Of Patriots and Tyrants

by Alex Ander

  The doors closed and Hardy and Cruz were alone. He locked eyes with her, his forefinger rocketing to his lips. He spent the next fifteen minutes examining the room, crawling under the bed, opening every dresser draw, climbing onto a chair to see on top of the canopy.

  He ended the inspection with a sweep of the bathroom before joining Cruz. “I think it’s clean.” His head rotated left and right, up and down. “I didn’t find any bugs,” he turned around, “and I don’t see any areas where they could’ve planted cameras.” He pursed his lips and nodded at her. “We can speak freely.”

  “What are we going to do?” Cruz unzipped her boots, sat in one of the chairs by the window and crossed her legs. “Give me a hand, will you.”

  Hardy took a knee, pulled off the legwear and set them next to her. Standing, he marveled at how they stayed upright on their own. “Wow, those suckers are stiff.”

  “And sweaty too.” Cruz entered the bathroom. Seconds later, she emerged with a hand towel, wiping her legs. “Thank God for the wide laces and open toe.” She tossed the towel onto the dresser. “Gives my legs a little breathing room.”

  Taking in her figure and long, tanned legs, Hardy watched her pad around the room in the shortest dress he could recall her wearing. Maybe Dahlia’s miniskirt in L.A. was a little shorter. He whipped his head back and forth. Come on…focus, Hardy. You have a job to do. He checked his watch—8:26. “For starters, we need to come up with a bidding strategy.”

  “Do you have any idea where we are?” Cruz joined him at a desk, halfway between the bed and the bathroom.

  “I’m pretty sure…” Hardy scribbled on a pad of paper, “I saw the lights of Paradise Island, which is on the north side of Nassau,” before pointing with a pencil, “off to our right—the south—during the flight.” He studied his watch, his mind making calculations. “That was a Bell 427…” he paused, “or a 429 Global Ranger…” He shook his head. “Either way, we flew for another sixteen minutes at a cruising speed of around a hundred and fifty. There would be no need to push the machine any faster. Although, I think the Ranger can cruise at one-seventy.” He glanced up at the ceiling. “No, let’s go with one-fifty.” Squinting, he bobbed his head several times before writing on the paper and turning toward Cruz. “That puts us in the Bahamas around fifty miles,” he saw her staring at him, “northeast of,” a sexy, sultry grin on her face, “Nassau.” He waited a beat. “What?”

  Cruz’s grin widened. She had been recalling their time in a motel room last July. They had arrived after Hardy had saved her life at a house on Kent Island. She knew very little about him. Most of that knowledge revolved around violence that had occurred during the previous eighteen hours. “Nothing,” she said. “I was just thinking about when we were in that hotel…after the incident on Kent Island.”

  Recollecting the time the two had spent that day, strategizing in the motel room, Hardy tipped his head back and nodded.

  Cruz poked a finger at him. “You made a call and pretended to be one of the board members of that company. In an instant,” her open hands made circular motions, while her eyes zipped the length of his body, “your whole persona changed from ruffian to dignified gentleman.”

  Hardy smiled. “I remember that.”

  “That’s when I knew you weren’t just a thug with a gun. At that moment, I knew you had,” she gestured at the notepad he held, “brains to match your brawn.” She curled an arm around his waist and nodded at the pad of paper. “Anyway, we’re northeast of Nassau. How does that help us when we have no way of communicating our position? If these people have gone to this much trouble to cut us off from the outside world, I’m sure they’re not going to let us use their phone.”

  “We won’t have to use their phone. They’ll have already given us another way.”

  Cruz looked up at him, eyebrows together.

  He explained his plan, and the two of them worked out the details on paper.

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  .

  Chapter 8: Find Our People

  9:04 p.m.

  Washington, D.C.

  The chunky heels of Dahlia’s boots boomed off the carpeted floor, as she stormed around a corner and into Charity’s office. “What,” she stripped off her brown leather bomber jacket and threw it onto the couch, “the hell happened, Cherry?” She thrust a finger across the desk. “You had control of the logistics on this.” She spread her hands wide. “How did you screw—”

  Charity leapt out of her chair and met the former assassin at the corner of the desk, pointing a finger of her own. “Don’t you dare dump this on me. How was I supposed to know they would have multiple cars and helicopters—”

  “I don’t know. You’re the dark web expert. I would think someone with your expertise would—”

  “You were there when it all went down. Why didn’t you do something?”

  Dahlia jammed a thumb into her chest. “I did do something. Five limos and three helos are a little hard for one person to cover.”

  “And, you think preparing for every possible contingency that could happen is a piece of cake? You’re the trained killer.” She made a finger gun and, “Why didn’t you just,” lowered her thumb, “shoot all the drivers in the head?”

  Dahlia took a step closer, fists clenched, face darkening. She threw daggers at her accuser, “Don’t you bring that—” before spinning around, fearing what her physical retaliation might be. Interlacing fingers at the back of her head, she separated herself from Charity and stared at the floor.

  Charity turned her back on her teammate and friend, her guts twisting. Why did I say that?

  Silent moments passed.

  “I told him,” Dahlia balled her right hand, “I’d have his back…both of their backs,” and drove the fist into the door and yelled. “I screwed up.” She glanced at her bleeding knuckles. “I should’ve told my men to stop every damn one of those limos before they were able—”

  “And I would’ve,” growled Jameson from the hallway, “had your butt in the biggest sling I could have found for disobeying a direct order.”

  Dahlia spun on her heels and glared at her boss/father, her eyes narrow and bloodshot. “And I wouldn’t have given one flying—” a hand squeezed her shoulder, and she whipped her head around.

  Charity had her free hand to her chest. “You’re right, Dahlia. It was my fault. I should have seen something like this coming. There was nothing you could have done.”

  “There was nothing either of you could have done.” Jameson motioned toward the couch. “Take a seat, both of you.” He lifted a leg and sat on the edge of Charity’s desk before gaping at his daughter, who had not accepted his invitation. Instead, she stared at him, her body rigid. Her right eye twitched. Just like when you were a little girl. You fought your mother and me over everything. He saw the same fire in her beautiful green eyes as he did back then. Don’t die on this meaningless hill, sweetheart. Do what I say and just sit down.

  Feeling a tug on her arm, Dahlia glanced down to see Charity silently pleading with her. After a last look at her father, Dahlia dropped onto the leather cushion and exhaled a gust of wind.

  “Thank you,” said Jameson. “Now, as I said, neither of you are to blame for any of this. I’m in command. Every decision is mine and every consequence stops with me. You two were following my orders…as you should.”

  Dahlia leaned back and crossed her legs, ankle on knee, and ogled her wounded knuckle.

  Jameson plucked a couple tissues from a box on the desk and leaned forward.

  Dahlia took them, “Thank you,” and dabbed the blood.

  “You’re welcome.” Folding his arms and holding his mouth in one hand, he waited a beat, his nostrils flaring each time he let out a breath. He twisted a wrist and glimpsed his watch. “I’m meeting with someone I’m hoping can help us with this situation.”

  “Who,” said Dahlia?

  Jameson mulled over telling her that she did not need to know, but there was no sens
e in poking the bear, even if that bear was his subordinate. “A friend of mine over at the CIA. He owes me a favor. He might have intel from overseas’ operations that might point us in Hardy and Cruz’s direction.”

  Dahlia dabbed her hand. “You think he can help?”

  Jameson stood. “I think we’re looking for a needle in a haystack, and we haven’t even found the haystack yet. That’s the only thing I know at this point.” He went back and forth from Charity to Dahlia, noticing the horizontal lines on their foreheads and the deep creases around their mouths. “Listen, Hardy is one of the best operatives I’ve worked with,” he bobbed his head, “maybe the best. If there’s any possible way he can accomplish this mission, he’ll find it. And when it comes to Cruz, he’s madly in love with that woman. If anyone,” Jameson paused, “well frankly…God help the person who tries to harm her.”

  The women let out a short, simultaneous snigger, the creases on their faces disappearing for a moment.

  “I need you two working together. Drop the burden of what happened and move forward.” He gave them each a reassuring look, “Let’s find our people,” before leaving the office.

  After a full minute, Charity broke the awkward silence. “I’m sorry. That was a cheap shot. I know you’re trying to put your past behind you.” She crossed her arms. “I don’t know what I was thinking when I called you a trained killer. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry too for putting all this on you. Like I said, I told Hardy I’d be there if he needed me.”

  Charity patted the other woman’s thigh. “And you will. When we find them, I know you’ll be leading the charge.” A moment later, she lifted an arm.

  Arms folded, Dahlia leaned right and the women hugged it out, until Charity stood and went to her desk. She returned a second later with a canvas bag, a red cross on one side. She dipped her head toward Dahlia’s bleeding hand, while running the zipper around the bag. “This is getting to be our thing, isn’t it?”

  Recalling the numerous times Charity had tended to her injuries, Dahlia chuckled and held out her hand. “At least this time it doesn’t involve your underwear being tied around my arm.”

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  .

  Chapter 9: Nopa

  9:30 p.m.

  Nopa Kitchen & Bar

  Jameson slid into a red booth in the corner of the establishment, catching his image in a mirror mounted on the paneled wall to his right. These long days are going to be the death of me. The place would be closing within the hour, so there was no one else in sight. The man across from him set his beer on the table and picked up an onion ring.

  “Your voice,” said Director Clark Forestal, Jameson’s close friend and counterpart at the Central Intelligence Agency, “didn’t sound so good on the phone, my friend.” Forestal bit into the ring. “Now I know why. You look like crap.” He slid the bowl of fare closer to the newcomer. “Have an onion ring.”

  Jameson scoffed. “You tell me I look like crap and offer me a dish of the same stuff?” He shrugged out of the overcoat and laid it beside him. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  The CIA man laughed. “Still sticking to that health regimen I see.”

  Elbows on the table, the FBI director wrung his hands. “It’s kept me alive so far.”

  “Hello, sir,” said a thirty something woman with short black hair, a pencil weaved into the locks. She pulled a notepad from the front pocket of a vest, “What can I,” and peeked into the other pocket, “get for you,” before patting down her body.

  Jameson got her attention and pointed at his head, the same spot her pencil was hiding.

  She looked up. “Oops, thank you.” She flipped the writing instrument around. “It’s been a long day. What can I get you, dear?”

  He nodded. “You and me both,” he eyed her badge, “Wendi.” He scanned a menu for a few seconds before closing and handing it over to the woman. “I’ll just have coffee. But I will take orders for two,” he pointed, “of those onion rings along with cheeseburgers, French fries…and colas.”

  “You got it,” said Wendi, scribbling on the pad of paper.

  “I’ll need those to go.”

  “One coffee now, and two cheeseburgers, fries, onion rings and colas to go.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Be right back with your coffee.”

  When the woman was out of earshot, Jameson faced Forestal. “I need your help, Clark.”

  “I figured as much. What can I do?”

  “Two of my people have gone dark,” Jameson sipped water, “and I was hoping you might have some assets in the area.”

  “Have your men gone off the grid of their own accord?”

  “One man, one woman…and no, they were on a mission.”

  “This mission wouldn’t have anything to do with the DoD breach would it?” Uneasy silence hung between the men. Dishes clanged in the kitchen. “I may not be as well connected as you, but the President still talks to me.” He curled a finger around the bowl of onion rings and pulled. “I know about your seventy-two hour deadline.”

  Jameson stiffened.

  “You know me. I haven’t, and I won’t, launch any operation, until the President gives me the go ahead.” Forestal held up and twisted an onion ring, eyeing the golden breading. “Of course, if you were to seek my assistance…” He let the statement hang in the air.

  Jameson emptied his lungs. “My people are dangling in the wind. I need to keep a light footprint, until I know they’re safe.”

  Forestal ripped the grease ring in half with his teeth, “Understood,” and nodded. “So why am I here, exactly?”

  “There’s a chance they were taken to somewhere off the coast of Florida by helicopter. You know the range those things have. Do you have anything going on right now in Cuba, the Bahamas?”

  The man tossed the second half of the onion onto a small plate. Rubbing a napkin between his fingers, he looked away, squinting at nothing in particular. “Not that I can recall off hand.”

  “Here you go,” said Wendi, placing a generic white coffee cup in front of her second patron. Steam rose from the black liquid inside. She pivoted toward his companion. “Are you still doing okay?” After getting a nod from both men, she departed.

  “Let me do some checking, Phil. I have a handler who’s been working a drug operation in the Turks and Caicos. As far as I know, it’s been contained to that area.” He shrugged. “But you never know.”

  “Thanks, Clark. I appreciate anything you can get me.”

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  .

  Chapter 10: Girl’s Best Friend

  9:56 p.m.

  “And so I said to her,” Hardy placed fingertips on his chest, “a diamond is a girl’s best friend.” Laughter erupted from the four other couples at the dinner table. Hardy glanced at the bidders. “You know, because my last name is Diamond.” He sipped champagne from a long-stemmed glass, not hiding his pleasure at delivering the punch line.

  “Yes, Mr. Diamond,” said Isaac, sitting at the head of the table to Hardy’s right, “very clever indeed.” He grew weary of James Diamond, but only of the man’s childish and immature behavior. If he came in with the highest bid, then Isaac would not tire of the man’s money.

  “I have another one.” Hardy returned his glass to the table. “Stop me if you’ve heard this one. A priest, a rabbi—”

  “As riveting as this one sounds,” Isaac meticulously folded his linen napkin and laid it over his plate, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to stop you, Mr. Diamond.”

  Hardy showed him his hands, while glimpsing the other guests. “I haven’t even set up the joke yet.”

  Isaac nodded at one of four armed men, stationed at the four corners of the Great Room. “I must apologize, sir, but we’ve come to the point in this evening’s festivities,” he waited while the guard set a small laptop computer in front of him, “where all of you will enter your opening bid. One at a time—”

  “Cool,”
Hardy plopped his wrinkled napkin onto the table, smacked his hands together and wrung them, “let the fun begin.”

  Isaac glowered at Hardy, longer than he should have. “One at a time,” he motioned, “step in front of the computer and key in your bid. When you have verified the number, simply press ‘enter.’ I will do everything else.” He stood, pushed his chair away from the table and extended a hand. “Mr. Diamond, would you be kind enough to be the first to make your generous offer.”

  Hardy jumped up and came around in front of the machine. “Sure thing, Isaac my man.” He felt the man bristle behind him and smiled inwardly. “Although,” he tapped a sequence of numbers, “I’m not sure how generous it’s going to be.” He banged the ‘enter’ key to the sound of low chuckling. “There you are.” Hardy shot forefingers at the bidders and smiled. “Be prepared, people. I’ve got deep pockets.” He turned and winked at an attractive woman in her early forties. “And that’s not all that’s deep.”

  The woman covered her mouth with a napkin and glanced at the man at her side, her cheeks flushing.

  Hardy eyed the woman’s mate. “I’m just messing with you, man. I’m a gentleman if I’m nothing else.” He reclaimed his seat, and the next person approached to place a bid.

  Cruz leaned in and whispered to her man. “Overselling it a bit, aren’t you?” She pecked his cheek. “Dial it back, James Diamond.”

  … … … … …

  10:19 p.m.

  Hardy and Cruz returned to their room. He performed another complete sweep, searching for listening devices and cameras that could have been planted while they were at dinner. Finding none, he kicked off shoes, while sliding the suit coat off his shoulders. “So,” he folded the expensive garment over the chair at the desk, “all that’s left is to wait for tomorrow’s auction.”