by Alex Ander
“I was going to ask if you would go steady with me.”
Cruz’s eyes shifted to meet his eyes.
“I know it seems childish, but I told you…I’m not very good at this sort of thing. I just want us to see each other exclusively…and I thought what better way to do that than with—”
Cruz grabbed the lapels of his suit coat and kissed him. Five seconds later, she pulled her lips away from his lips and he finished his sentence.
“A ring,” he said.
“Yes, yes, yes,” she said, grasping his lapels in her hands, her eyes going back and forth from his eyes to his lips. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’m all yours.” She kissed him again.
Hardy hugged her and held her tightly. His eyes moved toward the sliding glass door. “I think we have a couple of peeping Moms.” Both Mrs. Hardy and Mrs. Cruz were staring at them. Their noses were pressed against the glass and they were smiling from ear to ear.
Cruz laughed into his chest and they hugged, until she said, “I’m cold.”
He pushed her shoulders away from him. “I’m curious...what if I had been asking you to marry me? Would you have still said yes…or no?”
Cruz glanced at the ring on her finger before shifting her gaze to his eyes. A thin grin formed on her lips and she said in a low and gentle voice, “Uh-huh,” before walking toward the house, her heels clicking on the wooden deck.
Hardy thought about her response for a few seconds. She was entering the house, when he called out to her. “That’s not an answer, Cruz.” Had he been able to see her face, he would have seen she was smiling broadly, while she closed the patio door.
Shaking his head, Hardy covered the distance to the house, muttering to himself. “It’s easier getting intel from a terrorist during an interrogation.”
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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).
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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 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 myse
lf. 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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Thank You
Thank you for purchasing and reading Necessary Means, the 6th book in the Aaron Hardy series. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. My longest book to date, Necessary Means was another turning pointing in my writing journey, proving I can write longer works. My goal has been to create action books that are fast-paced, offset by human interaction that highlights the personal side of the characters. I also enjoy having the characters bounce from one city to another, or one country to another. That was one of my favorite aspects of James Bond movies and I try to include that in my writing.
If you liked Necessary Means, please take the time to visit your favorite bookseller and leave a review.
I hope you’re looking forward to the next book in the series, Foreign Soil. Keep reading for a sneak peek.
Sincerely,
Alex J. Ander
Foreign Soil
By
Alex Ander
Continue reading for a preview
of the next book in the Aaron Hardy series…
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Chapter1: We’re on the List
January 3rd; 11:47 p.m.
United Kingdom
A4117 Road (just east of Clee Hill Village)
Headlights appeared from behind and grew larger by the second. The woman adjusted the rearview mirror. The sole of her red three-inch spiked sandal pressed down on the gas pedal. She clutched the steering wheel harder, her eyes shifting back and forth—the mirror, the windshield, the mirror, the windshield. When the lights became too bright, she stole glances at the side mirror. The speedometer read 128 kilometers per hour (80 miles per hour). Her foot rocked forward. The dark blue Audi had more to give. “Do you think they just want to pass?”
The man in the passenger seat pivoted and stared out the back window, which shattered a moment later in a hail of gunfire. Bullets ripped up the rear leather seats, lodged in the dashboard and created spider webs in the windshield. He yanked a pistol from a shoulder holster under his suit coat and spun back around. “I’m going to go out on a limb and say, no.”
The woman jerked the wheel back and the Audi maintained its course.
He released the seatbelt, drove a knee into the seat and pointed the weapon at the opening where the back window used to be. “Hold it steady.” More rounds came from the SUV’s passenger window. The Audi swerved and he lost his balance, wrapping an arm around the headrest to keep from falling backward. “I can’t drive and shoot. Keep it between the ditches.”
“You just aim straight,” she shot back. “I’ve got this.” The woman’s father had taught her how to drive a car before she had learned how to put on lipstick. One big difference, however, was she never had to dodge bullets back in Texas.
The man got into a stable position and let loose with a volley of his own shots. The SUV’s headlights went dark. Sparks flew off the grille. The behemoth lurched left and right before backing off. He climbed into the back and steadied the weapon on the seat. The SUV’s engine roared before the vehicle lunged forward. With his left eye closed and the other one staring down the gun’s sights at where the driver would be, he drew a breath, let half out and finessed the trigger.
Tires screeched and the trailing four-by-four began an uncontrollable high-speed turn, flipping over several times before sliding to a stop in the middle of the road. The light show from the metal scraping against the pavement had been spectacular.
The man holstered the pistol, reclaimed his place in the front and grabbed the seatbelt’s tongue and buckle. He aligned them, grinned at the woman, “Safety first,” and married the two with a satisfying click.
Shaking her head and frowning at the bad humor, she eased her foot off the accelerator and glanced at the dashboard clock. “We’ll be there in an hour.”
… … … … …
An hour later, the Audi travelled down a desolate stretch of roadway. His phone in hand, the man glanced at the navigational app and pointed. “Turn here.” The pavement became a narrow dirt path. On either side, tall grass shot upward through a thin layer of snow. Up ahead, trees waited for them.
“There’s nothing out here,” said the woman, leaning forward to see the trail.
“That’s what makes it so perfect. The only people who have any business coming this way are those who know about the place.”
They drove another ten minutes until a ten-foot steel gate materialized out of nowhere. Dressed in fatigues, two men faced the car, rifles at the ready. Four more men emerged from the woods and surrounded the vehicle, one at each corner. The muzzles of their weapons were closer to pointing at the couple in the Audi.
The man glanced at his companion. Knuckles white, her hands had a death grip on the steering wheel. “Take it easy and stick to the plan. Keep calm and no sudden moves.”
The soldier on the driver’s side rapped on the window, and the woman flinched before rolling down the glass. “Get out of the vehicle, ma’am.” His voice deep and gruff, the burly man stepped backward. “And, keep your hands visible.”
Arms up, both occupants climbed out.
Burly never took his eyes off the woman. “This is a high-security facility. State your purpose.”
“We have official business,” sai
d her passenger from across the Audi’s hood, while pointing, “on the other side of that gate. If you check, you’ll find we’re on the list.”
Motioning toward the two sentries near the gate, who rushed forward and stopped five feet away from the newcomers, Burly withdrew a handheld device; the soldier nearest to the female’s companion did the same thing. Burly grunted at the woman, “Name.”
She hesitated and glanced away before coming back to him. Her cheeks flushed slightly. “Red Ryder.”
He gave her a look.
“I didn’t choose it.” She tipped her head to the left. “It was his idea.”
Burly tapped the device. Periodically shooting glances at the woman, he studied the data on the screen—Age: 22, Height: 5’6”, Weight: 115, Physical Characteristics: Slender build…long, dark hair…eyeglasses. “What’s your authentication code?” She called out ten numbers.
The woman’s colleague gave his name and code, too, and the soldier facing him stared at the man’s information on a second keypad—Age: 30, Height: 5’11”, Weight: 185, Physical Characteristics: Muscular frame…light brown hair, cut short…blue eyes…
Glancing at the other soldier, who nodded his head one time, Burly addressed his team members. “Stand down.”
The six men stood straight. They let their weapons hang from the sling, but kept one hand around the pistol grip.
Burly—it was now obvious he was in charge—made eye contact with the woman. “Miss Sinclair…” he spied the man, “Mr. Hardy…welcome to Wales. How may we be of assistance?”
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