by Alex Ander
Hardy smiled. Dahlia was not the type of person who opened up and shared deep personal feelings. Feelings got in the way of killing for a paycheck. When the bullet from her gun zipped past his ear at the Philadelphia warehouse, however, Hardy saw another side to Dahlia. She had ended the life of a terrorist to save his own life. Nothing gets a man in someone else’s corner faster than being rescued by that person.
After several moments of silence, she swiped fingers across her cheek, exhaled a quick breath and stood straighter. “Well…are you going to say something, or just stand there?”
“Oh,” Hardy touched fingertips to chest, “am I allowed to speak now?”
She smiled. “Okay, I had that one coming.”
Hardy held up a finger. “First of all, I only suggested that you would make a great addition to the team. It was your father who really went to bat for you with the President.”
Dahlia’s eyebrows came together. “Wait…what? My father? The director of the FBI.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “The same man we’re meeting with now?”
Hardy made a face and bobbed his head. “Unless you have another father I’m not aware of.”
She stared at the wall beyond Hardy. “Huh.” Since the incident with the FBI, and her subsequent departure from the agency, Dahlia and her father had been estranged for many years.
“Like I told you at Christmas, you two are more alike than either of you want to admit.” He waited a beat. “And, as for letting me down,” he pointed over her shoulder, “you’re part of a team.” Hearing his last word, Dahlia smiled. “The team, the mission comes first…before anything else. All any of us should be concerned with is doing our jobs and making sure we come home safe and sound.”
The elevator door opened. Heavy footfalls drew nearer.
Hardy put a hand on her chest. “You’ve got a good heart, Dahlia. No matter what you’ve done in the past, let it stay there…in the past.” He jutted his chin toward the OR. “We’re family. We fight for each other and we take bullets for each other. Got it?”
Leaning in, she kissed his cheek. Both hands shot to her mouth. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that at work.” She whipped her head toward the OR—and Cruz sitting in there—and came back to him. “I guess I shouldn’t be doing that at all…anywhere.”
Hardy chuckled. “Cruz knows your heart too. Don’t worry about it.” He took Dahlia by the elbow and pointed. “Let’s go. I hear your father—” he shook his head, “the director coming.” He let out a quick breath. “Man, this is going to take some getting used to.”
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
.
Chapter 7: Godspeed
“Let’s get started.” Jameson took his chair at the head of a long conference table and slid manila folders across the surface. To his right were Hardy and Cruz. Charity and Dahlia were on the left. The OR door was at his three o’clock. The twelve, nine and six o’clock walls were lined with monitors. At the one o’clock corner position were secure hardwired phones. Each station at the conference table had a computer keyboard and screen built-in under the table. “We’re already playing catch-up on this thing.”
The dossier on FBI Director Phillip Jameson would have read: Fifty-one years old. Five eleven and a fit one ninety. Bald. Rounded, rectangular eyeglasses with thick black frames. Always impeccably dressed in a black suit, white shirt, red tie, spotless shoes. His superiors would have noticed his unyielding work ethic, and those under him would have described him as ‘tough, but fair.’
Jameson removed eyeglasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Hardy, Cherry, the man you apprehended and turned over to British Intelligence has died.” Both of them looked up. “Four days ago, he became sick—small blisters, bumps on the face, neck, arms and hands…swelling around the sores. Two days after that, he was pronounced dead.”
“Judging from those symptoms,” said Hardy, “it sounds like he died from—”
“Anthrax poisoning.”
Hardy and Charity spied each other and leaned back in their chairs.
Jameson observed the looks. “I’ve read your report, Hardy. After you grabbed him and stuffed him into the trunk, did you,” he glanced left, “or you, Cherry, have any physical contact with him?”
Hardy stared at the table. “We got on the road. An hour later, his men caught up to us. We lost them and crossed into Wales. I opened the trunk and two Brits hauled him out and took off.” Hardy eyed Charity. “Am I missing anything?”
“That sounds right.”
“Okay,” said Jameson, “that’s good. The two British agents you described got sick, too, but they were given antibiotics right away and will be all right.”
Hardy held out his hands, palms up. “Why the hell are we just now finding out about this? They knew four days ago.”
Jameson shook his head. “I don’t know.” He pointed fingers. “After this meeting, you two are getting checked out. There’s a doctor waiting for you upstairs. He will run tests and start you on antibiotics…just as a precaution. I’ve relayed the mission specifics of what happened to the doctor, and he thinks your risk of infection is low.”
Hardy pursed his lips. “Damn Brits. I thought we were supposed to be allies.” A moment passed. “How was this guy infected anyway?”
The Director put his eyeglasses on and opened the file folder. “When you grabbed him, he had in his possession a vial of the stuff. Our guess is the vial broke at some point during the drive to Wales.”
Cruz crossed her legs under the table. “Sir, do we know how he obtained the virus and what he was doing with it?”
“He told interrogators he was at the club that night to meet with a buyer.”
Cruz planted both boots on the floor. “A buyer? That means he has more.”
Jameson puckered his lips and nodded. “That’s where it gets worse.” He went around the table and eyed each person. “The broken vial was traced back to a private corporation in Germany, a bio lab that manufactures all sorts of viruses.”
“For what” shot back Dahlia? “So, more people can become infected and die?”
“No,” interjected Charity, “companies manufacture and study germs with the hopes of finding a cure, a vaccine or just to better understand the physical makeup of a virus. It’s all about knowledge. To put it in military terms, the best way to defeat the enemy is to know thy enemy.”
Jameson raised a hand. “We’re getting off topic. The point is that vial was part of a much larger lot that went missing six months ago. Intelligence sources in the UK think the cases may have ended up somewhere in their country.”
Hardy was first to ask the one million dollar question. “How much Anthrax are we talking about here?”
“Our sources say, depending on the delivery method, enough to infect thousands maybe tens of thousands.”
“And, with a six-month head start,” said Charity, “the people who stole it could have manufactured even more.”
“And, that brings us back to what I said earlier. We’re behind on this.” Jameson pointed, “Hardy, as soon as you’ve seen the doctor, you and Cruz will go to London and meet with the lead investigator and try to find the missing Anthrax.”
“Yes sir.”
The Director looked left. “The same goes for you, Cherry. When the doctor gives you the green light, you and Dahlia will catch a flight to Germany. Talk to the scientists at the lab and find out what you can about the missing virus.”
They nodded and replied in unison. “Yes sir.”
“All the information you need,” he motioned, “is in your respective files. Also, you’ve been cleared to pass through customs when you arrive. So, feel free to gun-up people.”
Hardy closed the file folder and stood. “Finally, some good news.” He hated being without his nine millimeter Walther PPQ M2.
“Hardy, I need a word before you go.” The women left and Jameson closed the door. “What’s your take on Cruz? I assume you’ve read Darling’s report.”
“Do you think she’s fit for this operation? There’s still time to recall her. But, I wanted to get your input first.”
Hardy expanded his lungs, turned away and blew out the air in one big burst. He expected this would happen. As team leader, his opinion would carry a lot of weight with his boss. Ultimately, the decision to pull Cruz would come from Jameson, however.
Hardy was torn. Tactical training only went so far in assessing someone’s preparedness for real world situations. In football, some players practiced poorly, but played at a high level in games. This was no game, though. If a team member screwed up, others on that team could die.
Plus, there was the factor that he cared for, loved Cruz. On that deeper level, he did not want her leaving the country, let alone engaging the enemy in a foreign land. She was FBI. Even though that job was dangerous, at least she had the rule of law. And, most people respected the badge.
“Hardy?”
He faced Jameson. “I’m sorry, sir. I was just thinking.”
“How about it? Is she fit?”
“I know what the report said, sir…” his eyes narrowed, “but the only way to get game-time experience is to get in the game.”
Jameson stared at the floor, lips pursed, slowly nodding his head. “Well put, and…I agree. She’s a go.” He locked eyes with his subordinate. “Keep an eye on her. Keep her safe.”
“I will, sir.”
Jameson looked away. “I realize you can’t be in all places at once…”
Hardy followed the man’s gaze, through the window, straight toward Dahlia, who was talking to Charity. He realized Jameson must have been grappling with a similar dilemma. After several years of not having his daughter in his life, he was watching her leave again. Walking to the door and grabbing the handle, Hardy got in his boss’s line of sight. “I’ll keep them all safe, sir.”
The slimmest trace of a grin formed on the man’s face. His agent had read his mind. “Thank you. Godspeed, Hardy.”
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
.
Chapter 8: Flights
January 20th; 10:13 a.m. (Local Time)
London, England
Heathrow Airport
Two Gulfstream V jets had taken off from Joint Base Andrews in Washington, D.C. at 10 p.m. the day before; one destination was Munich Airport in Germany, the other endpoint was London’s Heathrow. Dahlia and Charity still had another hour in the air when Hardy and Cruz’s plane touched down and rolled to a stop at a hangar at the far end of the complex. A late model black four-door Nissan Rogue Sport with black custom rims was parked a short distance away. A slim woman—six-foot in heels—leaned against the passenger door, arms and ankles crossed. Her long, dark and straight hair swirled around her head from the gusty winds.
Hardy led Cruz across the tarmac, his and Cruz’s bag slung over his shoulders. Their garb was black leather jackets, blue jeans and boots; Cruz’s rose to her knees and sported two-inch heels, while Hardy’s were six-inch A.T.A.C.’s from 5.11 Tactical. Black was the shared color. His smile broadened the closer he got to the woman, who had pushed herself away from the vehicle and was approaching. The three met ten feet from the front bumper.
“It’s good to see you,” said Ellen Hamilton, “but I wish it was under better circumstances.”
Hardy shrugged off the bags and the two hugged. “It’s good to see you too.” He stepped away and looked at her—dark eyebrows, piercing brown eyes with long lashes, and smooth cheeks. “I take it you’re back to a hundred percent?”
She nodded. “A hundred and ten percent.” The last time he had seen her, she was recuperating from a serious, work-related injury.
At thirty-five, 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.”
She had ten-plus years of law enforcement experience, and was one of the first officers of the National Crime Agency, created a few years ago. Tough, smart and dedicated, she pursued leads and tracked down criminals better than many of the men in her field.
Hardy smiled. “That’s great to hear.” He pivoted and put a hand on Cruz’s back. “This is Special Agent DelaCruz of the FBI.” He glanced at Cruz. “Meet Ellen Hamilton. She’s with the National Crime Agency. We worked together back in July.” He smiled at England’s finest. “She’s one of the good ones.”
Cheeks rosy, Hamilton waved him off and stepped forward. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Agent DelaCruz.”
Smiling, Cruz shook hands with the woman. “Likewise, and call me Cruz.”
Hamilton spun around and held up a key fob. “Throw your gear in the back,” the tailgate of the Rogue slowly lifted, “and we’ll get going. There’s been a slight change in plans, but I don’t think you’ll mind when we reach our destination.”
… … … … …
“We’re rolling up on the scene now.” Hamilton held a phone to an ear with one hand and rotated the steering wheel with the other. “I’ll be going in with two foreign agents. You’ll lead the second team.” She paused. “Has there been any activity in the last thirty minutes?” She spun the wheel back, touched the brakes, shifted to ‘park’ and killed the engine. “Okay…okay, get your men ready. We go in twenty.” She stowed the mobile in a blazer pocket.
Hardy rested forearms on the front seats and leaned between the two. He looked right, at Hamilton. “What’s happening?”
She gave him and Cruz the short version. They were going to breach a two-story building around the corner. The people suspected of stealing the Anthrax vials from the German company were reported to be inside. While Hardy and Cruz were in the air, Hamilton had put together the raid.
Hardy nodded. “I’m glad you waited for us.”
Hamilton pulled on the door handle. “Well, any longer and I would have been forced to go in without you.”
“Understood.”
Cruz twirled a finger among the three of them. “What about the virus…and us?”
Hamilton shouldered open the door and eyed the passenger, “We’ve got suits,” before tipping her head. “Let’s go.”
… … … … …
Twenty minutes later, dressed in hazmat suits, bullpup 5.56x45 mm HK L85A2 Assault Rifles slung around their necks, Hardy, Cruz and Hamilton rode in the back of a van. Since the bright yellow suits might tipoff the suspects, the plan was to go in hard and fast once the van’s tires screeched to a halt and the doors slid open. A second team would breach the upper level of the structure and clear that floor.
Sitting to Cruz’s right and kitty corner from Hardy, Hamilton spied him and recalled their last mission. “Hey…Sheriff Stone…just so you know not everyone has to be shot. It would be nice to have someone left alive to question in case the virus is not in the building.”
Hardy turned his head toward her. “Did you just reference a character from an American movie?”
“Seriously, that’s what you took from that?”
“I didn’t know you were a John Walter fan.”
“Are you kidding? I’ve seen Terrible Twosome half a dozen times.” She let the L85 hang and made two pistols with her fingers. “I’ll plug you myself you son of a—”
Before Hardy had a chance to laugh at the famous line from the 1950’s Western, everyone’s earpiece crackled. “Twenty seconds…twenty seconds out.”
Hamilton clutched her rifle.
Hardy squeezed the pistol grip a little tighter and glimpsed Cruz. Her eyes were wide and a couple beads of perspiration glistened on her forehead. It was warm under the hazmat suits, but not that warm. In fifteen seconds, she would be storming the structure, much like what happened back in Virginia, at the training facility. Jameson’s words sounded in Hardy’s mind. Keep her safe. He pointed at Cruz and gave her the thumbs up.
; She hesitated. Her chest rose and fell before she gave him a single nod and returned his gesture.
Hardy smiled and winked at her at the same time Hamilton smacked his knee. He turned.
“My op…me first.”
He affirmed.
Five seconds later, Hamilton threw open the side door. A man sitting to Hardy’s left, not wearing a yellow suit, jumped out of the van and raced to the front door. He swung a battering ram and hit the space above the doorknob. The door rocketed inward, and he retreated.
Hamilton ran inside. “Team One is inside. Team Two, what’s your status?”
“Team Two has entered the structure…commencing search—over.”
The main floor of the building was a wide-open space. Cardboard boxes on pallets made two lines down the length. The base of a metal staircase was to the right, fifty feet away. Overhead shop lights hung from the rafters, but sunlight pouring in from the windows lit the area.
Hamilton cleared a small office to the left and spoke under her breath. “I’m going left.” She motioned. “Hardy…you take the middle. Cruz, go right.”
Hardy: “Copy that.”
Cruz: “Copy that.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Hardy saw Hamilton disappear around the last pallet before he fast walked toward the other end of the warehouse. Boxes were stacked six-feet high on either side. Gaps opened at periodic intervals. Swinging the rifle left and right, up and down, he traversed half the distance. Coming to a gap, he pivoted left and brought the weapon on target, the chest of Hamilton. He was staring down her rifle’s muzzle. After a split-second, recognition set in, and both of them continued down their aisles.
Cruz’s low voice: “I’ve got contact…stairs…second level.”
Hardy turned right and slipped between two large wooden crates. Peeking out, he cleared the area to the left and double backed toward Cruz’s position. Shouts filled his ear.
Cruz: “Stop right there! Hands—show me your hands!”
