by Alex Ander
The woman recoiled when the front door swung open and Ashford charged in with his rifle. Cruz held her tighter and stroked her hair. The SWAT members rushed past the couch. “It’s okay. It’s okay. They’re with me. They’re the good guys. You’re safe. I promise.” She kissed the top of the woman’s head before shifting her eyes to the right and giving Ashford the ‘thumbs up’ sign.
Ashford brought a walkie-talkie to his mouth and yelled into the device, “This is Agent Ashford. Get those emergency vehicles up here now.” He ran out the door and returned with a wool blanket from the SUV. He approached the couch and gently covered the victim with the garment before staring at his partner.
Cruz caught his gaze and flashed him a reassuring smile. “I’m fine.”
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
Chapter 18: Cathedral
March 20th, 12:23 p.m.
Washington, D.C.
Special Agent Cruz smoothed her knee-length red skirt, periodically pinching pieces of fuzz from the material and letting them fall to the floor. Her legs would not be confined to pants on this beautiful day. The temperature was sixty-one degrees, on its way to the lower seventies by late afternoon. Abundant sunshine had been forecasted to accompany the unusually warm temperatures. Sitting cross-legged in a chair, Cruz extended her top leg and examined the color of her skin. She chuckled. You gals need some time in the sun. The truth was her mixed heritage—her father was of Mexican descent and her mother was Caucasian—gave her tan-colored skin all year long. At the end of spring, the tone darkened and remained that way for the summer. She felt her hip vibrate. Checking her mobile, she smiled when she saw the face attached to the text message from Curtis Ashford. She had not spoken with him, since shortly after starting her new position with the FBI.
Since apprehending Harold Hawkins, Cruz and Ashford had taken on several cases, including exposing a corrupt Washington government official, who later resigned his position. That case led to Cruz being promoted to a supervisory special agent position in the Fraud and Public Corruption Division. She and Ashford went separate ways. He continued investigating cases, while she sat behind a desk, shuffling papers and clicking a mouse.
Her workload was grueling and boring at the same time. Trading a bulletproof vest for a comfortable chair and an oak desk, she lasted less than two months before walking into Director Jameson’s office and resigning from her supervisory role. She wanted to get back into the field. Paper cuts were not her strong suit. Scrapes, scuffs and bruises from arresting criminals were what she had in mind when she became an FBI agent.
Jameson, however, was not going to let a top agent go so easily. Following a fifteen-minute conversation, the two of them reached an agreement and he tore in half her resignation. She would keep her supervisory position and work cases, while Jameson assigned to her a full-time assistant to handle the mundane tasks. Being partnered with Ashford was her only other condition. Jameson quickly agreed. That was Friday.
Today, Sunday, she had gone to Mass and was waiting to meet with Father Pat McMurray. After the meeting, she had plans to spend the day in the park, reading and taking in the sunshine. Her schedule had kept her indoors for weeks and she needed to get outside. The door opened and she cranked her head to see Father McMurray enter his office at St. Matthew’s Cathedral in Washington, D.C.
In his late sixties, Father McMurray was tall and lean. His face was long, but filled-out. His hair was gray and he had a bald patch that ran down the middle of his head all the way to the back, stopping an inch above his shirt collar. He closed the door and walked toward his visitor. “I’m sorry it took so long, but I was stopped by Mrs. Holloway. God bless her, but a conversation with her…” He laughed. “Well, let’s just say that if you’ve ever spoken with her, you’ll know never to complain about the length of my homilies.”
Standing, Cruz joined in his laughter and met him halfway between her chair and the one in front of his desk. “I have spoken with her. She’s a sweetheart, but I agree with you. She can talk your ear off.”
Father McMurray took Cruz’s hands and kissed her on the cheek. He had met her shortly after she moved to D.C. area. The two became instant friends. Her bright and cheery personality never failed to lift his spirits. He cherished their conversations and the occasional visit. Sitting in the chair closest to his desk, he got comfortable and crossed his legs. “I can’t tell you how good it is to see you, Raychel. How’ve you been?”
Cruz bobbed her head and averted her gaze. “I’ve been good, Father. And you?”
Father McMurray was a priest by trade, but he had spent three years in college, studying psychology. He was not a licensed psychologist, but his schooling had never left him. He noticed the subtle cues in Cruz’s body language. “Life’s been very good to me. I can’t complain; however, I get the sense you’ve got something on your mind.”
Cruz grinned. He always got to the point. She admired that quality in him. He said what was on his mind. There were no games. “That’s why I came to see you. I had a case a couple of months back and…it’s been bothering me. Well, not so much the case as my attitude during the investigation.”
Father McMurray uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. Resting his forearms on his knees, he listened, while Cruz spent the next few minutes recanting the story of the serial killer.
… … … … … … … … … …
“…he took a step backward, Father, but his weapon was still pointed at the woman’s head.” Cruz made a gun with her right hand. “I had a clear shot, so I put my finger to the trigger. I was determined he wasn’t going to take another life.”
Father McMurray nodded.
“All of a sudden, he puts the gun to his head and I’m thinking he’s going to kill himself.” Diverting her gaze, Cruz paused and shook her head, re-living the scene in her mind. “I don’t know what came over me, but I felt a rage inside like I’ve never felt before.”
“Why were you angry?”
Staring at the floor, reflecting on the question, she felt her pulse beating faster. She locked eyes with him. “After all he had done,” she growled, “the people he had killed, the lives he had ruined,” she hesitated, “he shouldn’t have been allowed to take the easy way out. I wanted him to pay…with his life. And, I wanted to be the one to exact payment. I wanted justice.” She backtracked. “I wanted revenge—”
Father McMurray held up his hand. “Before you go any further, is this something we should be discussing within the sacrament of reconciliation? Are you here for confession, Raychel?”
Cruz pinched the bridge of her nose and calmed herself. She managed a half-hearted laugh. “I probably should be, Father, but not for this.”
He nodded and waited for her to continue.
“As I said, my finger was on the trigger, and I’m ready to drop him.” She took a deep breath and exhaled. “I’m not sure what happened next. I think I heard a voice in my head…or maybe I just remembered the words from the bible…” she shook her head slowly. “Anyway, as plain as day,” she motioned toward the empty space between them, “just as you and I are talking right now, I hear the words…Vengeance is Mine.”
Father McMurray’s eyebrows arched and he cocked his head.
“A split-second later, I moved my sights to the left and fired several shots toward his hand, the one holding the gun. He couldn’t get a shot off and the weapon fell to the floor.” Cruz motioned with her hands. “I rushed forward, kicked the gun away and arrested him.”
“And, the victim,” said Father McMurray, leaning forward. “Is she okay?”
“She sustained some minor injuries and bruising, but she’s expected to make a full recovery.”
He resumed his relaxed posture. “Thank God.”
Cruz echoed his sentiment. “Everything ended well, Father, but I’ve spent the last two months thinking about my actions, my deep desire to take someone’s life. Once he turned the weapon on himself, I knew he wasn’t planning to kill the victim. I knew she was
safe. There was no reason for me to shoot him. However…knowing he was going to take his own life…I guess you could say I felt cheated. I wanted to be the one to do that.” She leaned back and smirked. “I don’t know why I didn’t just let him pull the trigger. He certainly had it coming.”
“But, you didn’t.” Father McMurray stood, crossed his arms over his chest and held his chin in his hand. He circled behind his chair, staring at the floor. “Raychel, I’ve known you long enough to know that you’re a good person.” He wagged his finger at her. “Anyone in your situation could have had the same reaction. You said it yourself. You were tired, under an extreme amount of stress, staring at the source of so much pain and misery. It’s understandable to have feelings of anger and want to seek an outlet for it…to seek revenge.” He came around to the front of his chair.
Cruz sat straight. “Are speaking as a spiritual counselor or as a psychologist, Father?”
He smiled. “You’re getting the best of both worlds, my dear.” Sitting, he continued. “The most important thing to take away from this experience is that you didn’t allow your emotions to control you. Everyone gets angry. Everyone wants to act out.” He tapped the bible on the table to his left. “Even Jesus got angry when he saw His Father’s house being used as a marketplace. He overturned tables and chased away merchants.”
Cruz’s facial expression softened when she remembered the bible passage.
“There was an injustice happening and Jesus was passionate about correcting it.” Father McMurray poked his finger in her direction. “You, too, saw an injustice taking place. You felt passionate about correcting it…or in your case, stopping the man from hurting anyone else. In the end, you chose justice over revenge. You chose not to take a life. Instead, you saved,” he held up two fingers, “two lives.”
Cruz cocked her head.
“You saved the victim and the criminal’s life.”
She nodded, gaining new insight into the situation. “What about the ‘vengeance is mine’ part?”
Father McMurray shrugged. “Those words could’ve come to you based on your familiarity with scripture. There are several bible passages referencing vengeance. You just said you wanted revenge for everything this man had done.” He held out his hands and feigned a juggling act. “Vengeance…revenge…they’re the same thing.” He tapped his chest with his forefinger. “It’s also entirely possible that God’s voice was speaking to you, your heart.” He placed an elbow on the armrest and massaged his temple with his fingertips. “Do you want my personal take?” He did not wait for an answer. “I think you realized it wasn’t your place to pass judgment on another human being, no matter what that person’s offenses may have been. No, you faithfully executed your duties as an FBI agent. You served our justice system by arresting the criminal and you served God by saving an innocent life.”
Cruz’s body sunk into the chair, the weight of her burden fading away. She pondered his words…serving justice…serving God…saving innocent life. Her chest rose when she inhaled and held a deep breath of oxygen. Seconds later, she expelled it through her nose and smiled. “Thank you, Father. I feel much better.”
Father McMurray stood and met Cruz halfway between their chairs. “You’re very welcome. I’m glad I could help.”
Cruz hugged the priest. Letting him go, she chuckled. “Hopefully, the next time we talk it won’t be such a heavy topic.” He laughed and the two strolled toward the door, chatting. Coming to the door, he turned toward her.
“It was good to see you again, Raychel.”
“Same here, Father,” she replied.
“Take care of yourself.” He placed his hands on her upper arms. His voice serene as if he was blessing her, he said, “May God give you His peace.”
… … … … … … … … … …
Cruz spent a few minutes inside St. Matthew’s Cathedral praying before stepping into the sunshine of a beautiful day. Bounding down the concrete steps, her spirit renewed, she fished her mobile from her pocket. “Hey Ash, it’s Cruz. I got your text. What’s up?”
“You sound in a good mood, Cruuu—” he caught himself. “So, what am I supposed to call you now that you’re a supervisor and all…boss…Special Agent DelaCruz…ma’am?”
She chuckled. “Well, I know one thing for sure. I don’t ever want to hear the word ma’am. I’m only four years older than you, not forty.” She reached the top of the next flight of steps. “As far as I’m concerned, we’re still partners. Call me Cruz. Now, what’s up?” She grabbed the handrail and propelled herself along the sidewalk, heading for her car.
“Make sure you keep your chipper attitude, because…”
Cruz ran her fingers through her hair. Distracted, she did not notice the two men approaching and crossed in front of the second man, clipping him with her shoulder. “Excuse me. I’m so sorry,” she said, spinning her head back and forth, but never looking directly at him. She went back to her conversation with Ashford and strode away. “I’m sorry, Ash. I missed what you said. I just bumped into someone.” Over her shoulder, she heard the man apologize.
“It’s my fault, ma’am. I wasn’t paying attention.”
Cruz closed her eyes. Ma’am. It’s starting already.
The stranger watched her, hoping to get a glimpse of her face, but she never turned around.
“Come on, Hardy. Let’s go,” said the man’s companion. “We’re burning daylight.”
Cruz left the sidewalk, crossed the street and got into her Dodge Charger. “Okay, Ash, I’m on my way.” She set her phone in the vehicle’s center console and picked up the book she was going to read this afternoon. Leaning against the door and peering out the window, she let the sun’s rays warm her face. Closing her eyes, she absorbed as much sun as she could. Tossing the book onto the passenger’s seat, she sighed and said, “Duty calls.”
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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YOUR FREE BOOK…
The London Operation is not for sale. The only way to get a copy is to click the image above. You’ll be taken to Bookfunnel to begin the download process. Or, you can send me an email at [email protected], and I’ll send you the link to Bookfunnel.
NOTE: It is recommended you read at least one Aaron Hardy book (preferably The Unsanctioned Patriot – Book #1) to understand the backstory before starting The London Operation (Book #2.5).
… … … … …
The
London
Operation
(Preview)
Aaron Hardy
Patriotic Action
Alex Ander
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Chapter 1: Self-Preservation
July 30th; 3:55 p.m.
London, England
Three weeks after Hardy accepts the President’s job offer
CROSSING KING’S ARMS Yard, Aaron Hardy walked south on Moorgate. There was nearly five hours of daylight left, but the tall buildings surrounding him blocked the sun and cast a faint shadow over the cityscape. The temperature was in the mid-sixties. The absence of direct sunlight, coupled with a gentle breeze, made Hardy glad he had grabbed his black leather jacket.
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 ya
rds 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.
