Let the Hunt Begin

by Alex Ander

  Randall bent over to get closer to his riding companion. “How about we go say ‘hi’ to your Antie Fay?”

  Cassandra grinned.

  “And when we go by,” he nudged the horse with the heels of his shoes, “make sure to wave at her, okay?”

  Smiling, Devlin shook her head at the instigator. “You sure do like stirring up the pot, don’t you?”

  He cranked his head around to meet her gaze before shrugging. “It’s a gift.”

  The all-black horse trotted further ahead and bypassed Faith’s animal.

  Cassandra waved at her aunt.

  “Hey, that’s not fair.” Faith steered her horse toward Randall’s while frowning at her man. “How do you rate, anyway, that you think you can just...”

  Observing the scene ahead of her—her father talking up the guide, Faith jokingly harassing Randall over him stealing Cassandra, her husband focused on making sure he stayed on his horse—Devlin smiled then looked up to admire puffy clouds dotting a blue sky.

  The rising sun warmed her cool cheeks.

  Two beats later, after casting a nervous backward glance to see if anyone was behind her, the fallen-away Catholic made a Tyrannosaurus rex style, short-armed sign of the cross, quickly touching her forehead, heart, left and right shoulder. Thank You, Father, she regarded her family, for all You have given me, before her mind drifted to the loss of her first husband, the catalyst that had sparked her loss of faith. Even when I turned away from You, You never left me. She thought for a moment then let a thin smile adorn her features a moment later. Have patience with me, O Lord. As I’ve said before...I’m just getting back into this. But with the gift of your Grace, I promise to do better and BE better in the future. Amen.

  Devlin kicked her heels and made a sound through her pursed lips.

  The mare picked up its pace.

  She pulled up on Ashford’s horse’s port side. Matching her horse’s speed with that of the second animal, she stretched out her right arm and smiled at her mate.

  He took her hand.

  “I love you, Curt.”

  “I love you, too, Jess.”

  Devlin faced forward, and the couple held hands while riding across the field of swaying grass.

  ∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞

  .

  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).

  … … … … …

  .

  The

  London

  Operation

  (Quick Preview)

  Aaron Hardy

  Patriotic Action

  Alex Ander

  .

  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 tur
ned. “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 myself. 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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  Sneak Peek Preview of

  To Reign Supreme

  (Jaxon Reigns Action Thriller)...

  .

  Chapter 1

  The Black Rose

  DECEMBER 8th; 9:11 P.M.

  NEW YORK CITY

  “THE BLACK ROSE”

  A GENTLEMEN’S CLUB

  Sitting alone in a dark corner, his back to the wall, Jaxon Reigns scanned the female servers who wore the same all-black outfits—knee boots with three-inch heels, rose-patterned fishnet stockings, low-cut tank tops, and micro miniskirts with hems that swayed with every step, or fluttered higher with every spin of the hips.

  Except for the two women seated at a table on his left, the rest of the three dozen patrons were adult males from all age groups, dressed in all manner of attire from jeans and tennis shoes to three-piece suits and dress shoes.

  The club’s decor resembled a comfortable den. Burgundy leather chairs and sofas intermingled with tall tables and tall chairs. Around the perimeter were floor-to-ceiling bookcases and large wall-mounted portraits of prominent men. Overhead, dark wooden beams intersected to make an upside-down chess board of lighter-colored squares. On Jaxon’s right, a fire blazed in a wide stone fireplace with a white marble mantel.

  The main lights went out, leaving the servers with only the low-wattage nightlights sunk into the floor to navigate the crisscrossing walkways among the tables.

  On Jaxon’s eleven o’clock, on the opposite side of the establishment, two spotlights traversed a stage. Their beams made an ‘X,’ moved about, then zeroed in on a woman dressed in a brown, pin-striped business suit, a black tie around her long neck, her hair in a bun. Black, oversized spectacles magnified round eyes and long eyelashes.

  Jaxon picked up his cell phone and swiped the screen a few times.

  An image appeared.

  He held the device a little higher, his line of sight going from the mobile to the redhead who now had everyone’s attention. He grimaced and bobbed his head from side to side a bit. It could be her.

  The spotlights followed the early-twenties woman, as she strode to center stage, the club’s speakers sending out a low drumbeat with each runway-model footstep she took. She set a briefcase on a table, thumbed two latches, and opened the case.

  The drumbeat slowly grew louder, faster.

  Removing and folding her glasses, she carefully placed them in the case and freed her hair from the bun.

  Red, curly locks cascaded down over her shoulders.

  The spotlights went out.

  The music stopped.

  Ten seconds of silence mixed with a few murmurs and a single, short-lived whistle.

  Five more seconds of anticipation passed.

  From the four corners of the stage, bright lights came on and engulfed the platform.

  Twice as loud as earlier, the drumbeat returned, faster this time, and was joined by an electric guitar ensemble to create a speedy rock-and-roll tune from the 1970s.

  The redhead swept the briefcase aside, stripped off her suit coat and pants, and climbed onto the table wearing red thigh boots, a red thong, and a red corset-style demi bra that stopped halfway between her breasts and her belly button.

  Holding up his phone, while swinging his head back and forth to get in sync with her violent gyrations, Jaxon tried to match the digital image with the bumping and grinding woman.

  After two minutes of table dancing, she slithered to the stage, did a provocative promenade around the perimeter, and finished off with a running slide toward the front of the stage, ending on both knees, her arms out to her sides, her head hanging down behind her, her hair touching the floor, her chest heaving.

  The patrons applauded and cheered.

  Jaxon frowned. Come on, lady. Just lift your head and show me your—

  She righted her head a split-second before the stage lights went out.

  Moments later, the club’s lighting returned to its normal dimly lit setting.

  The performer was gone.

  Gritting his teeth, his mind dialing up a curse word, he made a fist, as his eyes picked up red wavy locks. Jaxon adjusted his gaze an inch to the left and spotted another red-headed, early-twenties woman behind the bar located to the left of the stage. After comparing her to the photo on his phone, he slid the device into an inside pocket on his coat and made his way to the other side of the club.

  *******

  “Don’t look now, girl, but I think you have an admirer heading this way.” Standing behind the club’s bar, dressed in The Black Rose’s all-black “uniform,” a twenty-something server with black, straight, collar-length hair arranged beverages on a circular tray. “He hasn’t taken his eyes off you.”

  A woman with a long, wavy mane of red hair broke away from her task for two beats to spy the appro
aching stranger wearing an unzipped, brown leather jacket that came down to his knees.

  Jaxon leaned over a round stool. “Excuse me, ma’am.”

  The women glanced up before going back to their work.

  “I was wondering if I might have a word with you.”

  The black-haired woman raised a finger. “We don’t date the customers, dude.”

  “Charlene!” said the redhead. “He’s a paying customer.”

  “They all are. So just,” Charlene flicked four fingers toward Jaxon, “go back and sit down,” before she picked up her tray, button hooked around the end of the bar, and made a beeline for her tables.

  In the dim lighting, Redhead took in Jaxon’s features—brown hair, cut short; manicured eyebrows; prominent and wide chin; broad shoulders; straight-spined, dominant bearing; chest muscles protruding from under his black shirt.

  “I think there’s been some misunderstanding. I’m not—”

  “Look, you’re cute and all, but,” Redhead made a face, “you’ve got to be what...twice my age? And, like Char said...”

  Arching his brows, he teetered backward an inch. Twice my age? Ouch.

  “...I don’t date customers.” Redhead scooped up her tray and hurried away, her spiked heels clicking off the tile flooring.

  Jaxon lowered himself onto the nearest stool and watched her dole out drinks, stroll to other tables, and take new orders. Unable to resist the urge any longer, he let his eyes wander to her long, lean legs and the boots rising a touch above her kneecaps.

  Minutes later, scribbling on a notepad, her round tray pinned between her left arm and body, she hustled back behind the bar.

  Jaxon half swiveled to face her. “Just so we’re clear...I’m not here to date you. I only want,” he held up an open hand, “five minutes of your time.”

  “Can’t right now.” She filled two glasses with vodka. “Too busy.”

  Charlene drew up on Redhead’s nine o’clock. “Great. Four more just came in.” She grabbed a couple bottles. “It’s crazy in here.”