by Alex Ander
Also by Alex Ander
Action & Adventure - Special Agent Cruz
Vengeance is Mine
Defense of Innocents
Plea For Justice
Jacob St. Christopher Action & Adventure
Protect & Defend
Word of Honor
A Vow to the Innocent
Above & Beyond
Patriotic Action & Adventure - Aaron Hardy
The Unsanctioned Patriot
American Influence
Deadly Assignment
Patriot Assassin
The Nemesis Protocol
Necessary Means
Foreign Soil
Of Patriots and Tyrants
Act of Justice
Standalone
The President's Man
The President's Man 2
Special Agent Cruz Crime Series
Against All Enemies
Watch for more at Alex Ander’s site.
Of Patriots and Tyrants
(Aaron Hardy Patriotic Action #8)
By Alex Ander
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YOUR FREE BOOK…
Get The London Operation FREE.
Details at the end of this book.
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Of Patriots
and Tyrants
Aaron Hardy
Patriotic Action
.
This story proudly
Made in the U.S.A.
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Copyright ©2018 Jason A. Burley
All rights reserved. No portion of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be published in a newspaper, magazine or electronically via the Internet.
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to real events or locations or actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The photo of the woman:
“Hitter – 3” is by Marcus Ranum. It is used in accordance with his licensing rules (updated August 2012) at Deviantart.com; specifically, rule #5: If you want to do something commercial with my stock, go ahead.
Cast:
Protagonist
Aaron Hardy (Former Special Forces)
30 years old, 5’11”, 185 lbs.
Light brown hair (cut short)
Blue eyes, muscular frame
Secondary Characters
Raychel Elisa DelaCruz (FBI Special Agent)
30 years old, 5’8”
Long dark hair, dark brown eyes
Slim and athletic build
Dahlia St. James (Former Assassin)
32 years old, 5’8”
Long and straight bleached blonde hair
Hazel green eyes, athletic body
Charity Sinclair (FBI Agent)
22 years old, 5’6”, 115 lbs.
Shoulder-length dark hair (tinged red)
Dark, large eyes, infectious smile, slim figure
Supporting Characters
Phillip Jameson (Director of the FBI)
51 years old, 5’11”, 190 lbs.
Bald, black eyeglasses, physically fit
“The tree of liberty must be refreshed
from time to time with the blood
Of Patriots and Tyrants.”
— Thomas Jefferson (1787)
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Chapter 1: Welcome Home
The trio stopped. Cruz needed rest. Her feet were numb. Twice she had stumbled coming down the stairs. Hardy helped her lean against the wall before facing their guide. The men exchanged a look; there was no time for breaks. They needed to get out of sight.
Cruz bent over, “I just need a minute,” and put hands on knees.
The guide whipped his head back and forth, as if expecting someone to step out from one of the many rooms on either side of the hallway. “All right, I’m going up ahead and scout the area. Be ready to move out when I get back.”
Hardy watched the man disappear around a corner before he took up the mantle of casting glances up and down the hall. He reached under his coat and put a hand on the firearm at the small of his back. The other hand cupped Cruz’s shoulder. “How are you doing?”
“I should be good. I hope,” she motioned toward the direction the other man had gone, “wherever he’s taking us is not much—”
Hardy covered her mouth. “Shh.” He pivoted his head, his ears straining to identify the source of a noise. Footsteps…Heavy ones…Coming this way. He put an index finger to his lips.
Having heard the same sound, Cruz nodded.
After looking over his shoulder, he helped her get to an alcove in the hallway. He gently pushed her to the wall and moved in, his mouth grazing her ear. “Stay quiet,” he whispered. “I’ll handle this.”
Hardy crossed the hall and nestled into an identical alcove, facing away from the sound of the footfalls, which thudded off the carpeted floor. He spied Cruz. She was flat to the wall, standing as tall as she could. As long as this guy stares straight ahead, we’ll be good.
Hardy looked down. The thuds grew louder. Combat boots. The gun dug into his back. Don’t want to use that, unless I have to. We’ve already made enough noise. Heavy breathing now accompanied the thumping. Hardy’s muscles tensed. Pain in his midsection mixed with the hammering in his head; aftereffects from the beating he took. Wincing, he clenched his fists. Push it aside. Push it aside. He coiled his body, ready to spring forward.
An abrupt silence overtook the atmosphere. No pounding boots, no labored breaths, nothing but the ‘tick, tick, tick’ of the old grandfather clock the threesome had passed. Tick…Tick…Tick. Hardy frowned. He knows we’re here. His right hand moved a fraction of an inch toward the gun. Stay still. Don’t move. Let him come to you.
Tick…Tick…Tick. Hardy smelled cologne, aftershave, spices; whatever the scent, the man had to be no more than ten feet away. Click…click, click…click. A new sound filled the immediate area, followed by the faint odor of cigarette smoke.
Someone inhaled and blew out the air. A cloud of smoke between the alcoves preceded a bushy-bearded man, who plodded forward. Two fingers held a cigarette, while the cancer stick’s tip glowed red.
Hardy sidestepped into the hallway, crouched and fell in step with the camo-clad arrival. He picked up his pace and drove a foot into the back of the man’s knee. The man stumbled sideways, grabbed an antique table and dropped to his knees. The table toppled, and a white vase fell to the floor, breaking into several pieces.
Hardy pounced, straddling his prey’s torso and wrapping both arms around the man’s neck. A violent twist and a loud crack later, a lifeless corpse face planted into the carpeting. After stomping on the cigarette, Hardy grabbed Cruz’s elbow. “Come on. We can’t stay here any longer.” The two rounded the next corner and ran into the third person of their group.
Their guide spotted the body and the upset furniture. “I was gone less than a minute.” He eyed Hardy and pointed at the deceased. “I take it that’s your handiwork?”
“Sooner or later, the cigarettes would have killed him.” Hardy ushered Cruz around the man’s outstretched finger. “Sooner worked better for me.”
… … … … …
The two men and Cruz made their way to a back corner of a basement. Empty wooden crates were stacked against the walls. Broken down cardboard boxes and trash littered the area in front. A musty smell permeated the dark and damp space.
The guide squeezed behind one crate and shouldered another two feet farther into the room. “Back here.” He shined a flashlight on the narro
w pathway, while Cruz inched closer. “Try not to touch the stone. There’s mold all over.”
When Cruz had sidestepped into the corner, the escort handed her the light. “Hold this and keep it pointed in this direction.” He felt along the old rectangular squares. “A little more to the right…” he slid his hands up and down, “that’s it.” He pushed a brick further into the wall and a large section of stones rotated inward a few inches.
Cruz’s hair fluttered. A whoosh of foul, moist air hit her in the face. She put her free hand to her nose and mouth, closed her eyes and turned away. “Whoa.”
“Sorry. I should have warned you.” The man retrieved the flashlight, pushed the hidden door open and shined a beam all around the secret room’s interior. “Your new place is a little,” he paused while stepping inside, “stinky…and damp...and cold…and—”
“We get the point.” Cruz ducked and entered. Her head pivoted in all directions, while she scanned for spiders, centipedes, whatever creepy, crawly things lived here. “What is this?”
The man smiled at Cruz and Hardy. “This is your new home…at least until I can figure out what to do with you.” He waited a beat and swung an arm. “Welcome home.”
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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Chapter 2: Gentleman
30 Hours Earlier…
February 14th; 6:00 a.m.
Washington, D.C.
The Flats at Dupont Circle Apartments
Beep, beep…beep, beep…beep, beep…beep—Aaron Hardy slapped at his wrist, shutting off the alarm. Letting his left hand hang off the edge of the couch, he washed the other over his face. The day-old growth scratched against his palm. He flicked his wrist. 6:00…he blinked…Monday…he opened and closed his eyes a couple times before forcing them open…February 14. The faint blue light from his timepiece gave him an instant headache.
Hardy pressed his head against the couch’s arm, lifting his upper body off the seat cushion, and spied darkness at the curtain’s edges. He rolled his head left. A nightlight cast a glow over the main living area, joining at his ten o’clock position with an open kitchen. A bedroom was on the other side of the wall that butted up to his sofa/makeshift bed. Around a corner, at the one o’clock position, was the bathroom.
Throwing off a Detroit Lions blanket—a Michigan resident since birth, Hardy was a diehard fan—he swung his legs, plopped bare feet on the floor and sat, bare chested and wearing gray sweatpants. Elbows on knees, he shut his eyes and rubbed his face again, ending with a massage of the temples. He sat erect, did a couple side bends and blew out the air his lungs held. Hanging his head, he glimpsed the couch to his left. This thing’s hell on my back. He managed a meager smile. The price a gentleman must pay.
Ten toes, red polish on the nails, appeared in his peripheral vision to the right. He followed them to well-toned legs, red satin shorts, a red camisole with spaghetti straps, and the most beautiful face he had ever seen—dark brown eyes, high cheekbones and a perfect complexion; tanned all year long, thanks to the woman’s parent’s mixed heritage.
She smiled. “Good morning.”
A smile slowly spread over Hardy’s face. And all is right with the world again. “Morning.” He cupped the back of her nearest thigh. “Sleep well?”
“Uh huh.”
He pulled her alongside him, gave her legs a one-handed hug and kissed the sliver of tummy peeking out from under the camisole. Sliding his hands up and down the smooth legs, he tipped his head back. She had maintained the Cheshire grin, compelling him to mimic the gesture. “What’s up?”
She brought her hands in front of her body. In them, a red-papered rectangular box, complete with a white bow and ribbon. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
Hardy took the gift. “Oh that’s right. That’s today, isn’t it?” He looked up in time to see some of the shine disappear from her smile. He stood and kissed her. “I didn’t forget.” The shine returned. He turned away before coming back to her, holding out a red paper bag, an index finger curled under two loop handles. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Cruz.”
FBI Special Agent Raychel Elisa DelaCruz—Cruz to close friends, a nickname from her military days—beamed from ear to ear. She knew it was better to give than to receive; however, a large part of her loved getting gifts. And she was not embarrassed of the fact.
“So,” Hardy held up his box, “which one of us should go…”
Cruz spread apart the handles, threw aside pink tissue paper and yanked out a small, light brown teddy bear, the words ‘I LOVE YOU’ embossed on a heart on the bear’s belly.
He laughed. “…first.”
After poking her nose inside, Cruz let the bag fall to the floor. “Thank you.” She held the stuffed animal high before cradling it in the crook of her arm. “I love it.” She pointed her chin at his box. “Your turn. Open it.”
Hardy waited before motioning toward the bear. “So…you really like your bear?”
She shot another look at the brown ball of fluff. “Yes, I do. Thank you.” She glimpsed him, “What are you waiting for?” before her gaze went to his present. “It’s not going to open itself.”
After another pause, Hardy stepped toward the floor lamp. “Maybe we should turn on—”
Cruz caught him by the arm. “Quit stalling. I can’t take this anymore.” She bobbed her head at the red box. “Open it.”
He regarded his girlfriend, whom he was now going steady with since Christmas. The dim light could not hide her round eyes and white teeth. He gave a last look at the bear, let out a short sigh, “Okay,” and ripped off the ribbon and wrapping paper, a white flimsy cardboard box beneath. After opening the top and pushing aside tissue paper, he stared at her. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Cruz took the box, while he retrieved a Honolulu blue and silver article of clothing. He lifted the garment. “I don’t believe it.”
She bounced a couple times on the balls of her feet. “Do you like it? It’s custom.”
“I can see that.” Hardy eyed the official Detroit Lions jersey, the number ‘1’ and his name emblazoned on the back. “This is awesome. I can’t believe you did this.”
“I’ll be honest.” She wrapped her arms around his midsection. “It was difficult to click the ‘place order’ button.” Growing up in Dalhart, Texas, she was a lifelong fan of the Dallas Cowboys. She tipped her head back to see him. “But you’re worth it.”
He dipped his head and kissed her. “Thank you. I love it…and I love you.”
“And now you know,” her eyes went to the jersey, “just how much I love you too.”
“I feel bad.” He draped the jersey over an arm and took the bear, holding it up in front of them. “All I got you was this.”
“It’s not the dollar value that counts.”
Hardy twisted the stuffed animal in different directions, stopping when a beam of light reflected back at them.
“It’s the thought that—” Cruz pulled her head away from his shoulder and stared at the twinkling light. She snatched her present and examined it from several angles. “What’s that?”
“Can I turn on the light now?”
“Please do.” When light filled the room, Cruz gasped. A hand shot to her chest. “Oh my…”
Hardy pinched the crab claw clasp and unwound a tri-color gold choker. “I had to wrap this around his neck so much I felt like I was strangling the poor guy.”
Her eyes followed the necklace. “It’s beautiful.”
He stood behind her. “I believe it’s customary for the man to put it on the first time.”
“Yes, it is.” She faced away and pulled up her long brown hair. “Wait.” She cranked her head around, a grin on her face. “You mean put it on me, right?”
Chuckling, Hardy secured the jewelry ends, “Yes, you,” before enfolding her in his arms and kissing the side of her neck. “Although,” he crossed his arms below her breasts and gently squeezed, “You never know. I might look good in women’s jewelry.”
Rece
iving more kisses, Cruz raised an arm behind her and played with his short, light brown hair. “Let’s not…” she cocked her head, exposing more of her neck, “…find out, okay?”
He paused, “Deal,” and moved on, his lips making their way to her shoulder.
Cruz closed her eyes. Her knees wobbly, she found herself letting his arms support more of her weight. This can’t go on. His mouth returned to her neck, just behind the ear, and her spine tingled. Or can it? She locked her knees and drew in a deep breath. We can’t do this. Pressing on his arms, she spun around and cupped the back of his neck. A quick kiss later, she whispered, “We have to get ready for work,” and kissed him again.
Hardy stood erect and grimaced.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” He motioned. “Sleeping on the couch is not great for my back.” He glimpsed his watch—6:13. “It’ll go away after I get moving around.”
Cruz put hands on his chest. “I’m sorry. You can have the bed tonight.”
He grinned. “We could share.”
“We’ve talked about this.” Her fingers made their way to his square jaw, and the dimple centered on the chin. “I’m not like that.” She peered into deep blue eyes, the same ones that had taken her by surprise the first time she met him. Strong hands held fast at the small of her back. Times like these, I wish I was…I wish—
“But I’ve already seen you naked.”
She raised a finger. “That was one time.” The digit pointed toward the bathroom. “And it was through a mirror, so it only counts as half a look.”
Hardy replayed the mental video, her bare breasts reflecting off his foggy bathroom mirror. He smiled. “I don’t know, Cruz. It seemed pretty full-on to me.”
She playfully smacked his protruding pectoral muscle, her cheeks growing rosy. “Stop it. We have to go to work.” She gave him a goodbye peck, “I’ll shower first,” and scampered away.
