The President's Man

by Alex Ander

  “Shepherd, this is Bigfoot. All targets have been neutralized. Your path is clear. I repeat—all targets neutralized. The structure is clear—over.”

  “Copy that.” Hardy hurried to get Charity. The two of them were greeted by the sights, sound and smells of heavy, but dissipating smoke and a blaring alarm. Escorting Charity toward the stairs, he saw Special Agent Cruz. She had slid down the chimney and was sitting on the floor, covering her stomach. He knelt. “What’s wrong?”

  She raised her head and peeled back her hand; it was covered in blood. There was a circular stain on her light blue shirt, growing larger. “I thought it was a sharp stone.” Her head dropped and she examined her wound.

  Hardy screamed into his phone. “Man down, man down, I need immediate medical attention on the second floor.” He ran back to the bathroom and returned with two bath towels. He pushed aside her hand and pressed a towel against the wound.

  Cruz screamed and arched her back. She grabbed Hardy’s forearm, her fingernails digging into his arm. He felt the pain, but never moved. Her body convulsed and her head rocked backwards, bouncing off the chimney. Hardy cradled her head with his free hand. Her breathing was labored and every breath of air sent new waves of agony up her right side. “Damn it. Where’s that medic?” he bellowed. Seconds later, Tom Henderson and Eva Draper appeared.

  Draper, the team’s medical specialist, skirted by Henderson and dropped to both knees on Cruz’s left. Draper was short, standing five-feet, three inches tall and weighing a little over one hundred pounds. Her black hair was cut short, stopping at the neck. The bangs of her hair covered her forehead, ending at the top of her eyebrows. She was twenty-seven-years-old, but her facial features made her look as if she was in her late teens. She had grown up and spent her entire life in Michigan, Hardy’s home state. The two of them had connected from their first conversation, talking about all things related to Michigan. Like Hardy, she was a die-hard fan of the Detroit Lions and they had had numerous conversations about the team and its prospects at a winning season this year. Right now, however, the only thing on Draper’s mind was Cruz. “Where is she hit?” Draper bobbed her head back and forth, searching for wounds.

  “Stomach, right side,” Hardy replied. “I’ve had pressure on it. There’s a lot of blood.”

  Draper shuffled to the left and straddled Cruz’s leg. She reached for the towel Hardy was holding, “Move,” and pushed.

  Hardy did not budge.

  The medical specialist faced him. He was staring at Cruz. Draper leaned forward and got his attention. Knowing this was difficult, she employed her best soothing voice. “Let go, Hardy. I’ve got it from here.”

  Henderson put a hand on Hardy’s shoulder. “Come on, let Drape do her job.” He reached under Hardy’s armpit and pulled him to his feet. Hardy could not have resisted Henderson’s strength even if he had tried.

  Tom Henderson stood six-feet, three inches tall and weighed two hundred and thirty-five pounds of solid muscle. He was thirty-six-years-old and had spent half of his life in the service of his country. The hair under his helmet was dark; patches of gray peeked out. His facial features matched his wide frame. His eyes were set far apart and his nose was broad; a full, handlebar mustache lay beneath it. He was proud of the mustache and could be seen stroking it with his fingers at every opportunity.

  Draper examined Cruz. “She’s lost a lot of blood. I see an exit wound on her back, so I think the bullet went straight though. I can’t tell if any major organs have been hit. We need to stop the bleeding and get her to a hospital ASAP.”

  Henderson brought a radio to his mouth. “This is Bigfoot. We need that bird back here, now! We have an injured soldier that needs immediate medevac. Do you copy—over?”

  A voice from the radio: “Copy that. We are coming in now on the south side of the structure—over.”

  Hardy faced Charity and pointed. “Go with him.” He spun his head toward Henderson. “Where’s Ty?” Hardy was referring to the last member of AR-1, Tyler Pendleton.

  “He’s outside, watching our backs.”

  “Good. Get everyone ready to go. I want to lift off,” he gestured toward Cruz, “as soon as she’s on board.”

  Henderson grabbed Charity’s hand and led her toward the stairs. “Copy that.” Over his shoulder: “The stairs are clear. You have no obstructions to the chopper.”

  Hardy knelt next to Cruz. She plopped her hand onto his thigh and he slipped his hand under it, squeezing gently. She lifted her head. Her eyes were barely open, her eyelids fluttering up and down. She mumbled something. He leaned closer and put his ear to her mouth.

  “Who…who are…these people? Jameson, why did he…call…you?” Her chest rose and fell. The spent oxygen barely made it to Hardy’s cheek. “I swear…I don’t think…I know you…at…all.”

  Hardy closed the distance between them—their cheeks touching—and slammed shut his eyes. A six-inch knife had been thrust into his heart. At that moment, he wanted to tell her everything, everything about himself—his job, his family, his likes and dislikes, his favorite color, his favorite food. He wanted to tell her those things every other couple shared when they were getting to know each other. Putting his lips to her ear, he opened his mouth to speak. Bound by an oath to the President, he shut his mouth. The oath kept him from sharing what he did for a living. The oath was tearing him up inside, threatening to destroy his relationship with possibly the only woman who could understand him.

  Cruz’s head slumped forward and Hardy held her face in his hands. “Cruz, talk to me…Cruz.”

  Draper put her fingers under the woman’s chin. “It’s okay, Hardy. I have a pulse, but we need to move, now!” She collected her medical supplies and stood. “Hardy, let’s move.”

  He snapped to attention, sliding his right arm under Cruz’s knees and his left arm under her back. Lifting her from the floor, he hurried toward the stairs. Her head hung down. He brought his left elbow up and her head came forward, coming to rest on his shoulder. With Draper in the lead, making sure there were no obstacles in his path and providing support in case he lost his footing, Hardy carried Cruz down the stairs.

  Once outside, Henderson and Draper took Cruz and put her into the aircraft, while Tyler scanned the area for threats. Hardy climbed inside and got on the floor next to her. When Draper, Henderson and Tyler were aboard, the Bell 412EP helicopter lifted off. Banking right, the aircraft headed for the hospital.

  Hardy cradled Cruz in his arms, whispering in her ear. Even though the noise from the aircraft’s rotors and engine drowned out his words, everyone suspected what he was saying. Draper leaned forward and placed a hand on his shoulder.

  Chapter 12: Baylor

  The helicopter touched down at Baylor University Medical Center in Dallas, Texas. Henderson had contacted Director Jameson, who made a few calls and had a team of doctors and nurses standing by on the roof. They quickly got Special Agent Cruz on a gurney and examined her on the way to the operating room. Doctors determined she needed immediate surgery.

  While Cruz was wheeled to the operating room, Doctor Raj stayed behind. He spoke in a thick Indian accent. “The surgery could take up to three hours, depending on what I find when I open her up. As soon as I know more, I’ll let you know.” He turned to leave.

  Hardy put a hand on the doctor’s shoulder. “Is she going to be all right, doctor?”

  “It’s too early to tell.” He removed the hand. “I need to get prepped. Leave your contact information at the front desk.” He disappeared behind the double-doors before anyone had a chance to ask more questions.

  Hardy stood with his hands on his head, fingers interlocked, facing the slowly closing double-doors. He watched the doctors and nurses take the gurney—and Cruz—out of his sight.

  Charity and the members of AR-1 had gathered around him. Several moments passed before Draper stood alongside Hardy and put her hand on his lower back. “She’s going to be okay, Hardy.”

  Hardy dropped
his hands and made eye contact with everyone. When he came to Charity, he stopped and stared. He could nothing for Cruz, but he could fulfill her duty to the witness. “Miss Sinclair, we’re going to move you to a safer location. I’ll contact Director Jameson and get another safe house lined up for you.” He turned his head toward Draper and gestured toward Charity. “Draper, I want you to—”

  “The hell you are,” said Charity, raising her voice and interrupting him. All eyes focused on her. She pointed at the doors. “Twice, that woman risked her life to save me. I’m not going anywhere, until I know she’s going to be okay. I owe her at least that much.”

  “This isn’t open for debate, Miss Sinclair. Your safety is my responsibility now and I make the decisions. And, I say we’re moving you.”

  Charity put her hands on her hips and glimpsed him from head to toe. “I can see you’re a man who’s used to getting his own way—that’s fine with me. In this case, however,” she poked her forefinger into Hardy’s chest, “you will not be getting your way.” She jerked her thumb at her chest. “You will not be ordering me around. And, if you try to remove me from this hospital,” she moved her right foot back, transformed her hands into fists and brought them to her chest, “you may succeed, but I guarantee you I will not go quietly.” Still in a fighting stance, she gestured toward Henderson and his team. “Besides, how much safer can I get with all of you around me.”

  Hardy’s mouth fell slightly open and his eyebrows went up. After a few seconds, he lowered his head and his nostrils flared. His fingernails dug into his palms. She was right. He was used to getting what he wanted. He had been in positions of authority for many years and no one had spoken to him that way. If Charity had been a man, she would have been picking her teeth off the floor. Since she was a woman, however, he could not correct her insolence with his fists. He glimpsed Henderson and Tyler.

  Raising their hands in surrender, they stared at the floor and shook their heads. Hardy moved on to Draper, who poorly hid a small grin.

  “Don’t look at me. I’m on her side.”

  Coming back to Charity, Hardy’s eyes narrowed before he unclenched his fists. What am I doing? He was not going to hit a woman.

  “She has a point, Hardy.” Draper made a circular motion with a finger. “There’s no safer place for her than with those who’ve already killed to defend her.”

  Not feeling up to arguing, he threw up his arms. “Fine,” he grunted, departing from the group. “Have it your way.” Over his shoulder: “For future reference, the next time you plan to hit someone, you might want to make a proper fist.” He disappeared down the hallway.

  Charity glanced at her hands. They were in the shape of fists, but she had her thumbs tucked under the rest of her fingers. If she had thrown a punch, she would have most likely dislocated or broken her thumb.

  “Come on, slugger.” Draper wrapped an arm around Charity’s shoulder. “Let’s get some coffee. We’ve got a few hours before we know anything.”

  Chapter 13: Tick,Tick,Tick

  Aaron Hardy found a small waiting room void of people. He sat in a cloth chair in the far corner. Resting his elbows on his knees, he leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. He remained in that position for several minutes. The room was quiet, except for the second-hand on the wall clock above him. Each time the second-hand moved, it made a sound—tick…tick…tick. The noise would have been maddening for most people. Hardy focused on the consistency and matched his breathing to the beat. He was thinking of many people and things—Special Agent Cruz’s health and his relationship with her, Miss Sinclair’s safety, Jameson, his job and Gutierrez, the s.o.b. responsible for all of this. His mind was unable to concentrate on a specific one.

  With his fingertips, he rubbed his eyes before transitioning to his temples. He needed to call Jameson. Right now, his nerves were raw and he was concerned about what he might say to him. On some level, Hardy held Jameson responsible for Cruz’s condition; however, on a deeper level, he knew his emotions were getting the better of him. She was a federal agent. She was performing her duty. Gutierrez was ultimately liable. He was the one who started this, forcing Charity to go into protective custody. His men carried out the attack on the safe houses. Yes, Gutierrez was the one on whom Hardy wanted to unleash his anger.

  His thoughts went back to Cruz and the look in her eyes before she lost consciousness. She did not trust him anymore. At the very least, she was losing faith in him. That was almost too much to bear. His phone vibrated a few minutes later. He leaned back in the chair and stuck his hand inside his pocket. He knew it was Jameson before he saw the phone’s screen. He gave himself a mental pep talk and finished by saying aloud, “Keep it together, Hardy.” He put the phone to his ear. “Hardy.”

  Chapter 14: Justice

  “Hardy, this is Jameson. What’s the word on Cruz? How’s she doing?”

  “She’s in surgery. The doctors were unsure of her injuries and said it could take up to three hours before the surgery is complete. They’ll let us know as soon as they know more.” Hardy put his hand to his forehead before running his fingers through his hair. He sat straight in the chair and put his hand on the armrest.

  The line was quiet for a few seconds before Jameson spoke. “She’s tough. She’ll pull through.”

  Hardy squeezed the armrest tighter. The veins in his arm stuck out. “You smug, arrogant jackass—you don’t give a damn about her. You only want to know when you can have her back in the field. It’s your fault she’s here in the first place.” That was what Hardy wanted to say. His reply came in a monotone voice. “Yes, she will.”

  “Hardy, I’ve got bad news. I’ve been informed by the Attorney General that the government has decided not to pursue the case against Gutierrez.”

  “What,” said Hardy, rising from the chair? “They can’t do that.”

  “I’m afraid Gutierrez has already been released from federal custody. He got on a plane headed for Mexico.”

  Hardy could not believe what he was hearing. He made a fist with his left hand and reared back to punch the wall. He caught himself. “What about those agents who lost their lives at the safe house? They were your agents.”

  “Hardy—”

  “What about Cruz,” continued Hardy, glimpsing his hand, still stained with her blood? “She took a bullet to protect your freaking witness?” His mind had queued up the word freaking; however, the word that slipped past his lips was something else. “She was following your orders and now you’re giving up. You put her in harm’s way and now you are abandoning her.”

  “Agent Hardy,” shot back Jameson, “You need to calm down and—”

  “Don’t tell me to calm down. I’m the one who’s here. I’m the one who’s dodging bullets. I’m the one having to carry Cruz to a helicopter and watch her being wheeled away for surgery. I’m not the one playing politics in Washington, however, while good agents are losing their lives.” As soon as the words left his mouth, Hardy knew he had crossed the line. His temper had taken over and he could not take back what he had said. He bordered on insubordination.

  “Damn it, Hardy, that’s enough,” shouted Jameson. His voice came through so loudly that Hardy removed the sat phone from his ear. “Now, I order you to shut your mouth and listen to me. I give the orders and you listen. Is that clear, Agent Hardy?”

  Hardy opened his mouth to tell Jameson what he could do with his orders, but remained silent.

  “I said is that clear?”

  “Perfectly,” replied Hardy through clenched teeth.

  “Good.” Jameson took a few moments to get his anger under control. “This matter with Gutierrez is complicated and I don’t have the time to explain it to you. The decision to let him go was not my call to make. I don’t agree with it, but there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  “You could have used—”

  “Hardy,” said Jameson, his voice rising. “Just because I don’t agree with the decision to let him go, doesn’t mean m
y hands are tied in the matter.”

  Hardy felt a glimmer of hope. “I’m not following you.”

  “We’ve been tracking Gutierrez’s plane since it took off. It landed in Mexico. We have an asset in the country who has confirmed that Gutierrez is currently at a small villa just over the U.S. border. Our asset believes Gutierrez will be at the villa for another two hours, maybe three. We only have a small window of opportunity.”

  Hardy switched the phone to his other ear. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying I have a jet waiting on the tarmac at Dallas/Fort Worth all gassed up and ready to go. Once you’re aboard, I’ll send you the details. You’ll have free reign to do whatever is necessary to bring Gutierrez to justice. Take Henderson and his team along for support.”

  Hardy stood still, thinking. He wanted justice for Cruz, but how could he leave her? He wanted to be the first one to know when she was out of surgery. He wanted a familiar face there when she opened her eyes. In any other circumstance, his decision would have been certain and immediate. His thoughts scattered when he heard Jameson’s voice.

  “The clock’s ticking, Hardy. What’s it going to be?”

  Chapter 15: Tango Down

  8:51 p.m. (local time); Mexico—just over the United States border

  The sun had set more than an hour ago, but the air remained humid. Hardy could feel the sweat beads on his forehead. He looked toward the sky. A half-moon provided enough light to make out the figures moving back and forth around the perimeter of the small villa. He had agreed to lead this covert incursion into Mexico on the condition that Draper remain at the hospital and watch over Charity and Special Agent Cruz. He requested regular updates on her condition via text messages. Jameson had arranged for a team of trusted agents to see to Charity’s safety.