She knew that. Is he ever going to see me as a competent co-worker? She sat at her desk, her mind rehashing the numerous conflicts with him. A minute later, she shrugged her shoulders. The
best thing I can do is my job. She focused her attention on the computer screen, attempting to drown out the conversation, taking place across the hall.

  Several minutes passed and she found herself rereading the same sentences. The voices coming from the OR were getting louder, and she thought she heard her name. She went to the door. Closing it, she heard Hardy: “I don’t understand why she’s here. Couldn’t you have found someone else with the same expertise?” Charity closed the door and shuffled back to her desk.

  “I’ve told you before, Hardy. She’s amazing when it comes to computers and technology. And, she breezed through all of the FBI’s background checks, earning her an extremely high security clearance. She is well-suited for this job and I have no doubts that, if given enough time, Cherry will become a valuable asset to this team.”

  Cherry was a nickname she had asked to be called, shortly after coming to work for Jameson. She did not elaborate on how she had gotten the nickname, only that her family and close friends used it.

  “That’s just it, sir,” Hardy threw up his hands, “How much time is it going to take for her to learn her job? How many times is my life going to be at risk during her learning curve?” Hardy was tired. He was tired from the mission and tired of having this conversation with Jameson—again. He felt burned out. He was not going to win this battle. He decided to let it go—again.

  Hardy was out of line; however, knowing his agent was exhausted, Jameson ignored it. “Cherry is part of this team. She’s not going anywhere. The sooner you come to grips with that, the better.” He opened the door and looked back. “Go home, Hardy, and get some rest.” As he walked by Charity’s office, he glanced inside. Charity was working at her computer. He was sure she had overheard most of the conversation with Hardy. Hardy was not wrong. She was young and inexperienced, but Jameson was confident he had made the right decision when he hired her.

  A few minutes later, Hardy left the OR and headed for the elevator. He ignored Charity. It was not on purpose. He was worn out, physically. His mind had not stopped thinking about Sayed and the man who had killed him. There was a terrorist cell getting ready to go active in the Northeast and time was short. Hardy was concerned that if the leader of the cell found out about Sayed’s death, the timetable for the attack would be moved up. Sayed’s killer had destroyed Hardy’s only lead in finding the cell leader. Sayed’s phone had to reveal something before it was too late. Hardy stepped into the elevator, punched in his security code and the elevator doors closed.

  Charity heard the elevator doors shut. She was alone. Her physical isolation was tolerable, but her emotional solitude weighed on her. She remembered her days in high school. Having been a kid, who related better to computers than people, her classmates had picked on her. As a result, she withdrew into a world of bits and bytes and internet protocols. After graduating and distancing herself from her immature peers, she blossomed. She stepped away from the computer and entered the real world, interacting with others on a personal level. People she met were drawn to her infectious smile and her positive attitude. They had no clue of the personal internal struggle that had taken place for years.

  Charity felt her stomach churn, while a lump formed in her throat. This was how it had started years ago when kids said cruel things to her face. She had never been one who stood up for herself. No, she pushed the hurt feelings deeper and retreated to her safety net—computers. Removing her eyeglasses and setting them on the desk, she plucked a tissue from a square box before plopping her head onto her crossed forearms. Seconds later, her shoulders moved up and down and muffled sobs filled the office.

  Chapter 3: The Flats

  11:53 p.m.; the Flats at Dupont Circle Apartments

  Before Hardy had closed the apartment door, he heard running water, coming from across the room. He eased the doorknob back to its original position, drew his pistol and laid his jacket on the floor. His apartment was small, less than one thousand square feet. From this vantage point, he could see the kitchen. No one was in it. Looking straight ahead, he confirmed the combined dining area and living room were empty, too. He leaned his head around the corner to his left. His bedroom door was open, but he could not see inside the room. The bathroom was across from the bedroom. Hardy lived alone. No one was supposed to be here. Both hands on the pistol, he crept closer to the bathroom. Steam rolled over the partially open door. The water stopped running before the shower curtain slid along the overhead bar. He sidestepped to his right, took a position at the corner of the bedroom. He saw the mirror above the bathroom sink. He raised his pistol higher, the front sight lined up with the mirror; a bare arm flashed across the foggy surface. Moments later, the intruder came into view when a hand swiped across the mirror several times. Hardy stared into the eyes of the intruder, who shrieked and jumped backwards.

  Naked, FBI Special Agent Raychel Elisa DelaCruz scrambled for a bath towel. “You scared me half to death.”

  Hardy holstered his pistol and leaned against the wall before folding his arms across his chest. When the woman appeared, she had the bath towel wrapped around her body. Her fingers fumbled with the towel ends above her right breast.

  “I suppose you got an eyeful, didn’t you?”

  Hardy grinned.

  “It would’ve been nice if you’d announced your presence.” She closed the distance between them. Placing a hand on his chest, she went to her tiptoes and kissed him. Turning her head, she pressed her left cheek against his chest and hugged him. “Even though I’m mad at you right now, it’s good to see you.”

  Hardy wrapped his arms around her, feeling her soft shoulders. “You know, Cruz,”—In the military, her fellow soldiers shortened her name to Cruz, joking that her full name was too difficult to say. To this day, those close to her called her Cruz—“Living alone, I don’t expect to find someone taking a shower when I come home.” He lowered his head and inhaled—strawberries. “So, why are you showering at my place?”

  “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.