by Alex Ander
“So,” she began, dragging out the word. “Do I call you Shepherd, now?”
Hardy chuckled and lowered the handrail on her bed.
She scooted over to make room. “Or, do you have some sort of secret agent number I’m supposed to use? Tell me. I’ve never known a secret agent man before.”
Taking care not to bump her, he climbed into the bed. Wow. She’s going all in on this.
Cruz pressed him. “So, what’s the story behind the name?”
Lying next to her, he leaned back and put his left arm around her shoulder. She lowered her head onto his chest. He tucked his right hand behind his head and stared at the ceiling. This is nice.
“Are you going to tell me, or what?” She poked him in the stomach.
“I like German Shepherds. When I was a child, my parents had German Shepherds as pets. During my time in the military, I worked with them, too. They’re intelligent and loyal animals that would defend the ones they love, even if it meant losing their own lives.” He lowered his eyes to look at her and breathed in the scent of her hair. “Most people expect to hear a heroic story of how I saved my team from the enemy or something like that.” He looked up again. “It’s a very boring story, actually.”
Cruz tilted her head back to see him. “I like it.” Thinking of the qualities he had used to describe the German Shepherd breed of dog, she added, “And, I think the name fits you, perfectly.” Touching a forefinger to his cheek, she turned his head toward her and kissed him. A few seconds later, she laid her head on his chest.
Hardy squeezed her shoulder and kissed the top of her head. Yes, this is very nice.
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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).
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The
London
Operation
(Preview)
Aaron Hardy
Patriotic Action
Alex Ander
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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 turned. “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 o
f 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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Thank You
Thank you for purchasing and reading the first three installments of the Aaron Hardy series. I hope you enjoyed reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them. Please visit your favorite bookseller and leave a review for The President’s Man.
I hope you’re looking forward to the next book in the series, Patriot Assassin. Keep reading for a sneak peek.
Sincerely,
Alex J. Ander
Patriot Assassin
By
Alex Ander
Continue reading for a preview
of the next book in the Aaron Hardy series…
Chapter 1: Surveillance
October 29th, 9:00 p.m.; New York City
Wearing a long-sleeved dark t-shirt under a black leather jacket, a pair of blue jeans and black five-inch tactical boots from 5.11 Tactical, Aaron Hardy hurried down 11th Street. The night was cool. A biting wind against his face reminded him that fall had come to the Northeast. Nights like these made him reminisce of his childhood, growing up in Northern Lower Michigan. He loved this time of the year. After enduring the hot and humid months of June, July and August, Hardy looked forward to the cold fresh air of autumn. He could match his clothing to the changing temperatures of fall much easier than he could during the stifling heat of summer. You can only take off so many layers of clothing, he thought, moving to his left to pass a meandering couple, who were in love and had no particular place to be this night.
As a young boy, he would have been sighting-in his hunting rifle right about now, eagerly waiting for the first day of deer season. Opening day was considered a holiday in his part of the state. He smiled, picturing his Marlin 336 lever-action rifle, chambered in .30-30 Winchester. The gun had been a gift from his father for his sixteenth birthday. Up to that point, Hardy had used his father’s guns. The Marlin was his, however. Giving Hardy the rifle, his father had said to him, ‘Son, it’s time you had one of your own.’ Hardy still owned that Marlin, vowing he would never sell it.
Hardy’s jacket flared open, as the wind slipped inside it and sent a shiver up his spine. Fiddling with the zipper, he ran the pull-tab on the jacket to his chest, shielding his body from the cold. A voice in his head shattered the happy thoughts.
“He just turned right,” said Charity, “onto 12th Street. It seems like he’s picked up his pace a little.”
“I’m on it.” Hardy trotted to the corner of 11th Street and 5th Avenue. He grabbed the metal handrail and propelled his body forward down 5th Avenue, heading toward 12th Street. Slowing his pace, he waited for an update. Charity and Hardy were communicating through Hardy’s wireless earpiece. She was in Washington D.C., tracking their target via the target’s cell phone. With Charity acting as his eyes, Hardy could maintain a safe distance and not alert the man to Hardy’s presence.
The target, Abdul Sayed, was a member of a terrorist cell and his skittish behavior this evening made Hardy nervous. Sayed had made several consecutive left turns, doubling-back over his route. Hardy knew the technique. He had used it many times to make sure no one was following him. But, why now? Hardy had been following him all over New York City for three days and not once had he attempted to disguise his routes.
During the day, Sayed worked at an office supply store, taking his lunch break at 12:30 p.m. every day. He would walk to a coffee shop and pick up food and coffee before proceeding to Washington Square Park, where he would eat his lunch; an hour after he left, he would be back to work. At five o’clock, he walked home to his apartment near Avenue of the Americas and Twenty-Third Street. He had stayed home the first two nights, but last night he went out for the evening, having dinner at a restaurant before spending an hour at a bookstore on Broadway. He left the bookstore and went home. His mannerisms had suggested he did not care who was following him. Tonight, however, was different.
Anxiety crept into Charity’s voice. “I lost him.”
“You what,” Hardy shot back?
“I’m not sure what happened. His signal disappeared from my computer screen halfway down 12th Street.”
Hardy ran along 5th Avenue. He turned right and came face to face with a group of people at the corner of 5th Avenue and 12th Street. He sidestepped them and dashed down 12th Street, scanning the street for Sayed. “What was his last location?”
Charity zoomed in on the map. “He was right in front of Goodmans.”
Hardy slowed to a jog when he approached Goodman’s Bar and Grill. Standing under the blue awning outside the establishment, he peered inside. “Are you sure this is the spot?”
“I’m positive. The computer doesn’t lie.”
“Yeah,” he mumbled, “the computer doesn’t lose targets either.”
“Say again…I couldn’t hear you.”
“I’m going inside. Let me know if you get his signal back.” He opened the door and walked into the restaurant. He passed through an open door, turned left and ascended a couple of steps, his eyes moving left and right. At the top of the stairs, he went left, analyzing every patron in the establishment. Absorbed in the search for Sayed, he was unaware of the approaching woman. Her head down, she was focused on a cell phone. The two collided and she recoiled, her arms flailing. The mobile device slipped from her hands, clattering as it slid across the floor.
Hardy took a long step forward and wrapped his arms around her waist. His left hand supported her upper back, while his right hand held the small of her back. Her head bobbing bac
k before coming forward, she threw her hands upward and clutched his shoulders. Those who had not witnessed the accident would have thought the two were dancing, and Hardy had ‘dipped’ his partner.
The woman felt the power in the stranger’s arms. A moment ago, she had braced for a rough landing. Now, feeling safe and secure in his grasp, she let her body relax. Her fingers maintained their vise-like grip on the muscular shoulders, while her eyes darted left and right, up and down. His hair was short and light brown in color. He had a square jaw that came to a slight point at his chin, which had a small dimple in the center. Settling on his eyes, she felt as if time was standing still. Never before had she seen such deep blue eyes. As the man brought her to a standing position, she found it impossible to turn away.
“I’m sorry, miss. Are you okay?” Hardy took a small step backward and glanced at her from head to toe. She was a few inches shorter, but the three-inch heels of her black thigh boots brought her even with his height. Under a long overcoat, she wore a black mini-skirt. The hem rose to the upper portion of her thighs. A tight, dark red sweater accentuated her rounded breasts. Long and straight bleached blonde hair fell to the middle of her back; the bangs stopped less than an inch above her well-manicured dark eyebrows, which curved slightly toward the bridge of her petite nose and the outer corner of her eye. She had a round face with hazel green eyes, narrowly spaced. Her full lips, colored to match her sweater, seemed to be permanently pursed.
The woman blinked her eyes a few times, shaking off the strange feeling. “Yes…I’m fine.” Gazing into the man’s eyes, she remembered why she was in this swanky bar in the first place. Sliding her hands down the strong arms, she cupped the back pockets of his jeans and drew his body closer. Manufacturing a seductive half-smile and tilting her head, she glanced at his lips before batting her eyelids. “I like it rough, anyway.”
