Foreign Soil

by Alex Ander

  Looking at the red mark on Dahlia’s forehead, he pointed at the same spot on his own head. “What about you?”

  She scoffed. “This is nothing. You should see the other guy?” She spied the two dead men near the bench, “Speaking of whom,” before motioning toward the last man Hardy had shot, “I see you two took no prisoners.”

  Hardy scoffed back. “What? And, you did?”

  She pointed over her shoulder. “I’ll have you know, my man is alive and well…he’s napping in fact. I even went so far as to help him get to sleep.”

  Police officers from Madrid raced toward them from two directions. Hardy went to his knees and slid his pistol across the floor, away from him. “Jameson knows everything about this op. He’ll have contacted the authorities and told them about us. Just follow my lead and do what they say.” The women discarded their guns and copied his posture.

  On her knees, Dahlia interlaced her fingers on top of her head, glanced at Cruz, “You know,” before coming back to Hardy, “you people could learn a little something from me.”

  With the officers closing in on them, Hardy frowned. “Oh? What’s that?”

  An officer clamped a handcuff around one of her wrists. She winced before showing Hardy her pearly whites. “Restraint.”

  A second officer applied the cuffs to Hardy’s wrists and lowered him to the floor. His cheek kissing the dirty tile, he snorted and stared at her from across the floor. Restraint. “That’s a juxtaposition if I’ve ever heard one.” He looked at the ceiling. I hope I used that word right.

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  .

  Chapter 34: A Tad Nicer

  11:37 p.m. (Local Time)

  Washington, D.C.

  J. Edgar Hoover Building

  After a call came from the upper echelons of the Spanish government, Hardy and his team were freed from custody. Collecting their weapons and gear, they boarded a Gulfstream V and flew back to the States.

  Following a seven-plus hour flight and a drive from Joint Base Andrews, the foursome filed out of the elevator and shuffled toward the Operations Room. They had gotten some sleep on the plane, but more was needed. Rounding the ‘T’ in the floor plan, the operatives were either rubbing eyes or necks, or yawning and stretching.

  “In here,” said a muffled voice, coming from the end of the hall.

  Hardy ambled into Director Jameson’s office. “Whoa. I never knew how big this room was.”

  The centerpiece was not an antique wooden desk, although one existed. No, taking up half the office, a dark-stained cherry wood pool table with Queen Anne legs, gold rope drop pockets and a burgundy-felted slate top drew a visitor’s attention. Tall stools were positioned around the game table, a rack of pool cues mounted to the wall in the corner.

  The other half of the room was divided between the mahogany executive desk in the far corner and an elegant meeting area. Burgundy leather couches were on either side of a six-foot coffee table. At the end of the mahogany table, furthest from the desk, was a leather Queen Anne wingback chair. Under the table was a plush rug with the seal and motto—fidelity, bravery, integrity—of the Federal Bureau of Investigation emblazoned on it. The lighting was subdued.

  Jameson walked around the corner of the desk, holding out a hand toward the meeting area. “Rumor has it former directors used to come down here when they needed some alone time.” He picked up two bottles of beer. “Truth be told, I’ve stolen a few moments in here myself.”

  Hardy took the beverages, “Thank you, sir,” and handed one to Dahlia.

  Jameson gave glasses of red wine to Cruz and Charity, who thanked him, before he sat in the wingback chair, a bottle of beer in one hand. Everyone adhered to the OR seating chart. Clockwise from Jameson: Charity, Dahlia and Cruz; Hardy on the boss’s right.

  Taking pulls on beer and sips of wine, the newcomers, still dressed in their same clothes, sunk into the cushions and took a moment to admire the office décor.

  “I must say,” Charity nodded and glanced around the room, “your office is a tad nicer than mine.”

  “It almost,” Jameson put his beer on the coffee table, “makes me feel guilty for not using it more often.” He leaned back and crossed his legs. “At fifty years of age, however, the optimum word there is…almost.”

  “If my math is correct,” said Dahlia, “I believe you’re fifty-one now.”

  Jameson pointed at her. “Only you could get away with such a correction.”

  The others shared a laugh. One by one, their bottles and glasses joined Jameson’s on the table.

  “I know you’re eager to get home and get some sleep, but I wanted to bring you up to speed on recent developments. Rest assured I’ll be brief.” He laid clasped fingers on his midsection. “I received word from British authorities that their Special Forces raided a complex near Liverpool. They were able to rescue Dr. Kimmler’s fiancée.” The women let out a collective sigh. “All in all, she’s doing extremely well from what I’m told. Kimmler was allowed to talk to her before he was taken into custody.”

  Jameson re-crossed his legs. “That brings me to the good doctor. While he’s not going to get out of what he’s done, his cooperation with your op, coupled with the fact that nobody was hurt, should help his case.” He held out his hands and tipped his head. “The man was also under duress to comply with his fiancée’s captors. I’m sure that will carry significant weight with the courts.”

  “Sir,” said Hardy, “do we know if all the viruses have been recovered?”

  Jameson wagged a finger at Hardy. “That’s my next point. So far, we think they have; however, Dr. Kimmler’s research is still out there, so it wouldn’t take much for someone to duplicate his work.

  “On a related matter, we got a lead on someone we think may be responsible for all of this. I’m—”

  Hardy put both feet on the floor and sat upright. “Give us a couple hours of sleep and we’ll be ready to go, sir.”

  “Of that I have no doubts. No, I’m putting together another team that will take point on finding and…handling…the leader of Rajil Al Salam.” Jameson went from one person to the next. “You folks have done well, and deserve some time off.”

  Hardy leaned back, his shoulders dropping slightly.

  Jameson spied him. “Don’t worry, Hardy. I’m sure you’ll have your own mission soon enough.” He stood and shoved hands into pants pockets. “In the meantime, go home—all of you—and get some rest. Your country thanks you, and I thank you for your service.”

  A chorus of ‘thank you sir’ filled the room.

  “If you don’t mind, sir, I need to speak with my team about something. May we use your office?”

  Jameson nodded. “Make yourselves at home.” He pointed at the alcohol on the table, “There’s more where that came from,” before motioning to his left, “in the cabinet. And, feel free to use the pool table too.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Jameson headed for the door. “Just remember to lock the door on your way out.”

  “I will.” Hardy waited for the man to leave before facing his team. “I have an off-the-books mission for us that Jameson can’t know anything about.” He sat and pointed. “Cherry, you’re going to handle the logistics.” He swung a finger back and forth between him and Cruz. “We’re taking point. Dahlia, you’ve got the most important job of all.”

  The women claimed their seats and drinks and listened to Hardy’s mission briefing.

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  .

  Chapter 35: Speech

  January 23rd; 6:38 p.m.

  Washington, D.C.

  “Someone’s in my house.” Jameson killed the car’s engine, unbuckled his safety belt and grabbed the gun on his hip. “Call 911.” He shouldered open the door. “I’m going to check things out.”

  Dahlia put a hand on his forearm. “Dad, put your gun away. It’s not what you think.” An unconvinced look from her father prompted her to offer assurances. �
��Trust me. You won’t need your sidearm.” She climbed out of the sedan, shut the door and headed for the front of the house, Jameson meeting her at the front bumper. Stopping on the porch, she faced him. “Whatever you do, don’t tell Hardy you drew your weapon.” Jameson frowned. “Just don’t. His ego’s big enough already.” Dahlia and Jameson entered the man’s house.

  “Happy Birthday!” said Hardy, Cruz and Charity.

  Jameson went from his daughter to his guests and back again. “This is why you suddenly didn’t feel like going out for dinner,” he paused, “after we had driven around for an hour.”

  Dahlia removed her coat, revealing a red, long-sleeved knee-length dress and black knee boots. “I had the mission’s most important job of all,” she hung the garment on a coat rack, “getting you out of the house, so they could set up everything.”

  Wearing a black dress and heels, Cruz hugged her boss, “Happy Birthday, sir,” and kissed him on the cheek.

  Dressed similar to Cruz, Charity was right behind the other woman. “Happy Birthday, sir.”

  “Thank you…both of you. I’m…I don’t know what to say.”

  Hardy stepped forward. Kicking his attire up a notch for the occasion, he wore a white open-collared shirt under a dark sport coat with the usual blue jeans and black A.T.A.C. shoes. “Happy Birthday, sir.” He and Jameson shook hands.

  “Thank you,” he glanced at Cruz and Charity, “but my birthday was two weeks ago.”

  “Yes,” said Cruz, “but two weeks ago we were in training…and then the mission came up, so…” she bobbed her head, “we know it’s late, but we weren’t going to let the occasion just slide by. We had to do something.”

  A thin line formed on his face, the closest thing to a smile anyone had seen from the FBI Director. “Thank you…all of you…this means a lot to me.”

  Everyone waited for more, possibly a short speech, but the man was not one for speeches.

  After an awkward silence, Cruz took him by the arm, “Come on. Let’s get a drink in your hand,” and led him into the kitchen. Charity followed.

  Hardy regarded Dahlia, a twinkle in his eye. “So?”

  She smoothed her dress. “So what?”

  Hardy’s broad smile lit up the house. “Did he do it? Did he draw his gun?”

  Dahlia stood straight, stared at him and sighed. “Yes, he did. Are you happy now?”

  Hardy pumped a fist. “I knew it. I told you a traditional ‘turn on the lights, jump out and yell surprise’ birthday party was a good way for us to get shot.”

  She smiled and shook her head at a grown man acting like a kid. “And, that would’ve been bad,” she waited a beat, “for Cruz and Cherry.”

  Hardy and Dahlia made their way to the kitchen. “Don’t be such a sore loser, Dahlia. That look is unbecoming on you.” He picked up a set of tongs and smacked them together. “I need to check on the steaks.”

  “Sore loser?” She snatched the tool from his hand and cocked her arm. “Here, let me give you a hand with those steaks.”

  Jameson watched the two of them slip out through the patio door, his daughter taking swings at his top agent. Like a father watching his children play in the yard, Jameson smiled to himself.

  … … … … …

  Hardy cupped Cruz’s knee under the table. He loved the feel of her nylons. “I call it Hardy Bread.”

  Charity took another bite of the thin, but dense piece of bread and stared across the table at Cruz.

  Cruz made a face and shook her head. “He has to name everything.” She glimpsed her man and smiled. “I’ve learned to let him have his fun. It’s easier that way.”

  “Oh really…” Hardy slid his hand—and the dress—up her leg. She stiffened and drew in a short breath, flashing him a ‘don’t you dare’ look. “So, you’re patronizing me, huh?”

  “I’m curious, Hardy,” said Charity, saving Cruz from having to answer and stopping his hand. “What’s in it?”

  After wiping the devilish grin from his face, he said to Charity, “One cup barley flour, one cup milk, an eighth of a teaspoon of salt and a tablespoon of melted butter.” He motioned. “Mix everything together and pour it into a cake pan. Put the pan in the oven at four hundred and twenty-five degrees, and twelve minutes later…boom…you’ve got Hardy Bread.”

  Jameson held out his plate. “I like it. I’ll have another piece.”

  “Good choice, sir.” Hardy fulfilled the man’s request.

  “Not so fast.” Dahlia grabbed her father’s plate. “It’s time for some words, a speech.”

  Knowing Jameson’s embodiment of the strong-but-silent type, no one seconded her motion.

  “You know what?” The man stood. “You’re right. It’s time I told you people what I really think of you,” he turned to his left, “starting with you my dear daughter.

  “Words alone cannot express how happy I am that you’re back in my life. Every time I see you, I see your mother. May she rest in peace.” Mrs. Jameson had died after a long fight with cancer.

  Dahlia dropped her head and swallowed hard. When she needed me most, I wasn’t… She dabbed her eyes with a napkin and took a drink of water. Setting down the glass, Dahlia willed herself to look at her father.

  “She loved you, sweetheart, and she never blamed you…for anything.” He paused. “And, I know she’d be happy that we’re back together again.”

  A thin smile coupled a shaky voice. “Thanks Dad.”

  Jameson focused on Charity. “Cherry, every day you’re getting stronger and stronger. I don’t think any of us fully understand what you’re capable of doing. I think back on when I first met you, a shy and tentative and dare I say awkward girl.” Observing the table, he shook his head. “I see what you’ve become in such a short time, and I’m extremely pleased you decided to come to work for me. Thank you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Charity, her cheeks flushed.

  Jameson continued the clockwise circle and came to Cruz. He stared for several seconds. “Special Agent Cruz, you are a talented agent, and one of the kindest people I’ve ever known. You’re able to bring the hammer when necessary,” Cruz’s coworkers chuckled, “then immediately lend a shoulder to cry on or say a prayer.” Hardy, Dahlia and Charity nodded. “You are quite literally the heart and soul of this team, and I’m proud to call you my friend.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “And, I want you to know that the card you gave me last year for my birthday is still on my desk.” Cruz had discovered January 9th was her boss’s birthday, an occasion he had kept hidden, since he was not someone who wanted the attention. After a brief meeting with him, she had slipped a card onto his desk and walked away.

  Jameson turned his head to the right and studied the last member of the team. “And then there’s you, Mr. Hardy.”

  Dahlia waved a hand, dismissively. “You can just skip over him, since it’ll probably be tough to find something nice to say.”

  Hardy kicked the shaft of Dahlia’s boot under the table, not hard, but hard enough to cause her to flinch. “It’s not polite to interrupt your father, Dahlia.” He eyed Jameson. “Please continue, sir.” The truth was Hardy wanted to know what the man had to say about him. Though the two had worked together for more than six months, Jameson—and the man’s thoughts of Hardy—was still a mystery to him.

  Jameson picked up his wine glass. “When the President told me he wanted to start a secret campaign, secret war on terror, and that,” he pointed, “you were going to be the centerpiece, and I was going to lead you…well let’s just say I was less than thrilled with the idea. I had already spent enough time training and working with young agents at the academy in Quantico. At age fifty, my patience with young bucks with,” he paused, “brain power that didn’t match up with their physical strength, had eroded.

  “After that first mission to Russia…well, I thought you were either going to burn out or tick off someone high up on the food chain, and that would be the last of you.”
/>   His shoulders slumping, Hardy pursed his lips. Maybe Dahlia was right. He should’ve just skipped over me.

  “But slowly,” continued Jameson, “I came to see something in you. You were—and in many ways still are—very rough around the edges. On a deeper level, however, burns a fire, a passion for this country that I haven’t seen in very many agents during my time with the FBI. Perhaps, that’s because of your military background. But, I suspect the real reason stems from who you are at your core. Your patriotism is certainly without question, but I’m talking more about your character…who you are as a person.” Jameson gave his agent a hard glare. “Hardy, you’ve been a royal pain in my…” the women held their collective breaths, “but you’re worth every bit of it.” The women exhaled.

  His mouth agape, Hardy gawked at his boss. He slowly shook his head and expressed gratitude with a questioning tone. “Thank you?”

  “No…thank you…for your service and for giving me hope that truly good men still exist.” A moment passed. “With that being said, if any of you screw up or slack off, I’ll still do my job and come down hard on you.”

  Everyone laughed before Hardy said, “We wouldn’t have it any other way, sir.”

  The director held up the goblet and regarded each woman. “To this team,” everyone stood and raised a glass before Jameson came to Hardy, “and to many years and many more successful missions ahead of us.”

  Hardy, Cruz, Dahlia, Charity and Jameson clinked glasses and drank to the toast.

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  .

  .

  YOUR FREE BOOK…

  The London Operation is not for sale. The only way to get a copy is to click the image above. You’ll be taken to Bookfunnel to begin the download process. Or, you can send me an email at Alex@AlexAnderNovelist.com, and I’ll send you the link to Bookfunnel.

  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).