by Alex Ander
“I understand, sir.”
The President nodded his head and let the smallest smile cross his lips. “Off the record, I wish I were twenty years younger and had your attitude and spirit to be able to say to some of my cabinet members what you said to them. They’re members of my cabinet, however, and I must respect them, just as I demand their respect.” He leaned back in his chair. “Is there anything you’d like to say before we begin?”
“I do have something to say, sir.”
Jameson bristled.
Cruz whirled her head toward Hardy. After all that’s happened, you’re going to say more.
“Forgive me for not asking this sooner. How are you doing, personally, sir? I’m sure this has put a terrible strain on you.”
Jameson’s body relaxed and Cruz let out the breath of air she had been holding.
The President smiled, inwardly. Since this ordeal had started, no one had inquired about his well-being. The first person to do so was one who had been reprimanded by him and Director Jameson. I never do, Ma’am, were the words that came into the President’s mind. His wife had just told him Hardy’s response to the First Lady telling Hardy he ‘shouldn’t make promises he might not be able to keep.’ The President liked and respected Hardy. “To be honest, I haven’t really had time to process it. I’ve been too busy wearing my ‘presidential’ hat.” He paused. “I’m sure it will hit me when I get some quiet time and see things through the lens of being a father. Thank you for asking.”
The President leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. “Now, on to the reason I wanted to see you. Do you really think your idea will work?” He was referring to Hardy’s proposal during the meeting.
Hardy was direct. “All I’ll need is fifteen minutes, sir.”
“What about the Russians? Do you think they’ll play ball?”
“I’ve built a good working relationship with one of their top agents. I think she’ll be able to convince the Premier to go along.”
The President placed his elbows on the table, touched his fingertips together and stared, contemplating Hardy’s plan. A half a minute later, he shifted his gaze toward Hardy. “Make the call.” He pointed toward the opposite end of the table. “Use the secure phone down there.” He regarded Jameson. “Phil, I want you to coordinate the details of the transfer. Don’t give more information than necessary. I don’t want anyone putting the pieces together.”
“Understood, sir,” said Jameson.
The President glimpsed Cruz before his eyes settled on Jameson. “This conversation goes no further than this room…in fact, this conversation never happened. Are we good?”
Both Jameson and Cruz indicated their agreement and all talking ceased, when they heard Hardy speak.
“Natasha, it’s Hardy.”
“Hey, Hardy,” said Natasha Volkov. “It’s good to hear from you—Merry Christmas.”
“I have to skip the formalities, Natasha. I’ve got a situation here and I need a favor.”
“I certainly owe you a few of those after all you’ve done for me and my country.” Natasha, an agent of the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation (FSB), worked with Hardy on two occasions; the most recent coming at the end of November. The two of them had gotten to know each other well. Hardy had saved her life twice during the July mission in Moscow. “What’s the favor?”
Chapter 8: Escape
9:56 p.m. (Mountain Time)
“Are you sure this is a good idea? What if they walk in and catch you? These people kidnapped you…the President’s daughter. I think they’re serious.”
Abigail broke away from her task. “Where was that attitude back on the mountain when you got the bright idea to ski into the restricted area?” She focused her attention on the handcuffs. She had inserted a thin piece of metal into the keyhole and was fiddling with the locking mechanism.
An hour ago, Abigail slowly regained consciousness with Layla beside her, already awake. The sparse light shining through the small window on the door across the room allowed Abigail and Layla to see the immediate area. They were being kept in a storage room and were surrounded by cardboard boxes and a couple wooden crates. The room was cool and smelled musty. Items were scattered on the floor; some were sticking out of the boxes. They appeared to be very old. The girls were lying on a narrow bed in the corner. The bed was barely wide enough for both of them to lie on it, if they were side by side. A pair of handcuffs with a long chain was attached to the headboard of the bed, intertwined among the vertical slats. Abigail’s right hand and Layla’s left hand were secured in the handcuffs. Each girl was wearing a long-sleeved sweater dress that came down to her knees. A long pair of heavy boot socks, the only other article of clothing they wore, rose above their knees. Abigail had felt around the bed frame and found the piece of thin metal. One end had separated and she had bent the metal back and forth, until it broke free. For the past fifteen minutes, she had been trying to unlock the handcuffs.
“This is a little different, Abby.” Layla eyed the door window “You can’t compare kidnappers to getting in trouble with your dad.” She glanced at the door again. “What if these people just want money? Your dad is the President. He can give them as much as they want. Once they get the money, they’ll let us go.”
Maintaining her focus on the job, she shook her head. “Are you willing to take the chance these people are honorable? They might take the money and kill us.” Abigail adjusted her body on the bed, trying to get a better angle on the handcuff attached to her wrist. She stuck her left forefinger into her mouth and sucked on it. Having cut her finger while breaking off the piece of metal, she had been bleeding on her clothes and the bedding. She did not care about either of those things. Sucking on her finger to stop the bleeding was a force of habit. She inserted the metal into the handcuff. “Now, stop moving around. I almost had it before you jerked on the chain.”
“What happens if you do get these cuffs off? What then?” Layla could not take her eyes off the door. “We have no idea where we are and how many of them are waiting out there.”
Abigail did not answer her friend. She was focused on feeling around the handcuff with the piece of metal. An image of Aaron Hardy entered her mind. He had showed her how to open a lock with items other than a key. The teaching lesson had been a fun diversion one day, while she waited for her father to finish his meeting. She never imagined ever being in a position to put the skill to good use, however. She heard a faint sound and her body froze. She drew back her right hand and the handcuff separated. I did it. I can’t believe it worked. She massaged her wrist. “I’m free. Pull on the chain.”
The noise of the steel chain snaking its way through the wooden slats filled the room. When the noise stopped, Layla had the coiled chain and Abigail’s open handcuff in her hands. She held out her left hand, so Abigail could go to work on the remaining handcuff.
Abigail shook her head and scooted to the end of the bed. “We can’t waste time on that. We need to get out of here. You’ll just have to carry it with you, until we can find a way out of this place.” She stood and sneaked toward the door in a low crouch. Her socks made no sound on the concrete floor, but she crept anyways, her heart beating faster.
The window was high on the door. Squatting beneath the window, she lifted her body, until she could peek through the glass. She moved her eyes left and right. Glancing each way again, she whispered to Layla, “It’s clear.” Reaching for the doorknob, Abigail hoped and prayed it was not locked. She did not want to spend time unlocking it. She twisted her wrist and breathed a sigh of relief. The door was not designed to keep people from getting out. She eased the door open a crack and repeated the process of checking both directions. No one was in the hallway. She stuck her head out and listened. The only sound she heard was the constant hum from the overhead fluorescent lights. She motioned for Layla to follow.
Once the girls were out of the room, they scurried down the hall and came to a corner. They pressed their
backs against the cold concrete blocks. Abigail peeled her left shoulder away from the wall and stole a quick glance around the corner before whipping back around. She repeated this maneuver before spinning around and tiptoeing down the hallway, Layla close behind her. Abigail caught sight of stairs leading to an upper level. There was a door to her left, but the room was dark. She half ducked, when she moved past the window next to the door. Excited at the prospect the stairs would lead them to the outside world, Abigail trotted the last ten feet to the staircase.
Ascending the stairs one-step at a time, the girls got to the landing. Turning left and moving toward a door, Abigail stopped. She heard someone talking on the other side of the door. She did not recognize the language. The person’s voice was getting louder. They’re coming. She spun around and motioned for Layla to stay where she was at the top of the stairs.
With her cuffed hand, Layla beckoned Abigail. Threatening to announce their presence, the chain links clattered against each other. “Come on. We have to go back.”
Abigail showed Layla the short length of pipe she had grabbed before leaving the room. “Distract him,” she whispered. “I’ll hit him.”
Layla shook her head, but stood still.
Abigail held the pipe in her hands like a baseball bat. Her hands were shaking and she was beginning to sweat, even though her body was cold. She saw the doorknob turn. The door swung toward her, almost touching her left shoulder. She heard a man speaking in a foreign language before he came into sight, walking toward Layla. Two times, she saw Layla shift her gaze from the man to Abigail and back to the man. Raising the pipe above her head and stepping out from her hiding place, Abigail swung the pipe like an axe, aiming for the back of the man’s head. She heard a crack and the man’s head went forward before he fell to the floor, landing on his left side. He moaned for a few seconds and reached for his head, while Layla stepped around him and followed Abigail through the door.
Chapter 9: Interrogation
December 23rd, 1:55 a.m.; Embassy of the Russian Federation (Washington, D.C.)
Anderson Cole sat on a metal chair, his hands resting on a metal table in a sterile room in the basement of the Russian Embassy. There were no windows. Four walls of gray concrete blocks surrounded him. The only light came from a single low-wattage light bulb, suspended from a long cord, reaching to the ceiling. He was wearing an orange jumpsuit and his wrists were secured in front of his body with hardened steel handcuffs. The handcuffs were anchored to a chain, wrapped around his midsection. A lone soldier stood in the corner behind and to the right of him. The soldier was barely visible, standing in the shadows.
Cole was six-feet, two-inches tall and weighed two-hundred and twenty pounds. Even though he had lost almost twenty pounds during his captivity, he was a tall and solid man. His medium-length hair was brown and straight, parted on the left side of his head. A scar crossed his left cheek. The jagged white line was a visible reminder of his failure not only to kill as many shoppers as he could at a Minnesota shopping mall, but also his inability to keep his brother from being killed. The man who killed his brother barricaded his family inside the women’s restroom. When Cole broke in, the man hit him in the head with a fire extinguisher. After a prolonged struggle, the man got the upper hand on Cole and beat him until he was unconscious. The wound he received from the fire extinguisher never healed properly and produced the scar. Cole lived to one day get his revenge on the man and his family. Not a day went by that he did not think about the man, his wife and his daughter. He fantasized about what he would do to them, if he ever got the chance. Interrupting his thoughts, the door across from him opened and a man and a woman entered. The woman stepped aside, while the man closed the door. The sound of the door closing reverberated off the hard surface of the walls and floor.
The man was wearing blue jeans, a black and white flannel shirt and a black leather jacket. On his feet, he wore a pair of brown six-inch high, cross-training boots. His female companion wore similar blue jeans with a black blouse and a black knee-length blazer. Chunky, one-inch heels rounded out her attire. Her long brown hair was drawn into a high ponytail at the back of her head.
Cole watched the man grab a metal chair from the corner of the room, across from the guard. Placing the chair on the opposite side of the table, the back of the chair facing Cole, the man sat. “Who the hell are you?” He ogled the woman, who was standing behind the man. “More importantly, who’s the hottie?”
Crossing his forearms and resting them on the back of the chair, Aaron Hardy leaned forward. With his thumb, he scratched the bottom of his chin, creating the faint sound of whiskers being rubbed against the grain. Hardy fixed his eyes on Cole, who had not stopped gawking at the woman. “First, who we are is not important. Second, I’m going to ask you questions and you are going to provide answers…swiftly and completely. Once I’m satisfied that I have everything I need, you’ll be taken back to your original cell. Do I make myself clear?”
Cole smiled and rotated his head left and right, examining the room’s décor. “I don’t know if I want to leave. I’m starting to like my new accommodations.”
“Who were you working with when you assaulted that mall in Minnesota?”
“Is that what this is all about?” Cole snorted. “I’ve said all I’m going to say about that through my lawyer.” He paused and cocked his head. “In fact, where is my lawyer? I demand that he be present for this questioning.”
Hardy chuckled, lowered his head and slowly shook his head back and forth. “You don’t get it, do you?”
“Get wha—”
Hardy leapt from his chair, wrapped his hands around the back of Cole’s head and slammed the man’s face into the table. Cole’s head bounced off the metal table and rocked backward, revealing a twisted and broken nose. Blood was streaming down his face, until it dripped onto his orange jumpsuit. Cole roared, while Hardy circled behind. “You’re not on American soil anymore, Anderson. You’re not getting a lawyer.”
Hardy had contacted FSB agent Natasha Volkov to arrange the prisoner transfer to the Russian Embassy, so Hardy could conduct his interrogation, unimpeded by the American judicial system. Afterward, the prisoner would be transferred back to American custody. Jameson had made sure Cole was delivered from his holding cell to the Russians in secret.
When Special Agent Cruz saw Hardy break the man’s nose, she uncrossed her arms. Her eyes widened and her jaw fell open. “Hardy!”
Not hearing her, Hardy grabbed Cole’s hair and yanked the man’s head backward. Leaning forward, he spoke into Cole’s right ear. His voice was calm. “Where you are right now, you don’t have any rights.” He pointed toward the door. “No one is going to knock on that door and save you. It’s just you and me. This questioning is going to continue, until you tell me what I want to know.” Hardy tossed the man’s head forward and let go. “It can be as pleasant or as difficult as you want to make it, Mr. Cole.”
Cruz drew closer to the table. “What are you doing, Hardy?”
Motioning toward the handcuffs, Hardy addressed the soldier. “Remove his cuffs. I want this to be a fair fight.”
“The prisoner is to remain shackled at all times, sir. I have strict orders.”
Hardy retrieved his cell phone and held it up to the soldier. “Private, I’m operating under the direct authority of the President of the United States. If you don’t believe me, I have his number on speed dial. You can ask him yourself.” Hardy glanced at the time on the phone. “It’s a little after two in the morning and I’m sure the President is sleeping.” He began tapping the phone’s screen. “However, if you want to wake him and get his approval, I’m good with that.”
Cruz had seen enough of Hardy’s behavior. She walked around the table and stood in front of him, her face inches from his nose.
He stopped dialing and gaped at Cruz. Her eyes were narrow slits. Deep lines had appeared on her forehead.
“Agent Hardy,” she said through clenched teeth, “I’d
like a word.” She wheeled around and stormed out of the room, leaving the door open.
Walking toward the door, Hardy tapped his phone and acknowledged the soldier. “Private, you have until I get back to make up your mind. I suggest you use that time wisely. Your career depends on it.” As Hardy exited the room, he heard Cole chuckling.
“I see who wears the pants in this relationship, Agent Hardy.” Cole’s chuckle became a belly roar.
Hardy closed the door and faced Cruz, who wasted no time in conveying her feelings.
“What are you doing?” She dropped her hands to her hips. “Is this your idea of an interrogation? Do you just plan to beat the information out of him?”
Hardy cocked his head to the right. Yes, that’s exactly what I plan to do. He rolled his eyebrows downward. “When you heard my plan in the Situation Room, what did you think was going to happen?” Hardy was serious. He had assumed she knew what was going to take place.
Cruz leaned back and studied him, the nature of his plan coming to the forefront of her mind. “I don’t believe it. You are going to torture that man to get information.” Spinning around, she crossed her arms and put a hand to her forehead.
Hardy failed in his attempt not to come across as patronizing. “I would prefer that he just be open and honest with me, but somehow I don’t think that’s in his nature.”
Hearing his tone, she whirled around and jabbed her finger at him. “Watch it. Don’t talk to me that way.”
Holding up his hands, he backtracked. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I understand you’ve questioned suspects before. In those instances, you had to follow the letter of the law or your case would not stand up in court. I get it. I don’t operate under those same constraints, however.”
