Necessary Means

by Alex Ander

  “Thank you, sir.” Hardy disconnected the call and went into the house.

  Cruz heard him enter, and close the sliding glass door. She was checking her phone messages. “Who was that?” Not getting a reply, she shifted her gaze toward Hardy and saw him staring down at the phone in his hand. She could tell his mind was elsewhere and did not hear her. She repeated her question, louder. “Hardy, who were you talking to?”

  Hardy did not hear her either time she spoke to him. He was thinking of the President’s daughter, Abigail. She was the sweetest kid Hardy had ever known. He met her shortly after coming to work for the President. They had had several conversations at the White House. She always seemed to know when he was there and would make a special point of catching him before his meeting with the President, or as he was leaving. On one trip, Hardy had bumped into her. School was over for the day, and she was supposed to get an ice cream cone with her father. The President had been extremely busy and could not keep his commitment to his daughter. Abigail had said she was okay, but Hardy had seen a brief moment of disappointment wash over her face. He had an afternoon date with Cruz and invited Abigail to join them. She accepted and the three of them had a terrific time. Inwardly, Hardy smiled, when he remembered Abigail getting two extra ice cream cones for the two Secret Service Agents who had accompanied the trio. Hardy saw Cruz standing in front of him and he flinched.

  She touched his left arm. “What is it?”

  Mentally, Hardy was in the process of putting his feelings aside and preparing for the mission that lay ahead. “Abby is missing. They think she’s been kidnapped.”

  Cruz put her hands to her face. From behind them, she muttered, “Oh no.” A few moments later, she added, “Who?”

  “No one knows yet.” He lifted his phone. “That was Director Jameson. The President wants both of us at a meeting in two hours. A car will be out front in…” He checked the time. “…thirteen minutes. Get your things together and I’ll tell you what I know on the way to the airport.”

  “Wait a minute. He wants both of us there?”

  Hardy nodded. “The President was clear. He wants you at the meeting. Apparently, you made quite an impression on him at the summit.” He poked his index finger toward the stairs. “We need to get ready to leave. Start packing, while I let my mother know we won’t be staying for Christmas.”

  When Cruz had gone, Hardy entered the kitchen and saw his mother laying out sugar cookies on a tray. Steam was rising from the stainless steel kettle, which was letting out a low whistle.

  Mrs. Hardy moved the kettle to another burner on the stove and the whistle faded. She saw him standing in the archway. “Come pour water into these mugs. I can’t remember. Does Raychel want whipped cream in hers?” When he did not answer her, Mrs. Hardy turned her head toward her son, who was standing still, staring at her. She noticed the playful attitude she had been admiring was gone, replaced by a stern gaze and a rigid demeanor. “What’s wrong, Aaron?”

  …………………………

  Hardy saw the headlights from the car, shining through the front window. He called out to Cruz, who was upstairs packing before addressing his mother. “I’m sorry I can’t stay, Mom.”

  “That’s all right, dear. I understand.”

  Hardy regarded his mother. He had not seen her since before July. A pang of guilt welled up in his stomach and he thought of staying with her for the holiday. As soon as the idea entered his mind, the thought of Abigail and the fear she must be feeling replaced it, overshadowing his guilt. He heard Cruz bounding down the stairs. “All set?” he said, picking up his suitcase.

  She nodded, her feet leaving the last step. She placed her suitcase on the floor before walking up to Mrs. Hardy. “It’s been wonderful spending time with you. I wish we could’ve stayed for Christmas.”

  Mrs. Hardy shook her head and hugged her son’s girlfriend. “I’ve enjoyed every minute I was given with the both of you, sweetheart.” The hug lasted several seconds before the older woman pulled away and pivoted toward her son, who stepped forward and hugged her. “You take care of yourself, you hear me?”

  Hardy squeezed his mother tighter. “I will, Mom.”

  Watching them embrace, Cruz felt her eyes getting moist. An image of her mother came into her mind. She had planned a vacation to see her mother in September, but it had been interrupted by an urgent assignment. She tried to remember the last time she had visited her hometown. Unable to recall, she focused her attention on the present.

  Releasing her son, but maintaining physical contact, Mrs. Hardy admonished him. “Don’t wait so long between visits. You’re all I have left and I treasure the moments God gives me.”

  Hearing her words, Hardy’s guilt returned.

  She leaned left to include Cruz. “And, the next time I see you, you had better have this young lady on your arm.”

  Cruz smiled, the red in her cheeks intensifying.

  Hardy hugged and kissed his mother on the cheek before picking up both his and Cruz’s suitcase and heading for the front door. Cruz gave Mrs. Hardy another hug and followed Hardy out into the cold night air toward the waiting vehicle. Once the suitcases were stowed in the back of the vehicle and the new passengers were inside, the vehicle drove away from the house. Hardy rolled down his backseat window and waved to his mother, while the black SUV sped toward the airport.

  Chapter 3: Gulfstream V

  10:13 p.m.; Washington, D.C.

  The Gulfstream V had a maximum cruising speed of five hundred and sixty-two miles per hour. The pilot had strict orders to maintain that speed. The flight from Traverse City, Michigan to Washington, D.C. took a little more than an hour. During the flight, Hardy and Special Agent Cruz had changed into something more appropriate to wear to a meeting with the President of the United States. Aboard the plane, Cruz had her choice among three matching blazers and pencil skirt suits in black, navy blue and dark red. She chose the navy blue suit to wear over a white blouse. Navy blue three-inch high heels and tan-colored nylons completed her outfit. Hardy did not have any choices. He was wearing a black suit with a white shirt, red tie and black dress shoes. Fortunately, Director Jameson had the forethought to include a couple of black overcoats to protect them from the cold weather.

  Once the wheels of the jet had come to a halt, the flight attendant lowered the stairs and waited for her passengers to disembark. Halfway down the stairs, Cruz was met by two Secret Service agents. One took her hand and helped her down the stairs, while the second relieved Hardy of the suitcases he was carrying. When the luggage was secured in the back of the vehicle and the passengers had their seatbelts fastened, the black SUV quickly accelerated, making its way toward the White House.

  Both Hardy and Cruz asked the agents if they had any information about Abigail. The agents shook their heads. Either they did not know anything or they were told not to disclose any details. Since conversation was off the table, Hardy and Cruz leaned back in their seats for the forty-five minute drive. The atmosphere was somber. All of them knew of the situation and they were feeling the tension that came with the knowledge.

  …………………………

  After arriving at the White House and being waved through the security protocols, the SUV stopped at its destination. A dark-haired Secret Service agent met Hardy and Cruz.

  The driver of the SUV got out and hailed the agent. “Agent Holland, these are agents Hardy and Cruz. They’re here to see the President.” The man opened the door for Hardy.

  Agent Holland nodded his head and opened the Cruz’s door. He gestured toward Hardy before ushering them into the building and leading them to the ground floor lobby of the West Wing.

  Cruz spoke to their escort. “Agent Holland, do you have any information on Abigail’s whereabouts?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m not at liberty to divulge any details.” He extended his arm. “Right this way, ma’am.”

  Facing them, Director Jameson was standing in the middle of the l
obby, staring at his cell phone. He put away the phone and nodded to the agent. “I’ll take it from here, Agent Holland.” Jameson acknowledged Hardy and Cruz before whirling around and summoning them. “Follow me. We’re meeting in the Situation Room.”

  Phillip Jameson was fifty-years-old and physically fit. He was five-feet, eleven inches tall, weighing one hundred and ninety pounds. He maintained a regular exercise regimen of lifting weights and jogging. He was bald and wore rounded, rectangular eyeglasses with thick black frames. Jameson’s clothing matched Hardy’s—black suit with a white shirt and red tie. Jameson’s long strides carried him swiftly through the first set of doors that led to the Situation Room.

  Hardy crossed the first set of doors. “Have there been any new developments?”

  “Plenty,” replied Jameson. “You’ll have to wait for my briefing to find out more.” He grabbed the door handle. “The President has been delaying the start of this meeting, waiting for the two of you to get here. I don’t want to delay it any further.” Opening the door, Jameson entered the room, followed by Hardy and Cruz.

  Chapter 4: Situation Room

  The White House Situation Room consisted of a long conference table with one executive-style chair at the head (for the President) and six similar chairs on either side. Straight-back chairs ran along the walls to the President’s left and right. Most of the wall that faced the President was taken up by a large monitor. Smaller monitors were on the walls above the straight-back chairs. The 5,525-square-foot room was renovated in 2006-2007. The most important changes included updating the monitors (which were still cathode ray tubes), installing more secure and more advanced communication equipment and adding sensors in the ceilings to detect cellular signals, preventing unauthorized communications.

  Having never been in the Situation Room, Hardy scanned the room, including the high-ranking officials seated at the table. The President was sitting at the head of the table at the far end of the room, facing Hardy. To the President’s right were the Vice President, the Secretary of Homeland Security and the Director of the Secret Service. On the President’s left were his Chief of Staff and the Director of National Intelligence. Everyone at the table eyed the newcomers, while Director Jameson sat next to his boss, the Director of National Intelligence.

  President Jack Conklin was fifty-five-years-old and in great physical condition. He had a full head of gray hair. He was dressed in black pants and a white shirt. The top button was undone and he wore no tie. His jacket was behind him, resting on the back of his chair. He gestured toward Hardy and Special Agent Cruz. “For those who don’t know them, meet Special Agents Aaron Hardy and Raychel Cruz. They’re here at my request.” After informal acknowledgements were made, Hardy and Cruz took their places to Jameson’s left. The President motioned to the Secretary of Homeland Security, Frank Gillespie.

  “Thank you, Mr. President. Before I give the floor to Janet,” —Janet Burroughs was the Director of the Secret Service and reported to Gillespie— “I’d like to say how sorry I am. We will be doing everything possible to get your daughter back safely, sir.”

  Everyone echoed Gillespie’s sentiment and the President expressed his gratitude. All eyes turned toward Burroughs, who distributed manila folders to everyone at the table.

  Janet Burroughs was fifty-years-old and had short, black hair, parted in the middle, the ends curling inward at the collar of her black blazer. Oversized dark blue plastic eyeglasses rested on her small nose. Behind the lenses of the eyeglasses were light blue eyes with extremely long eyelashes, rising upward and outward. Barely noticeable makeup had been applied to her eyelids, cheeks and lips. She had never married and appeared ten years younger than her age.

  “At 5:30 p.m. Mountain Time at Slopes Resort in Colorado, Secret Service agents found the bodies of the two agents assigned to protect Red Rose.” —Red Rose was the Secret Service’s code name for Abigail. She was given the name because of her red hair. In addition, all of the Secret Service agents cherished her like the flower— “I’m sorry…the President’s daughter, Abigail.” Burroughs glanced at the President.

  The President smiled. “It’s all right.” He loved the code name and hearing it brought a brief moment of happiness to his heavy heart. “Please, continue.”

  “An immediate search of the entire area began. Snowmobile tracks were discovered a short ways down the hill from where the agents were found. The tracks led further down the mountain to a little-used service road. Two tandem snowmobiles had been left behind. Tracks from a vehicle, possibly a large commercial van, led to County Highway 7. Agents were able to determine the vehicle turned north toward Highway 40. From there, the trail went cold.”

  Henry Overton, the Director of National Intelligence, interjected. “What about Abigail’s cell phone? Did you get a location?”

  “When the agents protecting Abigail failed to respond to repeated calls, we immediately began tracking her cell phone; however, it must have been turned off, and not broken, because an hour later the signal was discovered on Highway 40, moving north.”

  Overton’s eyes widened. “What?”

  “The phone was found secured to a truck. Agents questioned the driver of the vehicle. It was obvious the man had no idea the phone was attached to his vehicle.”

  Hardy joined the conversation. “So, it was a decoy. The kidnappers wanted your people to go north, while they most likely took Abby—Abigail—south or in some other direction.”

  Burroughs nodded her head.

  “Were you able to find out who owned the snowmobiles?” asked Overton.

  “They were reported stolen a week ago.”

  “Director Burroughs,” Hardy pushed a sheet of paper aside, “can you go back to the mountain where the agents were found? On which ski run were their bodies discovered?” He scanned the last page in the folder. “I don’t see that in the report.”

  Burroughs shuffled through some papers. Picking up one, she skimmed it. “There’s no name listed, but it was to the west of Peak’s Valley, near the base of the Valero Territory.”

  Hardy searched his mind, trying to picture the area. He had visited Colorado and skied at Slopes Resort when he was in high school. “Are you sure? I’ve skied Valero, and Peak’s Valley is the last run; the boundary line of the mountain runs alongside it. Skiers are not allowed to go any further west of Peak’s Valley.”

  Burroughs searched her paperwork again. “I’m positive...There were boundary signs posted…But, there was no fence in that area, because resort personnel had been working on the trails.”

  Gillespie raised his hands, “What difference does it make?” and glared at Hardy. “My agents have searched every inch of that mountain and come up with nothing.”

  Hardy faced the Secretary. “With all due respect, sir, it makes a big difference. Disregarding signs and skiing in a restricted area doesn’t sound the like Abigail I know. Maybe she felt like someone was chasing her and she was trying to get away.” He shrugged. “Maybe—”

  Gillespie interrupted Hardy. “So, you’re a behavior expert, Mr. Hardy? Is that your contribution to this meeting?”

  Hardy leaned back, noticing the Secretary’s condescending tone of voice. He shot a quick look at the President, while he formulated his answer. He could not disclose his real job title to Gillespie, since his job did not exist.

  Officially, Aaron Hardy’s job title was Special Agent Consultant to the Director and he worked for Director Jameson. Unofficially, Hardy had been working for the President in a top-secret capacity, hunting down terrorists and either killing them or capturing them, if they were deemed to be more valuable alive than dead. He had access to state-of-the-art technology and resources and was free from the normal rules of engagement in the pursuit of his objective. His existence was unknown even among the President’s most trusted advisors. If Hardy was to succeed on the battlefield, he had to conduct his missions unrestrained by politicians and their ideas of political correctness.

  Hardy rea
died his answer, speaking in a deeper-than-usual voice. “Secretary Gillespie—”

  “Take it easy, Frank.” The President waved his hand toward the man. “We’re all on the same side here. Agent Hardy has counter-terrorism skills that I felt would be useful if this ends up being terror-related.” Coming back to Hardy, the President added, “And, he’s right. That does not sound like something my daughter would do.” He shifted his attention toward Burroughs. “Find out more about that area of the mountain. I want agents to go over it again.”

  “I’ll get right on it, Mr. President.” Burroughs produced a pad of paper and scribbled on it.

  The President leaned back. “Is there anything else, Janet?”

  She paused to review her notes. “No, sir, that’s all.”

  The President motioned toward Jameson, who had the most important information. “You’re up, Director Jameson.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Jameson picked up a remote control and clicked a button. All the monitors switched from displaying the Presidential Seal to a close-up image of a brown box. “At 6:13 p.m. Mountain Time, this package was delivered by courier to the FBI office in Denver.” Clicking the remote again, the next image showed a lock of red hair and a folded piece of paper. “Inside was this lock of red hair and a note from the kidnappers.” Jameson plucked a piece of paper from the table. “The note reads: You have until the end of the day, December 23rd, to release Anderson Cole. For every hour after that, more body parts will be removed from the President’s daughter.” Jameson handed out copies of the note.

  Gillespie was the first to comment. “Have you been able to verify it’s Abigail’s hair?”

  “We’re conducting DNA testing as we speak; however, we are operating under the assumption the test will come back positive.”