Of Patriots and Tyrants
Page 6
“Already done, sir.” She pointed at the correct screen.
“So they’re in the Bahamas—Nassau—on the northeast part of the island of...” he squinted at the tiny font, “…New Providence.”
“It makes sense.” Dahlia motioned, “Nassau’s in the flight path of the helo I saw heading out to sea. And I was able to match the photo I took of the bird to a Bell 429 Global Ranger, which has a range of four hundred and fifty miles.” She waved a hand at an area on the right half of the monitor. “There are some chains further east, but reaching them and getting back to Miami without refueling would be pushing the limits of the 429.”
Jameson nodded, “Good work…both of you,” and walked back to his chair, one hand in a pants pocket, the other massaging his neck. “That’s good news. Now I have some bad news.”
… … … … …
10:46 a.m.
Isaac rounded his desk and, “I must apologize again for the delay,” sat down. “It seems two of my guests have not been forthright with their true identities.”
Hoping she did the same, Hardy resisted the urge to look at Cruz.
“I have sent my men to,” the stoic man hesitated, “take care of the problem.” He opened the laptop and smiled at the auction winners. “It won’t take long for me to finish, and this will be all over. Please forgive the interruption.”
A few minutes later, Isaac stood, leaned over the desk and extended a hand. “Mr. Diamond…” Hardy rose and clasped the hand. Isaac shook Cruz’s hand. “…Miss Adams, the transaction is complete. It has been a pleasure doing business with you.” He motioned toward the door. “Please come with me, and I’ll escort you to the helicopter pad.”
Hardy and Cruz followed the man to the door. “Exactly where,” said Hardy, “will I get the software I purchased? I have to tell you, Isaac…I’m not happy I don’t already have it.”
“As I said, Mr. Diamond,” the man stepped out of the office, “you’ll get everything that’s coming to you.” He took a few steps forward and turned around. Four men in dark suits closed ranks and faced Hardy and Cruz, standing in front of their boss. “If that is, in fact, your real name.”
… … … … …
10:49 a.m.
Washington, D.C.
“There was another system breach,” Jameson raised a second hand and kneaded his shoulders at the base of his neck, “at the DoD.”
“What,” said Charity?
“Actually, several government databases were hacked.” He stared at his agents. “The U.S. Army was one of them.” He paused. “Nothing was downloaded, but the hackers performed a search, a query.”
Charity’s hands covered her mouth. “No, no…they didn’t…they couldn’t have…”
Jameson nodded. “The hackers accessed Cruz’s military file. Even though I ordered it to be sealed, they found a way in and…” he shook his head. “I think her cover’s been blown.”
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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Chapter 13: Welcome to the Party
10:59 a.m.
Hardy’s head whipped to his left, a string of blood shooting out of his mouth before landing on his bare chest. He spit more blood onto the floor in front of him, a few speckles hitting polished black dress shoes.
Withdrawing a handkerchief, Isaac lifted and placed the dirty shoe on the chair, to which Hardy was tied, the toe an inch from the captive’s naked genitalia. “I know who your companion is.” Isaac wiped the red dots from the shoe, “former soldier—U.S. Army—and current FBI agent,” before walking away, folding the cotton fabric. “I’m assuming you’re with the military as well, perhaps an FBI agent too.”
“I don’t know what,” Hardy sucked in a breath, “you’re talking about. She’s Elisa Adams and I’m James Diamond.” He lifted his head. “My rich and powerful father’s not going to be happy about this when he finds out you’ve tortured me.”
Isaac laughed, long and hard. “Yes, yes, your billionaire father,” he turned back toward Hardy, “who’s history is questionable at best. I would have expected a better cover story from your employer.” He bobbed his head. “Then again, your country’s security systems are no match for Trebuchet, the software you purchased.” The man shook his head. “Excuse me. I failed to mention that I’m going to have to nullify our business deal.” He smiled. “I will be keeping your money though.”
“What have you done with Miss Adams? If you’ve hurt her…”
The captor let out another belly roar. “Still sticking to the script I see.” He shrugged. “No matter…I’ll have my answers soon enough.” He struck Hardy in the mouth with an open hand. More blood streamed to the floor.
A man near the door: “Sir, what do you want done with the woman?”
Isaac swung the same hand back and hit Hardy again, harder, before taking a couple steps backward. “Take her to the room next door and strip her.” Wiping his hand with the handkerchief, he locked eyes with the prisoner. “No one lays a finger on her. When I’m finished here,” he sneered at Hardy, “I’ll be in to…lay hands all over her.”
“Yes sir.” The guard grabbed the doorknob and retreated from the room.
Hardy struggled against his restraints, the chair lifting off the floor an inch. “If you hurt—”
Isaac leapt forward, clutched Hardy under the chin and shoved his head back as far as it would go. “Idle threats made by a naked man tied to a chair.” Isaac leaned closer, his lips next to Hardy’s ear. “I promise,” he whispered. “I’ll be gentle with her,” a moment passed, “after I’ve taken her panties as a souvenir.”
Mustering more power than should have been possible, Hardy forced his head upright. He glared at the man, their eyes close enough to give each other butterfly kisses. “You don’t know it yet, you sick, demented—” the slamming door drowned out a couple words, “but you’re already dead.”
Leaning away a few inches, Isaac saw the fire in Hardy’s penetrating gaze. He smiled. “There you are. There’s the real man behind the fancy clothes and fake name.” He patted Hardy’s cheek twice, “Welcome to the party,” before balling his hand and delivering a wicked punch to the operative’s stomach.
… … … … …
11:43 a.m.
Isaac entered the room, rolling up his sleeves. Fifteen minutes into Hardy’s interrogation, he had shed the suit coat and abandoned all hope of keeping his nice clothes free from blood. He approached the woman, who was in a similar situation as her male counterpart, tied to a chair, but retaining her bra and underwear.
Cruz had the same questions about Hardy’s well-being that he had asked about her. Having overheard the beating, she was unsure if he was still alive. The lump in her throat, her rage at possibly losing the love of her life, a sliver of fear, whatever the cause was, she struggled to find her voice.
Isaac circled around Cruz and put hands on her shoulders.
She flinched, even though the gentle touch would have felt pleasant coming from the man in the next room, under different circumstances.
He buried his nose into her hair and breathed deeply. Endorphins shot to his brain. This will be very pleasurable indeed. He lowered his head. His ear next to her cheek, he ogled cleavage. “Raychel—pardon me—Special Agent Raychel DelaCruz of the FBI, it is so good to finally meet your acquaintance.” His lips grazed her cheek, as he stood tall. He strolled around the chair and faced her.
Cruz swallowed hard and freed her vocal cords. “Is he,” she gulped, “still alive?”
Smiling, “For now,” the man knelt and placed a hand on each of her thighs, feeling a rush of excitement when her legs quivered at his touch. “I have never been so close to a beauty queen before.” He cocked his head. “Well, I mean you did not actually win, but still…” With one forefinger, he slid a bra strap off her shoulder. “I’m in the presence of true beauty.”
After her body’s initial shudder, Cruz regained her senses. When the strap hit her elbow, her defenses came alive. No way I’m letting thi
s happen without a fight. Out of the corner of her eye, she spied the finger and prayed. St. Michael the Archangel, defend us in the day of battle. She watched. Be our safeguard, she waited, against the wiles and wickedness—
“What happened to your friend,” Isaac’s hand crossed in front of Cruz, his gaze focused on the other bra strap, “doesn’t have to happen to—”
Fighting back with the only weapon she had, Cruz sunk her teeth into the digit. She clamped down so hard she thought her jaw would come unhinged. Tasting blood, she whipped her head back and forth like a dog with a chew toy, vaguely aware of the man’s screams. A jolt of pain emanated from her temple and a bright light flashed before her eyes. Her vision dimmed, but she heard vulgarities.
A second later, Cruz turned her head to the side and spit. A nub, similar to the end of a hot dog bounced off the floor twice before rolling a short ways toward its owner. More foul words precipitated another blow to the head. Stars flickered once more, while she fought the urge to vomit.
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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Chapter 14: Your Time Has Come
12:09 p.m.
Hardy lifted his head and let it fall backward. Opening his eyes, he stared at the ceiling, his vision slightly blurred. He guessed fifteen or twenty minutes had passed, since he heard a man screaming in the next room. He managed a small grin. Give him hell, Cruz. The thought of her inflicting whatever pain she had on Isaac, provided a modicum of satisfaction.
The truth was Hardy had no idea how he was going to get them out of this predicament. At no time during his military career, or his short stint with the FBI, had he been so helpless. As shameful as naked and bound to a chair was, the feeling did not come close to what he felt over getting Cruz involved. He was the one responsible for her safety, getting her back home in one piece. I should’ve seen this coming. I should’ve aborted the op before we got in that limo. He cursed his stubbornness. I always put the mission first, above everything else…everyone else.
Several silent minutes went by, while Hardy sat naked and alone in a dark room, his throbbing head hanging to his chest. Three times, he awoke, startled and dazed, not knowing if minutes or hours had elapsed. Three times, he let despair send him back to unconsciousness.
Wake up. Your time has come. Hardy’s head shot up. He looked left and right. “Who’s there?” He blinked, shook his head and scanned the room again. He was alone. Twisting his upper body as much as he could in both directions, he glanced over each shoulder and frowned. ’Wake up. Your time has come.’ That sounded right next to me. He slammed shut his eyes and wrinkled his face. “I guess,” mumbled Hardy, “I’ve lost more blood than I thought. Now I’m hearing things.”
Muffled voices came from the other side of the door, and Hardy turned an ear toward the source. The voices grew louder.
“I’m telling you, I’ve got orders from Isaac. If you don’t open that door, you’re going to be explaining all this to him.”
Hardy squinted at the door. Those are real. I’m not imagining this…am I?
“And I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes when he finds out you’ve kept me from doing my job, the job he wants done.”
Hardy listened to the conversation, only hearing bits and pieces of the heated exchange. He heard three distinct male voices. Keys clanged before lock tumblers moved inside the door. The door swung open and lights burned holes in his pupils before he turned away.
Standing six-foot and wearing black fatigues and black combat boots, an older man, in his early-to-mid forties, towered over Hardy. A dark goatee, interspersed with silver, trimmed his mouth and chin area. His crew cut hair was dark.
Hardy blinked repeatedly, until the man came into focus. When he did, the first thing he noticed was the man’s cold and black eyes. A shark’s eyes. “Who are you?”
The man smiled. “I’m the garbage man, the cleaner. I’m the one they call to clean up messes on aisle nine…if you get my meaning.” He gestured at the two guards. “Cut him loose.” When they stood still, he looked over his shoulder. “Isaac sent me, boys. Keep that in mind.”
The men exchanged glances before coming forward.
Hardy watched the men draw long knives as they approached. “And what exactly does a garbage man do around here?”
One man bent over behind Hardy, while the second knelt at his feet, each one cutting the plastic ties around his wrists and ankles.
“Just what the name implies,” said the man, pointing a pistol at Hardy’s forehead for a half-second before shooting both guards in the head, “take out the garbage.” He spun around and ran to the door. “Keep your hands behind your back.”
Whether he did so willingly or because of shock, Hardy followed the order. Two armed men rushed into the room, weapons up, pointed at him. He mustered every ounce of courage he had and kept his hands behind him. At the same time, every ounce of sanity yelled, ‘Go for the dead man’s gun.’ The crack of two gunshots filled his still ringing ears, and the two men near the door dropped where they stood.
The black-clad man scooped up Hardy’s clothes from a table in the corner and threw them. “Hurry up and get dressed.” He popped his head out the door and looked both ways. “They’re going to find these bodies eventually,” he came back into the room, “and I don’t—”
Hardy leveled a pistol at his rescuer’s nose. “Who are you?”
“Seriously, dude? I save you, and you point a gun at me?”
Hardy’s eyes narrowed. “How do I know this isn’t a trap?”
The man made a show of glancing around the room. “You’re already trapped.” He pointed with the gun. “Your partner is in the next room.” He pointed the pistol at his chest. “I’m going for her. If you feel the need to put a bullet in the back of the one friend you’ve got around here,” he paused, “then you’re a moron.” He ran out of the room.
Hardy stood, pointing the gun at an open doorway, his mind trying to understand what had happened. A second later, he snapped out of his stupor and scrambled into his clothes.
… … … … …
Cruz opened her eyes to the sensation of her leg muscles being massaged and rubbed. She glanced down to discover the sensations were real. A man was working her legs like a ball of dough. She glimpsed her hands and saw they were free. Making a fist, she cocked an arm.
The man sprang upward, grabbed her wrist and planted a meaty forearm over her chest. “I’m here to help. Your calves and ankles are blue. We have to get your circulation going, or you won’t be able to walk.” He picked up one of her boots from beside the chair. “Even though that tune was catchy,” he smiled, his mind playing a 60’s song by Nancy Sinatra, “These things look extremely difficult to maneuver in, let alone run.”
Cruz was unsure if it was the humor or the smile, but whichever one it was, her instincts told her this man was trustworthy. “Who are you?”
“Start rubbing your wrists.” He kneaded the other leg, pausing to plop the mini dress onto her lap.
Cruz pulled the garment over her head and brought it down, lifting each butt cheek to cover her underwear. “Why are you here?” She worked her wrists and flailed them around. “What’s your name?”
“You people,” he let go of her leg and grabbed the legwear, “sure do ask a lot of questions.” He helped her slide into the boots before wrapping an arm around her waist and hoisting her to her feet. “How are you doing? Can you stand? Can you walk?”
Cruz looked up at him. “Now who’s the one asking questions?
He smiled. “I always did like you, DelaCruz.”
Her brows came together. “You know me?”
“Come on, we need to go.”
Hardy rushed into the room and darted to Cruz’s side. “Are you okay? What did he do to you?” He ran his hands over her body before cupping her head and eyeing the bruises on her temple. “That son-of-a—”
She removed her arm from her rescuer’s shoulder, stumbled and reached for Hardy. “I’m fine.”
“It was just a couple of punches. I’ll be fine.” She hugged his neck. “I’m so glad you’re all right. I thought he’d—” her voice cracked, and she squeezed him harder.
“Look,” said the older man, “I love a good reunion as much as the next guy, but we’re exposed here. Can we walk and exchange recipes at the same time?” He dashed to the door and peeked outside. “Come on. Let’s go. The way’s clear.”
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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Chapter 15: Welcome Home
Present Time…
February 15th; 12:29 p.m.
Hardy and Cruz stepped into a stinky, damp and cold room in the basement of the building where they had been held captive. Their savior smiled at them. “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.” After shutting the stone door behind them, he turned on a lantern and killed the flashlight.
“Seriously,” said Cruz, hugging herself and rubbing the backs of her arms, “where are we?”
Hardy draped his jacket around her shoulders. “And who are you? Why are you risking your life to help us?”
“First of all, you’re in a secret passageway under the main building on the premises. I literally stumbled onto this place. I was unloading crates,” he jerked a thumb over his shoulder, “like the ones outside one day, and tripped. I stuck out a hand to catch myself and hit the loose stone that,” he held out his hands and glanced around, “opened up this place.”
He walked to the other side of Hardy and Cruz. “There was nothing in here. As far as I know, no one knows it exists. The main house is built over the ruins of an old medieval castle, which was toppled a few hundred years ago.” He pointed down the tunnel. “My guess is this was an escape route for whoever originally built the castle.”