Patriot Assassin

by Alex Ander

  Foot traffic on the streets was increasing. Having been trapped in office buildings for the workweek’s last eight hours, people were emerging and scurrying for a destination—home, the bar, a store, anywhere but where their employer had held them captive for five days.

  Hardy passed Basildon House and tilted his head to see around a well-dressed man, a few paces ahead. The man Hardy was most concerned with crossed Moorgate and continued south. The overcoat-clad banker jogged through the intersection at Lothbury, holding out his hand and impeding a car’s forward progress. His arrogance was rewarded with a blaring horn.

  Hardy stayed the course. Moorgate turned into Princess St. and the Bank of China passed him on the right. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and stared at the sidewalk, keeping one eye on Mahmoud Taziz, who strolled along the opposite side of Princess St., fifty yards further up the street.

  The intelligence on Taziz pointed to regular Monday, Wednesday and Friday afternoon visits (four o’clock to be precise) to a five-star hotel for a rendezvous with his mistress. Impressive for a man of his advanced years, Hardy had thought, while reading the man’s dossier.

  Hardy eclipsed two more banks on the right, Isbank and Kookmin before approaching the Bank of London. As expected, on the other side of the street, Taziz turned left at Threadneedle St. Hardy shot a look over his shoulder, waited for a car to drive by and fell in step behind his mark.

  ... … … … …

  Her long, straight and dark hair flowing behind her, the tall woman—easily six-foot in her chunky two-inch high heels—rounded the corner at Princess St. and trailed the man in the black leather jacket and blue jeans. Their worlds had collided a few years ago. He seemed different now; his appearance for sure, but his persona was what grabbed her attention. He had been deadly back when they first met. Now, a stronger vibe resonated from him. Searching for the right word, her mind settled on pure lethality. To anyone else, he would have looked like a tourist, sightseeing in London. She knew better. He had a reason, a purpose for being here. In the past, violence had accompanied that objective. Whatever the motivation for his presence, she would find the answer.

  Reaching inside her knee-length overcoat, she wrapped a hand around the weapon dangling under her left armpit. Her strides lengthened and she drew nearer to the danger in front of her. The only way to fight violence is with more violence. Her thumb flicked a snap and she drew the pistol, but kept it concealed under the coat.

  Farther ahead, Taziz ducked into a hotel. The woman rotated the gun toward the man in black, her long legs making short work of the sidewalk between them.

  ... … … … …

  Hardy picked up his pace and closed to within twenty-five yards of his prey. Following someone from directly behind was more difficult. If Taziz made a detour, Hardy needed to know. Surprises were unwelcome in his line of work. They usually preceded something bad.

  Hardy passed by the beautiful columns of yet another bank, the Bank of England. Bartholomew Lane came and went and slowly London took on a more modern look, tall buildings with lots of glass. The stoic and cold appearance of stone and concrete reappeared once past Old Broad St. Up ahead, Taziz darted across the street and disappeared into one of the monolith structures. Hardy started to step off the sidewalk, but stopped when something hard jabbed him in the ribs and a female voice came from behind.

  “Don’t turn around.”

  Hardy raised his hands.

  “Put your hands down,” she commanded, “but keep them visible.”

  He complied.

  “Keep walking. And stay close…like two lovers going for a stroll.”

  Hardy and the woman ambled down Threadneedle St. He glanced left at a shop’s windows, hoping to get a glimpse of her. The muzzle pressed harder into his back.

  “Look straight ahead and keep your mouth shut.” She spoke to Hardy through the thin smile with which she acknowledged a passerby. “Try something and I’ll drop you where you stand.” Thirty steps later, she grabbed his arm and guided him left. “In here.”

  Hardy read the neon sign—‘Burger and Lobster.’ “I’m kind of in the middle of something. I really don’t have time for a bite.”

  She pushed him into the restaurant. “Two words, Hardy. Shut. Up. What’s so hard to understand?” She stole a quick look around the establishment before holstering her weapon. “You’re losing your touch, letting me get the jump on you like that.”

  Hardy turned. “I saw you parked outside the bank, Hamilton,” —she arched her eyebrows— “Black four-door Nissan. Nice rims by the way…Are those custom?”

  She steered him toward a table in the corner.

  “By the way,” he pointed at the window, “what’s with the gun to my back out there? You know me.”

  “That’s right. I do know you. And, you’re not the kind of person I want to sneak up on from behind without some way to defend myself. Call it self-preservation.”

  Hardy snickered. “Fair enough.”

  She sat, but Hardy remained standing. “Care to tell me why you’re in my country, specifically, why you’re shadowing one of my citizens?”

  “I’d love to,” he spied the hotel, “but it’ll have to wait. As I said, I’m in the middle—”

  She kicked out a chair from under the table. “Sit down, Hardy. You’re not going anywhere, until you tell me what’s going on.”

  His eyes went from the chair to her. You’re not going anywhere, until you tell me what’s going on. Hardy mused. For having lived all her life in England, she only had a hint of the British accent. Maybe it skips a generation.

  “I’d rather this meeting be cordial,” she tapped the badge on her belt, “but if I have to...”

  Ellen Hamilton was an NCA officer (National Crime Agency—Britain’s closest version of America’s Federal Bureau of Investigation) and held the powers of constable, customs officer and immigration officer. This combination was known in law enforcement circles as “Triple Warranted” or “Tri Powers.”

  Thirty-five years old, Hamilton had more than a decade of law enforcement experience. That experience led to her being one of the first officers of the National Crime Agency, created a few years ago. Some say her familial ties to the Director-General of the agency got her the job. Those close to her knew nepotism played no part. Hamilton was tough. She pursued leads and tracked down criminals better than most of her male counterparts.

  Rubbing a hand over the stubble on his cheeks, Hardy regarded her. Dark eyebrows, piercing brown eyes with long lashes, and smooth cheeks, she was attractive without much effort. There was no doubt in his mind she would be stunning in a black dress, pumps and makeup.

  After a last look at the hotel, Hardy flipped around the chair, straddled the seat and sat. Resting his forearms on the chair’s back, he thrust a finger at her. “You have no idea what’s at stake here, Ellen.”

  She leaned back and folded her arms over her chest. “Enlighten me.”

  “People’s lives are at risk. The longer we play this game—” He stared at her. She was unmoved. Undoubtedly, she had heard the same song and dance before. Hamilton’s arrival had thrown a monkey wrench into his plans. His window of opportunity to have a private chat with Taziz was closing. If the situation was a football game, there were two minutes to go in the fourth quarter and he was out of timeouts. He expelled a gust of air. “All right, here it is. The clock’s ticking, so no questions…just listen.”

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  .

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  Alex@AlexAnderNovelist.com

  .

  Thank You

  Thank you for purchasing and reading this book. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. I was especially pleased with creating and developing Dahlia’s character. On the surface, she appears to be a ruthless contract killer; however, deep inside she has a conflicted soul that is fighting demons from her past. It see
ms that she desperately wants to be a part of a team again, instead of playing the role of ‘Lone Wolf.’

  If you liked Patriot Assassin, please take the time to visit your favorite bookseller and leave a review.

  I hope you are looking forward to the next book in the series, The Nemesis Protocol. A sneak peek awaits you, so keep turning pages.

  Sincerely,

  Alex J. Ander

  The Nemesis Protocol

  By

  Alex Ander

  Continue reading for a preview

  of the next book in the Aaron Hardy series…

  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.

  When 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.”

  …………………………

  .

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