The President's Man

by Alex Ander

  “Three tangos down—over.” Henderson had made three long-range shots from his vantage point on a small hill, two hundred meters away from the northeast corner of the villa. His specialty was long-range sniping and Hardy was convinced Henderson was the best. “You’re clear to proceed.”

  “Copy that.” Hardy motioned it was time to move out. Crouching, Hardy and Tyler ran to a row of hedges fifty meters away from the southwest corner of the structure. They located the two sentries guarding the front door and sent two silenced rounds from their MP5 rifles toward each man. The men dropped. Hardy and Tyler sprinted to the villa and took positions on either side of the front door—Hardy on the left, Tyler on the right. They waited for Henderson’s update. Hardy gripped his rifle tighter. Come on, Big Man. Give us a report. If any one of the remaining men emerged, Hardy and Tyler would be forced to shoot him, exposing their presence and losing the element of surprise. Hardy’s earpiece crackled.

  “Bigfoot is in position—stand by.” A few seconds passed, while Henderson peered through the scope on his sniper rifle. “You have six confirmed targets and three potential targets on the first floor, concentrated in the center of the room—over.”

  “Copy that.” Hardy signaled to Tyler and readied his rifle.

  Tyler pushed open the door.

  The structure was small and simple. Three couches were grouped together in a ‘U’ shape in the center. A chandelier above the couches was lit, but a few bulbs were missing. Two large windows took up most of the wall space on the east and west side. A staircase was located on the east wall that led to an upper level walkway running east to west. On the north side of the walkway were three doors. Beneath the staircase, on the east wall, was a closed door. At the far end of the main floor was a kitchen area.

  Hardy advanced into the room and moved right. Tyler followed and went left, flanking the house’s occupants. Six men were sitting on the couches, while three topless women danced on the floor between the couches. The women stopped dancing and the men stopped ogling and turned their attention toward Hardy and Tyler. The women, having been around men with weapons, were not surprised by the tactical team’s entrance. Seeing the rifles, the smiles on the men’s faces disappeared.

  Tyler was the first to engage. He let loose a volley of suppressed weapon’s fire at the two men on the right couch. They never got to their feet. Their heads tilted backwards, hitting the headrest.

  Hardy moved right and discharged his rifle at the two men on the couch nearest the front door. Each trigger press sent a three-round burst. Like the two on the right couch, the men remained in a seated position, as they expired from gunshot wounds to the back of the head.

  The final two men on the far couch—opposite the three women—were more difficult to put down. Hardy did not want the women to become collateral damage. Secretly, he hated that term. In his mind, if a mission was properly planned and executed, there was no collateral damage. That occurred when people got careless. Moving further and further, he cleared the last woman and dropped the man on the right, who had stood, only to fall backward into a seated position when Hardy’s bullets ripped open the man’s shirt. The women screamed and dove for the floor. The last man alive grabbed a handful of one woman’s black hair before she could hit the floor. He put the muzzle of his pistol against her right temple. She tried to scream, but only produced a whimper.

  The man’s head darted out from behind her, alternating from one side of the woman’s head to the other. He stepped back, but his knees hit the sofa, impeding his rearward movement.

  Tyler advanced, while Hardy transitioned to his suppressed pistol and crept closer. Their weapons were pointed at the man’s head each time he appeared from behind the woman. When Tyler was within arm’s reach, he stopped.

  Glimpsing his teammate, Hardy clenched the pistol tighter, drew in a short breath and let out half. Timing was crucial for the next move. A woman’s life depended on a precise combination of Tyler’s speed and Hardy’s accuracy. Come on. Show me your beady little eyes you son-of-a—

  The skittish head jutted out toward Hardy, the left eye lining up perfectly with Hardy’s front sight. Striking like a coiled snake, Tyler leapt forward. Hardy fired one round. Twelve hundred feet-per-second later, the 9mm bullet found its target, as Tyler clutched the man’s gun hand and jerked the pistol toward the ceiling; the weapon discharged before he could wrench it from the limp hand. The lifeless body and the terrified, screaming woman collapsed onto the floor. The women were shaking and crying, but unharmed.

  Holstering the pistol and grabbing his rifle, Hardy motioned for Tyler to open the door under the staircase. “We are no longer silent. Move forward and assault—over.”

  “Copy that,” confirmed Henderson.

  Hardy kept his rifle trained on the door, while Tyler opened it and stepped back, allowing Hardy to enter and clear the room. He re-emerged and headed toward the staircase, swapping out the partially spent magazine in his rifle for a full one.

  The two men crept up the stairs. At the top, Hardy signaled and Tyler kicked in the first door. They cleared the room and moved on to the second one, repeating the process. Exiting, the doorframe above their heads came apart, sending splinters into the air. They backed up and took cover. “Bigfoot, this is Shepherd. T-Rex and I are on the second floor, taking fire. The shooter’s on the main floor. What’s your position—over?”

  Before Tyler joined the team, his call sign had been T-Man; however, he changed it to T-Rex when he discovered Henderson’s call sign was Bigfoot. Since Tyler was six-feet, four inches tall and outweighed Henderson by at least twenty pounds, Tyler had to have a name that reflected his larger physical stature. It was a classic ‘mine is bigger than yours’ scenario.

  Getting no response, Hardy was about to re-issue the command when three shots from Henderson’s Smith and Wesson M&P pistol, chambered in 45 auto, filled the villa.

  “This is Bigfoot. One of you needs to spend some time on the shooting range. Thanks to me, your tango is down for good. You are clear to proceed—over.” One of the men Hardy had shot had still been alive.

  “Copy that, Bigfoot.” Hardy and Tyler positioned themselves near the last room. Hardy nodded his head and Tyler put a boot to the door; it flew open, slamming against an inside wall.

  Hardy entered the room and darted left, while Tyler went straight along the right wall. Three half-naked women were sitting on a huge bed against the far wall. The bed was almost the size of two king-size beds. They were huddled together near the headboard, covering their bodies with bed sheets, blankets, pillows, whatever they had grabbed. The room was smaller than the first two and the bed took up most of the floor space. There were no windows and no place for someone to hide, except under the bed; Tyler checked it, stood and shook his head. Hardy inspected the entire room, his head pivoting in all directions. He studied the women. They were afraid, but their body language was sending other signals, too. At different times, each woman shifted her eyes toward the wall behind Hardy before coming back to him. It was subtle, but he noticed it. He turned around and examined the wall. There was nothing special about it. Taking a few steps backward, he made mental calculations of the room’s size. Even though it was smaller, it appeared to occupy the same amount of cubic feet as the other bedrooms.

  After walking to the door and inspecting the wall, Hardy raised his hand and motioned toward the wall. Tyler hefted his rifle. Hardy fired down the length of the wall, while Tyler sprayed it from the side, until their weapons ran dry.

  Hardy strode the length of the wall, swapping magazines. He spotted something at the far end. Stopping and examining the section, which appeared to be a thin, moveable panel, he glanced at Tyler and slid the panel to the left, revealing a secret hiding place. Hardy clicked the flashlight mounted to his rifle. The immediate area was clear. He took a step forward and pointed his rifle down the narrow cavity. Halfway down, a man lay motionless. Hardy advanced, his rifle trained on him. Standing next to the corpse, he r
ecognized it as the former Hector Gutierrez, the man’s bare chest covered with bullet wounds. Lifeless eyes stared back at Hardy. That was for Cruz. Making sure he accomplished the mission, he put one round into the head, “And, that’s for me,” before pivoting and leaving the room.

  Henderson had joined them and was standing next to Tyler. He tilted his head back and raised his eyebrows. “Did we get him?”

  Hardy nodded. “Eagle, this is Shepherd.” Eagle was the call sign for the helicopter that had dropped them near the villa. “Mission accomplished—we will meet you at the rendezvous point in twenty minutes. Do you copy—over?”

  “Copy that, Shepherd. We will be waiting your arrival—over.”

  Twenty minutes later, safely aboard the helicopter, Hardy took out his sat phone and sent a text to Draper. Ten seconds later, she responded. She’s out of surgery and in post-op recovery. Still haven’t heard from the doctors.

  Chapter 16: Waiting

  11:02 p.m.; Baylor University Medical Center, Dallas, Texas

  Hardy rounded the last corner and made a beeline for the room where Draper had said she and Charity were waiting. Henderson and Tyler were a step behind. Barging into the waiting room, Hardy looked for Draper. “Where the hell is she?” He wheeled around and nearly collided with her.

  “Come with me.” She grabbed a handful of his shirt and yanked. “A nurse escorted Charity and me to a consultation room. She said the doctor would be with us, shortly.”

  “So, any word on how the surgery went?”

  “No.” She led him into the consultation room.

  Small and minimally furnished, it was evident the room was only meant for short conversations between doctors and family members. Charity was sitting at a small table—the only table—facing Hardy. There was a chair next to her and another opposite the table. She stood and offered him her seat.

  Hardy waved her off and motioned for her to sit. “How are you doing?” Charity appeared tired, worn out. The day’s events had taken a toll on her. “Have you managed to get some sleep?”

  She regarded him. After everything he had experienced, he still had the decency to inquire about someone else’s well-being. His face was haggard and the lines on his forehead were set deeper. Wherever he had been for the last couple of hours, it was obvious he had not gotten any rest. She flashed a smile. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”

  Hardy nodded and turned around when the doctor entered. “How is she? Is she going to be all right? When can I see her? What about—”

  The doctor raised a hand. “Hold on.” He pushed the door, but jumped back when a meaty hand prevented him from closing it.

  Henderson and Tyler forced their way inside.

  Doctor Raj pushed back. “I’m sorry, but this room is for family members only. You’ll have to—”

  Hardy put a hand on the doctor’s shoulder. “It’s okay, doctor. They’re with me.”

  The tiny space became smaller with the addition of two people, two large people.

  Doctor Raj slid out a chair. He was a short man with a thin build. He was in his mid-forties. His skin was dark and his hair was black. A pair of wire-rimmed eyeglasses rested on a small nose. He was dressed in light blue scrubs and was still wearing a cap from surgery. Tied around his neck, a surgical mask rested on his chest; the untied strings of the mask swayed back and forth when he moved. After sitting across from Charity, he swiped the cap from his head and tossed it onto the table.

  Hardy motioned for Draper to take the last chair. She shook her head and pointed. He could tell there would be no negotiating with her. Plus, he was exhausted and welcomed the time off his feet. “Thanks.” Draper stood next to him, while Henderson and Tyler moved around the doctor and stood behind Charity. Everyone faced the doctor.

  Before Doctor Raj spoke, he slowly moved his head from left to right and examined each person. During his time in medicine, he had met with many people to discuss operations. These people, however, were most unusual; three men and one woman wearing black tactical clothing and combat boots, looking as if they had just come off the battlefield. Lastly, he spied Charity and her minimal clothing. She seemed different from the others. “How are you related to the patient?”

  Hardy was direct. “She’s a very close friend. Now, tell us how she’s doing.”

  Raj’s eyes settled on Hardy and assumed him to be in charge. “All right, let me first say that the surgery went very well, and she is out of post-op, resting in her room.”

  Hardy relaxed a little. Good news.

  “When I got her on the operating table, I saw there were two entry wounds, extremely close together. They were touching, in fact. However, there was only one exit wound. Knowing it was very unlikely that both bullets would have exited the body in the same spot, I took a closer look and found a bullet lodged near her lung. I was able to remove it and there were no signs that the bullet had fragmented. I believe it was in one piece.”

  Hardy leaned forward. “So, she’s going to be all right.”

  The doctor removed his eyeglasses and set them on the table. He rubbed the indentations left by the nose pads. “One of the bullets nicked her kidney.”

  Hardy arched his eyebrows. His stomach muscles contracted. Bad news.

  “I was able to stitch up the kidney, but I’m concerned about an infection. The entry wound had a lot of debris in it.”

  Hardy and Draper looked at each other. They had worked on Cruz at the safe house, trying to get her bleeding under control. Did they cause the infection?

  “Now, I understand that whoever stopped the flow of blood did so with whatever materials available.” He pumped his hands. “Don’t get me wrong, if that wound had been left alone, she could have died before even making it here. That was a good field dressing; however, at this point, there is a risk of infection. I have started her on some antibiotics and she’s heavily medicated to help her body fight. Rest is the best thing for her right now.”

  Hardy stood. “Can I see her?”

  Raj shook his head. “I’m afraid not, son. She won’t open her eyes for at least twelve to eighteen hours. As I said, she’s on some strong medications.” He stood and eyed Hardy. “The only thing we can do is wait.” He took another glance at the others, especially their attire. “I presume your friend is a soldier?”

  Hardy’s mind was a million miles away. “What?” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. Yes, she’s FBI…an FBI agent.”

  “Good. That fighting spirit can only serve to help her get better.” The doctor opened the door. “If you have any questions, I’ll be around. Just tell one of the nurses.”

  Everyone thanked the doctor before he left.

  Hardy stared at the open doorway. The room was quiet, except for the usual hospital noise at the nearby nurse’s station. He ran his fingers through his short hair and vigorously scratched the top of his head. Glancing at the members of AR-1, he waved a hand. “You don’t have to stay here. Go get a hot shower and some rest. You heard the doctor. There’s nothing we can do for the next eighteen hours.” He took a couple steps toward the door. “I appreciate—” Draper grabbed his elbow. He glanced at the hand before making eye contact.

  “We’re not leaving you, Hardy.” She tilted her head toward Henderson and Tyler. “That’s not how we do things.”

  “We don’t,” said Tyler, “leave a man—or in this case, a woman—behind.”

  Hardy cranked his head toward the voice.

  Henderson locked eyes with Hardy. “Damn straight we don’t.”

  Hardy pursed his lips and nodded. “Thanks.” He shuffled through the doorway. “I need some air.”

  Chapter 17: Penland

  Hardy roamed the hospital hallways for the next half an hour. Lost in thought, he passed by nurses, doctors and people visiting family members and friends. He glanced inside rooms and saw patients lying in beds. Loved ones were gathered around the bed. Some were crying. He kept walking, not wanting to contemplate a similar scene with him and Special
Agent Cruz.

  He turned a corner, his mind replaying the images of her being taken away for surgery. He had no idea how long he had been walking, but when he stopped and looked up, he was standing at the door to Penland Chapel. He stared at the door for a full minute, breaking away to glance up and down the hallway. What the hell. Opening the door, his heart beat faster and his body temperature went up. Mustering the courage to take the first step, he slipped inside and closed the door behind him. As soon as the latch caught, he seemed shut off from the rest of the world.

  For a few moments, he stood by the door, unsure if he was scrutinizing the chapel, or the chapel was scrutinizing him. He chose a chair in the back corner, crossed his legs and leaned back. A split-second later, he put both feet on the floor and sat erect, not knowing if his posture was disrespectful. He folded his arms over his chest and stared straight ahead. Maybe this was a mistake. Places like these made him feel awkward. They were tolerable with others around, but being alone was nerve-racking. The silence seemed to shine a spotlight on his soul, his closely guarded inner thoughts.

  He got up to leave, but stopped and sat again. Where am I going to go? He had nothing to do, but wait. Being a man of action, Hardy hated to wait. Waiting made him feel powerless, unable to achieve results. Minutes later, he held his head in his hand. His body shook and his broad shoulders rocked up and down, matching his labored breaths. He wiped his face and rubbed his hands together. “Get it together, Hardy,” he whispered. He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled.

  “God, you know I’m not a religious man.” Hardy shook his head. What am I doing? I’ve got no right…he paused…Where am I going to go? “God, you know the things I’ve done. I have no right to ask you for anything.” Washing his hands down his face, he sniffed. “Still, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know where to go. I’m at the end of my rope.” Hardy thought of his teammates, killed in the explosion two months earlier. “I don’t know if I can take another loss. Please help Cruz pull through. Please, don’t punish her for what I’ve done.” His head slumped and he closed his eyes. Thoughts and images rushed through his mind. He could not process them or control their coming and going. Fatigue made it difficult to concentrate. Several moments passed. All he could do was let his thoughts take him wherever they wanted him to go. In the midst of the mental chaos, he prayed repeatedly, “Please, God, save her.” Time seemed to stand still and the mental confusion subsided. He slouched in the seat, his body perspiring.