by Alex Ander
“After Dahlia was fired from the FBI, I tried to get in touch with her. She never returned my calls. As the years went by, I guess it became easier and easier not to make the calls.” Twisting his head back toward Hardy, Jameson regarded him. “To tell you the truth, I have no idea what I would even say to her if she were standing right in front of me.” He grunted. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she wanted nothing to do with me.”
While listening to Jameson, Hardy had found a business card in his pocket. Clicking the top of a ballpoint pen, he scribbled something on the card and gave it to Jameson, who took the card and looked at it. “You’ll never know, sir, unless to reach out to her one more time.” Hardy turned to go into the office, but stopped. Facing Jameson, he added, “Sir, I’m a pretty good judge of character. While I don’t know what she was like seven years ago, I can tell you…from what I’ve witnessed…You two are more alike than you might think.” Hardy strolled into the office, leaving Jameson alone with his thoughts.
Chapter 41: Presidential Update
The President entered the room with Jameson. He took his seat behind his desk. Facing him were Charity, Cruz and Hardy, who were seated in chairs from his left to his right. Jameson sat on the end, next to Hardy.
Leaning to his right, Jameson spoke to Hardy in a low voice. “Thanks.”
Hardy gave his boss a quick nod of his head, while the President spoke.
“Normally, I would apologize for keeping you waiting.” He threw up his hands. “But, where else do you have to go.”
Everyone chuckled, happy to see the man in better spirits.
Hardy asked the question that was on everyone’s mind. “How is Abby doing, Mr. President?”
“The doctor is keeping a close eye on her, but says she is doing well. She’s awake and talking, but still tired and groggy. The doctor says it’ll take a couple of days for the drugs to run their course. Her mother hasn’t left her side. Oh,” the President said, remembering something. “We are going to wait a few days before celebrating Christmas dinner. Abby wanted me to ask if all of you would join us.”
Hardy blurted his reply. “A second Christmas dinner…at the White House…I’m in.”
The President laughed.
“I second his enthusiasm, sir,” said Charity.
After Cruz and Jameson’s affirmation, the President leaned forward, clasped his hands together and rested his forearms on the desk. “I know I’ve said this before, but I can’t say it enough times. Caroline and I are so very grateful to each of you for what you’ve done. I owe you a debt that can never be repaid.”
“Mr. President,” said Hardy before the President stopped him with a wave of his hand.
“I know what you’re going to say, Aaron…you were just doing your duty. However, your actions went way beyond that of a soldier’s duty to his country. You risked your life, your career and your freedom to save my daughter. I will never forget that.”
Hardy decided to accept the President’s gratitude and leave it at that. “Thank you, sir.” He leaned forward and included the women to his right. “I could never have done it without my team.”
“Indeed,” said the President, glancing at Cruz and Charity. “Thank you.”
The women acknowledged him before he turned toward Jameson.
“I wish I could have thanked your daughter in person, Phil. When you see her, will you convey my sincerest gratitude and tell her I’d like the opportunity to thank her in person?”
Jameson shot a quick look at Hardy, thinking of the earlier conversation between the two of them. “I’ll work on that, Mr. President.”
The President nodded his head. “Let’s get to the reason why I asked to see you.” He nodded at Jameson.
“Thank you, sir.” Jameson crossed his right leg over his left leg. “As of this moment, we believe the mastermind behind this plot, Ashar Yamadi, along with his sister, Calista Nasser…A.K.A. Layla Bassily, are dead. After you got the President’s daughter to safety and called in the LAPP’s Joint Terrorism Squad, the JTS did a complete sweep of the ship. They found the men you killed in the central area of the vessel. Moving forward, they came across five more bodies—four men and one woman. Three of the men died from multiple gunshot wounds. The woman had her neck snapped. The last man, who was only a few feet away from the woman, was severely beaten before being shot in the head at point blank range. We’ve been able to positively ID the woman as Nasser, but the man’s face was so…” Jameson could not find the right words. “Let’s just say we’re going to have to find another way to get a positive ID on him, which could prove difficult, since we have no dental records or fingerprints on file.”
Hardy asked a question to which he already knew the answer. “What about Dahlia?”
Jameson shook his head. “She was not on the ship.”
“What caliber of weapon was used on the terrorists?”
“The JTS team leader said it was a pistol, most likely a nine millimeter.”
Hardy had no doubt that Dahlia was responsible for the deaths. He knew what she was capable of doing. He had been told of the carnage left in her wake at a warehouse in Philadelphia, where she killed several terrorists. He also had no doubts that she made it off the ship. She was tough, smart and highly resilient.
Since his last encounter with Dahlia in Washington, D.C., Hardy had been thinking of a way to talk to Jameson about making her a member of his team; however, the strained relationship between Dahlia and her father was going to make that conversation very difficult. Now was not the time to pursue it with Jameson.
Jameson continued. “Since there were so many Egyptian nationals involved in this plot, we’re looking into any and all connections to the Egyptian Government.”
The President interrupted his director. “I’ve spoken with the Egyptian President and while he was upset to learn of our raid on one of his vessels, he quickly changed his tune, when I told him my daughter was found on the ship. I assure you. There’ll be no reprisals from Egypt.” The President motioned toward Jameson.
“I suspect we’ll never be able to tie any of this to the Egyptian Government, sir. At this point, everything leads back to ISIL.”
Jameson’s boss nodded. “We’ll have to keep an eye on our friends in Egypt, nonetheless. If anything new develops, I want to know about it.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. President,” said Jameson.
The President focused his attention on Cruz. “There’s one more item I want to discuss.” He shifted his gaze toward Jameson. “How are we coming along on the matter with Agent Cruz, Phil?”
Cruz sat straighter and turned her head toward Jameson before coming back to the President. “Sir?” she said.
The President raised his eyebrows at Jameson.
Jameson uncrossed his legs and turned in his seat to face Cruz. “The President wants you more directly involved in the war on terror. To that end, he has ordered me to make that happen.”
“More involved in what manner?” asked Cruz. “I’m an FBI agent, not a covert operative.” She was a little concerned over what she may be asked to do.
The President heard the uneasiness in her voice. “It’s okay, Raychel. Director Jameson will create a suitable role for you to fill; one that complements your talents.” He leaned closer to her. “I’m very impressed with what I’ve seen from you.” He counted on his fingers. “First, you take down a powerful Senator…Senator Hastings. Second, you put yourself between my daughter and one of my Secret Service Agents, risking your life to protect her from potential harm from an assassin. Third…well, you know what you’ve done to bring my daughter back to me.” The President paused. “I want to better utilize your skills—put them to work making a difference in this war on terror.” He smiled and reached across his desk. “Let me be the first to congratulate you on your promotion, Agent Cruz.”
Cruz relaxed her posture and shook his hand. “Thank you, sir.”
Facing Jameson, the President stared at him. Horizontal lines appeared on
his forehead. “When will you know, Phil?” He was referring to when Jameson would have an answer on Cruz’s new role. He had brought up the matter with his FBI Director after Thanksgiving and not heard back from him. Not being a particularly patient person, especially when it came to people following his directives, the President’s voice gave away his displeasure.
“I will have something for you shortly after the holidays, sir.”
“I’ll be taking my family up to Maine for a few days. If you need to speak with me, call me on my direct line.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The President looked at his watch. “All right, if there isn’t anything else, I’d like to spend some time with my daughter.” When no one said anything, he stood and everyone followed his lead. He came around his desk and shook the hand of everyone in the room, thanking them again for saving his daughter.
Chapter 42: Cruz’s House
5:12 p.m., Potomac Maryland, Special Agent Cruz’s house
Located at the end of Cripplegate Road in Potomac, Maryland, the traditional two-story all brick center hall colonial home sat on nearly two acres of private land, a short distance from the Potomac River. Forest green shutters on either side of the windows accented the red brick, and the white house trim seemed to offset the home’s lavishness and create a more basic and down to earth feel for the occupants. A large and striking bow window was centered in the front of the house. The window immediately became a focal point for visitors. A two-car garage was attached to the right side of the house, while a patio with glass windows on three sides, overlooking the wooded property, was on the left side.
The inside of the home was equally beautiful; hardwood floors throughout, four bedrooms, four full-size bathrooms, a fireplace on the main floor and a second fireplace in the upstairs master bedroom. A wooden staircase, leading to the second floor, bisected the main floor. The main floor consisted of a living room with a fireplace, a large kitchen and dining area, two bathrooms and a combined library and den. The second floor had four bedrooms and two bathrooms.
Special Agent Cruz was extremely fortunate to be living in this home in one of the most affluent towns in the United States. The home was owned by an elderly man who had lost his wife a few years ago. The couple owned a real estate company and had amassed a small fortune, including several homes scattered throughout the country. After his wife had passed, the man moved to a warmer climate in the Southwest. Cruz had met him through a friend of hers. He did not want to sell the property, because it held special memories for him and his late wife. He had been searching for someone he could trust to live in it for a greatly reduced monthly rent. After a luncheon meeting with Cruz, he offered her the home on the spot.
Having already seen the home and the neighborhood, Cruz could not turn down the generous offer. The man had two conditions. One, she was required to maintain the home. If anything needed to be repaired, she was to take care of it and send the bill to him. He would pay for all repairs. Two, the home’s furnishings were never to be moved. She could use anything she wanted, but the home was to stay exactly as it was. She could have personal items as long as they could be easily removed.
Hardy opened the glass doors on the living room fireplace and added a couple pieces of firewood to the dying fire. Re-positioning the firewood, he watched the fire for a minute. Seeing the flames growing, he closed the doors and replaced the poker in the tool stand. Standing, he took his place next to Cruz on the couch, facing the fireplace.
She threw half of her blanket toward Hardy. The outside temperature was in the mid-thirties and the weather girl had said to expect an overnight low in the upper teens. Cruz was wearing a pair of satin shorts and a sweatshirt with a large star on the front, the symbol for the Dallas Cowboys. Never one who wanted to wear long pants or sweatpants when she was lounging around at night, she was cold, quickly tucking the ends of the blanket under her bare legs.
After arriving in Washington, D.C., Hardy and Cruz had picked up her Dodge Charger from the Hoover Building and drove to her home, stopping only to pick up a six-pack of Redd’s Strawberry Ale for him and a bottle of wine for her. Tired from flying from one end of the country to the other and back again, they took a nap as soon as they had entered the house. Hardy stretched out on the couch, while Cruz slept in her bedroom.
Two hours later, they awoke to a cold house. The thermostat had been turned down for the trip to visit Hardy’s mother, and neither one of them had touched the dial when they came into the house. Cruz rotated the temperature dial, while Hardy built a fire in the fireplace to get some instant heat. Staring at the fire, neither one spoke. They had been trying to shake the grogginess from their nap, but the dancing flames proved counterproductive. Hardy’s eyelids went up and down. As soon as he gave in and closed them, the doorbell rang. He opened his eyes and rolled his head toward Cruz.
“Are you expecting company?”
Shaking her head, she replied, “Nope.”
Hardy stood, walked to the front door and stuck his eye up to the peephole in the door.
“Who is it?”
Hardy stepped back with his hand on the doorknob. “It’s Dahlia.” He opened the door.
Dahlia lifted her head and smiled, when the door swung open. She had a large gift bag in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. She was dressed in a long and heavy wool overcoat that came below her knees. Black high-heeled boots were partially exposed beneath the coat. Her long blonde hair was pulled back into a high ponytail, tied with a red ribbon. “Merry Christmas,” she said. Eyeing Cruz, who had come up from behind Hardy with a blanket wrapped around her waist, Dahlia acknowledged her. “Merry Christmas, Cruz.”
“Where’ve you been?” asked Hardy.
Cruz added to his question. “We’ve been worried about you.” She jerked her thumb toward Hardy. “Hardy’s been calling you non-stop, since you took off on us.” She stepped outside and pulled on Dahlia’s coat. “Get in here. It’s freezing out there.”
Dahlia protested. “No, I can’t stay.” She was gently forced into the house. “I don’t want to intrude on your—”
“You’re not intruding on anything.” Cruz took the bag and the bottle of wine from her, while Hardy helped her with her coat.
“Thank you.” Dahlia rubbed her upper arms. She was wearing a long-sleeved red velvet dress that stopped at her knees, an inch above where her boots began. Cruz set the bag on the floor and put the wine on a nearby table. Feeling his eyes on her, Dahlia glanced over her shoulder and caught him studying her backside. “I’m fine, Hardy. You’re not going to find any bullet holes back there, so you can stop looking.”
Hardy grinned. “I’m glad to hear that.” He hung her coat on a coat rack behind the door. “Cruz was right. I’ve been trying to reach you for twenty-four hours.” He held out his hands, palms up. “What gives?”
“I apologize.” She turned her head back and forth to include Cruz in her apology. “I shut my phone off. I just needed some down time. I should have called.” She held her arms out at her sides. “All I can say is that I’m used to answering only to myself.”
“Well, the important thing is that you’re all right.” Cruz took Dahlia by the arm and led her into the living room.
Hardy grabbed a straight-back chair and placed it near the fireplace before he and Cruz resumed their positions on the couch.
Chapter 43: Conversation
For more than an hour, while nursing a small glass of wine, Hardy, Special Agent Cruz and Dahlia made small talk that gradually became more relaxed and personal. Afterward, the conversation settled on the outcome of the mission. Hardy and Cruz informed Dahlia of what the President had told them aboard Air Force One. Dahlia, not wanting to go into details, simply confirmed that the unidentifiable man aboard the ship was Ashar Yamadi.
Dahlia glanced at the clock on the wall. “Oh, I’m sorry.” She placed her hands on her thighs and stood. “I really should be going. It’s Christmas Eve and I’m sure you two have somethi
ng planned.”
Cruz looked at Hardy. “Don’t worry about it. We’ve enjoyed having you.” After a short pause, she added, “In fact, why don’t you stay for dinner? We’re thinking of getting a pizza.”
“Pizza?” said Hardy. “I was going to cook for us.”
Cruz and Dahlia stared at him.
After a few seconds of silence, he said, “What?”
Dahlia tilted her head. “You can cook?”
“He’s never cooked for me.” Cruz raised her eyebrows at him.
He feigned hurt feelings. “What are you talking about, Cruz? I cooked for you just last Saturday.”
Cruz thought for a moment and smiled. “You boiled hot dogs and made macaroni and cheese from a box.”
“Yeah,” snapped Hardy, grinning. “That’s cooking.”
Cruz chuckled and shook her head.
Laughing, Dahlia walked toward the front door and picked up the bag she had brought. “Thanks, but I think I’ll take my chances with takeout.” She handed the bag to Cruz. “Merry Christmas, Cruz. I hope you like it.”
“Dahlia, you didn’t have to get me anything.” Cruz had already opened the bag and stuck her nose inside before finishing her sentence. She loved receiving gifts. It mattered not that it was Christmas, her birthday, a Sunday or any day of the month. If someone gave her a present, she was not going to turn it down.
Noticing Cruz’s excitement, Dahlia smiled, happy that her gesture had been well received.
Cruz placed the bag on the floor and pulled out a large box. Putting the box on the table, she lifted the lid, pushed aside the tissue paper and picked up the first item. Unfolding it and holding it up, her lips formed an awkward smile. Her eyes went back to the box and she plucked one of two items that remained in the box. Holding up both items in front of her eyes, she blushed. Dahlia had kept the promise she had made to Hardy in Los Angeles. Cruz was holding a black mini skirt and a pair of black knee boots with three-inch heels.
