by Alex Ander
After Hardy’s plane had landed on American soil, Director Jameson had called to inform him of the meeting. The phone call had been short and to the point. Hardy had been unable to ascertain Jameson’s mood. The man’s personality was cold and his demeanor was rigid. Prior to that call, Hardy and the Director had only one face-to-face meeting, and a tense phone conversation from Russia.
Striding toward the Oval Office, Hardy passed several people—secret service agents, staffers and a few unfamiliar to him. All of them had taken special interest in him. One person cranked his head around, as he passed, continuing to stare. From the time he had stepped onto the grounds of the White House, everyone had acted in the same manner. Their attitude teetered on the brink of admiration and…’dead man walking.’
Two secret service agents, standing on either side of the door to the Oval Office, sized up the newcomer, their eyes never leaving Hardy. Reaching the Oval Office, he heard the door to the Cabinet Room, which was down the hall, open. The President entered the hall with the Joint Chiefs of Staff; he was the first to see Hardy. He acknowledged him and continued his conversation with the Vice-Chairman. Rounding the corner of the hallway, the Joint Chiefs of Staff made eye contact with Hardy, nodded their heads and shook his hand. The last to do so was the Commandant of the Marine Corps, Wesley McIntosh, a four-star general.
General McIntosh was in his mid-sixties and bald, except for a patch of gray hair that surrounded the back of his head near his neck. The numerous medals on his uniform were proof of his professional prowess, having spent almost fifty years serving in the Marine Corps. He had seen action as a foot soldier in Vietnam and as a colonel in the first Gulf War before playing a major role in coordinating the invasion of Iraq in 2003. After the President had nominated him to be a Joint Chief, he was easily confirmed by the Senate. General McIntosh shook Hardy’s hand the longest. “As a fellow Marine, I’m damn proud of you, son.”
Hardy’s eyebrows furled downward, while he shook McIntosh’s hand. “Thank you…sir.”
After McIntosh had left, Hardy saw the President beckoning him toward the Oval Office. Hardy sidestepped the commander in chief and entered the room. FBI Director Jameson and the President’s Chief of Staff, Peter Whittaker, were sitting on the couch. Hardy gestured toward the closing door, more specifically, the scene that had unfolded. “Sir, if you don’t mind me asking, what was that all about?”
The President put a hand on Hardy’s back and extended his free arm. “Come, sit down and I’ll tell you all about it.” The President strolled to the other couch, directly across from Jameson and Whittaker. He sighed when his body sank into the soft cushions. “After spending an hour in one of those straight-back chairs, this feels pretty darned good.”
Hardy shook hands with Whittaker and Jameson before sitting next to the President. He was still unsure of his future. In fact, the greeting he had received from the Joint Chiefs, especially General McIntosh, had only added to the confusion.
Whittaker started the meeting. He was a short, lean man, in his late forties. His black hair was parted on the left side; a thin mustache lay beneath his long, narrow nose. His eyes were small and close together. When he spoke, he had a very distinct Ivy League accent, having grown up in Massachusetts. His words were carefully chosen. The President had tapped Whittaker to be his Chief of Staff, because of his attention to detail. Nothing made it to the President without Whittaker’s knowledge. The President respected and trusted Whittaker and allowed him a great deal of latitude in all things related to the Presidency. “Mr. President, I have scheduled a meeting with the Russian Premier for later this month. Considering how nice the weather has been, I thought the Rose Garden or the South Lawn would be appropriate. Of course, we will have this office made ready if the weather does not cooperate.”
“Excellent,” said the President, who appeared to be very pleased this morning. He shifted his weight to his right hip and crossed his left leg over his right, so he could face Hardy. “Aaron, you have managed to accomplish what no one has been able to do in a long time. Yesterday, the Russian Premier called me, directly. We spoke for a few minutes and talked about two things.” The President held up his right forefinger. “One, he was willing to meet with me, regarding the war on terror; specifically, how our two countries might work together to stop future terrorist attacks.” He held up two fingers. “Two, he had high praise for you.”
Hardy raised his eyebrows. He knew the Premier was grateful, but he did not expect his name to come up during such an important phone call. He glimpsed the men sitting on the other couch. Whittaker was smiling, but Jameson was not.
“Your heroic actions, Aaron, have laid the groundwork for the United States and Russia to become allies in this war on terror. And, that meeting…later this month,” the President pointed, “the one that Mr. Whittaker was referring to…the Premier requested that you be there.”
The events of this morning fell into place like tumblers in a lock. The Joint Chiefs all knew about the upcoming meeting between the President and the Premier, and that Hardy had paved the way. He relaxed, feeling somewhat more confident his job was secure. Since he had gotten the call from Jameson, he had been obsessing over this meeting. Opening his eyes this morning, he was sure he was going to be fired.
The President stood—Whittaker, Jameson and Hardy joined him—and extended his hand. “You’ve done your country a great service, son. I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you’re working for me.” Hardy clasped the President’s hand. “Now, if you and Mr. Jameson will let yourselves out, Mr. Whittaker and I need to hammer out the details of the meeting with the Premier.”
“Of course, Mr. President.”
Jameson nodded, “Sir,” before heading toward the door. Hardy followed.
The two men left the Oval Office and walked down the hallway. Neither one said a word. Hardy had to take longer strides to keep pace with Jameson. He sensed something was not right between him and his boss. The tension between them seemed to have gotten worse. As they approached the lobby, Hardy’s intuition became fact.
Jameson planted both feet and stopped. Hardy had taken two additional steps before he could halt his momentum. “Everything may have worked out this time,” said Jameson. “But, I guarantee that if you continue to go ‘rogue’ on these missions, you’re going to wind up doing irreparable damage to yourself and to your country.”
‘Rogue?’ I followed orders. I accomplished the mission. Hell, I even managed to get a Presidential ‘attaboy.’
“I expect my agents to be disciplined and to follow orders when they are in the field. You got lucky, Hardy. If things had gone south and the Premier had been killed, who do you think would have made a perfect target for the Russians to blame?”
“As I said on the phone, sir, circumstances in the field can change and going to ‘plan B’ does not mean a soldier has gone ‘rogue.’” Hardy held up his hand. “I know you have field experience, but with all due respect, how long has it been since you’ve been in the field, sir?”
Jameson’s face and neck darkened. He glanced toward the lobby. He needed to keep his anger under control.
Thinking he had gone too far, Hardy regretted his words. A beat later, he stood taller. No, I don’t regret anything I said. If he caved now, then Jameson would never respect him. He barreled ahead. “Terrorists don’t play by the same rules we’ve been confined to for years. In order to do my job, I’m going to need to change the rules, too. And, that may mean changing how I carry out the mission, the orders I’ve been given.”
The color of Jameson’s face had made it to crimson.
“I assure you, sir, I have no other motive than to do what’s best for my country.”
“I don’t question your motives, Hardy. Your tactics are what concern me.” Jameson brushed past Hardy and strode toward the lobby.
Hardy watched the man storm off. He shook his head and spoke under his breath, mimicking Jameson. “My tactics led to the capture of my target and t
he saving of innocent life. My tactics got a meeting with the Premier of Russia. My tactics—” Hardy stopped himself. He was going down a juvenile path. He was above that behavior. Maybe, I shouldn’t have taken this job. He ushered the thought out of his mind and meandered toward the lobby. He had a dinner date with Special Agent Cruz and wanted none of this to interfere with that. All he wanted was to go home and get some rest. His problems with Jameson could wait.
Chapter 27: Restaurant
Hardy slid the chair away from the table and waited for Special Agent Cruz to sit before he sat across from her. His plane had landed in Washington D.C. on Sunday around one in the afternoon. Exhausted from his travels, he had slept most of the day and had not seen her until a few minutes ago when she arrived at the restaurant. He was excited, almost giddy, to spend time with her. He had made reservations at a nice restaurant and wanted the evening to be perfect.
“This place is amazing.” Cruz looked around the restaurant. She had worn a red short-sleeved dress. The hem stopped less than an inch above her knees. Tan-colored nylons and red high-heeled pumps accented the dress. Her long hair was up, tied loosely behind her head.
Hardy was dressed in a pair of khaki casual pants with a white polo shirt and brown loafers. He stared at her, while she admired the atmosphere. He was taking in the atmosphere, too, a different kind of atmosphere. She looked beautiful. In the time they had spent together, she had never dressed like this. As an FBI agent, she usually wore slacks and a blazer, her hair in a ponytail. Tonight, Hardy was seeing a different side to her and he loved it.
Cruz noticed him staring at her. She smiled and tilted her head slightly. “What is it?”
Hardy smiled back. “Nothing, I’m just happy we were able to make this happen.” He lifted the bottle of wine he had made sure was waiting for them when they arrived. “Shall I?”
“Of course,” she replied, picking up her glass and holding it for him. After he filled it, she thanked him and took a sip before setting the glass on the table. “So,” the word was a sentence of its own. “How was your trip?”
Hardy filled his glass and placed it, and the bottle, on the table. He felt his stomach churn. He did not want to discuss where he had been. His whereabouts were a matter of national security and not up for discussion, not with her, not with anyone. “It was good.” He changed the subject. “What about you? Is there anything new and exciting happening at the FBI these days?”
She noticed the diversion. It reminded her of the phone conversation they had had before his trip.
During her career, Cruz had developed a keen sense for when people were not being honest with her. This skill had served her well during her investigations; however, she also thought her expertise had contributed to her past failed relationships. She had speculated the men were intimidated by her and left. In reality, maybe her trust issues had driven them away.
Not wanting history repeating itself with Hardy, Cruz did not press for details. “Now, you know I can’t talk about my work.” She smiled flirtatiously and crossed her right leg over her left. “As they say, ‘if I did that, I’d have to kill you.’”
Hardy laughed and reached for his wine flute. He retracted his hand when the waiter stopped at their table. Hardy let Cruz place her order before he asked for a medium-well steak with roasted potatoes and green beans.
“Very good, sir…I’ll get those going for you right away.” The waiter left.
Hardy and Cruz conversed for the next twenty minutes, talking, laughing and having a great time. Topics of conversation were anything and everything, except work. Both of them were relieved that the subject had not come up again. Hardy refilled their wine goblets. A few seconds later, the waiter returned and set plates of food in front of them. After asking if they needed anything else, he left.
“This looks delicious.” Cruz placed both feet on the floor, unfolded a napkin and put it on her lap. She leaned over and breathed in the aroma. “It smells delicious, too.” Looking at Hardy, she slid her hand across the table, palm up. “Will you say grace with me?”
Hardy glanced at her hand before wrinkling his nose. It wasn’t that he did not think there was a God, but rather he did not know for sure. In his line of work, he dealt with facts, not beliefs.
Cruz smiled, knowing he was uncomfortable when it came to matters of faith and God. She glanced at her hand. “Just hold my hand.”
Hardy took her hand. This, I can do.
Bowing her head, she prayed. “Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ, Our Lord. Amen.” She squeezed Hardy’s hand and let go.
That wasn’t so bad. He unfolded his napkin and placed it on his lap. Reaching for his fork, he felt his sat phone vibrating on his hip. Inwardly, Hardy groaned. Not many people had his new number. That meant there was a good chance the caller was Director Jameson.
Cruz heard the buzzing. After the third time, she gestured toward the source of the sound. “Aren’t you going to get that?”
Hardy inspected the phone—Jameson. “Yes, I should probably take this. I’m sorry.” He excused himself before answering the phone and walking away from the table.
Cruz had ordered spaghetti and meatballs with meat sauce. Twirling her fork in the mound of spaghetti on her plate, she watched Hardy. Her investigative nature crept to the forefront of her mind. Judging from his actions, the conversation was tense. At one point, he said something and looked back at her. She smiled at him. He forced a smile and turned away. Her mental synapses were firing. Who’s he talking to? He’s definitely not happy. She saw him end the call and make his way back to their table.
Cruz wiped her mouth with the napkin. “Is everything all right?”
Hardy was focused on the phone in his hand. “Not really.” He paused, searching for the right words, but nothing seemed appropriate. “I’m really sorry. That was work on the phone. Something has come up and I need to leave.”
“You must have an important job, getting called in after hours.” She was unable to mask the disappointment in her voice.
Hardy heard it, too. He stood behind his chair. His eyes went from the plate of food to the bottle of wine to her red dress. He stared at her. She was gorgeous, the best thing to happen to him in a long time. And, he had to leave her. “Look, I’m really sorry—” he did not know what to say next.
It was Cruz’s turn to force a smile. “It’s all right.” She took extra time to fold her napkin before setting it on the table. “I understand.” No, I don’t. Their relationship had started great, but his abrupt trip had left her with more questions than answers. Now, he was back and they were enjoying a wonderful meal and terrific conversation. One phone call later and he has to leave in the middle of dinner. She tried to make light of the situation, even managing an almost sincere smile. “I guess it’s a good thing we drove separately.”
“I’ll make it up to you.” He pushed his chair under the table, “I promise,” and walked away.
Cruz watched Hardy leave. I don’t even get a kiss goodbye. As if he had read her thoughts, she watched him spin around and return to her side before leaning over and kissing her cheek. Standing, he turned to leave and she grabbed his hand. “Be careful.” Why did I say that? Even though she did not know what his job entailed, her gut told her it was dangerous. Hardy smiled and squeezed her hand, “I will,” before leaving the restaurant.
DEADLY ASSIGNMENT
Aaron Hardy Series
Book #3
Chapter 1: Charity
Monday, September 16th, 4:37 p.m.; south of Dallas, Texas
Charity Sinclair sat in the backseat of a four-door black sedan, staring at her reflection in the rear-view mirror. Her shoulder-length dark hair, tinged red, was tousled; individual locks and strands stuck out on either side of her head. Her left eye was covered by a large lock; she pushed it away from her face, letting the hair slide between her fingers.
Charity was five-feet, six inches tall and weighed
one hundred and fifteen pounds, but her slim figure gave her the appearance of a taller woman with longer legs. The lines of her bust, waist and hips flowed gracefully down her body, creating the outline of an hourglass. Her eyes were dark and large, set beneath dark eyebrows that followed the curvature of her round eyes. Eyeglasses with red plastic frames rested on her short, slender nose. Despite her attractive features, the one characteristic most people saw first was her smile. Her mouth was wide and paired with a full set of lips that Charity loved to color with red lipstick. A broad smile revealed large white teeth, her lips stopping short of showing her gum line. When she smiled, no one could resist the urge to return the gesture. It was her greatest physical quality. Men were enchanted by it. Women were jealous of it. Children were drawn to it.
Charity’s eyes shifted to the man in the driver’s seat. His chin rested on his chest and his head was cocked slightly to the right. One hand rested on his leg, palm up. The palm was bright red—the result of his efforts to stop the flow of blood from a bullet wound in his chest. She could not avert her eyes from the man. “What have I gotten myself into?” Several moments passed, but the body in the front seat still held her gaze. A nearby crow cawed and she blinked her eyes a couple of times before shutting them. Removing her eyeglasses, she set them on her lap and rubbed her eyes with the heels of her palms. I’ve got to do something. Sitting in the backseat of the sedan was not going to save her life.
Charity slid the bows of her eyeglasses past her ears, placed a hand on the back of the front seat and twisted her upper body. Peering through the back window, she saw no other cars in sight. She opened the back door on the driver’s side and stepped out. Her fingers curled over the top of the doorframe and her right foot still inside the vehicle, she whipped her head left and right; her hair flew over one shoulder, and then the other. The road was deserted. Squinting, she gaped through a stand of trees on the other side of the road, her eyes straining to make out a few far away buildings and another road. With no other signs of civilization in the area, the storefronts were her best chance for help. She could not stay here much longer. If those men came, they would kill her for sure this time. They had found her once. They could find her again.
