Of Patriots and Tyrants

by Alex Ander

  Hardy half grinned. Cool. He loved secret passageways and hidden rooms. Right now, he was feeling the itch to do some exploring.

  “I’ve been trying to find the path that leads to the surface. So far, I’ve only mapped out about half of what I believe is down here.”

  “Where’s the map?” said Hardy, staring down the dark tunnel.

  The man tapped the side of his head when Hardy faced him. “So don’t go wandering around. I haven’t found any yet, but I wouldn’t be surprised if there were booby traps down here.”

  “Okay that answers,” Hardy crossed his arms, “question number one.”

  The man observed Cruz for several moments. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  Cruz glanced Hardy’s way before standing straight and scrutinizing the other man. “I’m sorry. Should I?”

  “Maybe this will help.” He glanced at the door before keeping his voice down, but sounding as if he was shouting. “Get your skinny butt up that rope, Day-La-Cruz.”

  Not having heard her name pronounced that way in ten years, Cruz’s eyes bulged. She stepped in front of the man and pushed the lantern he was holding closer to his face. “Sergeant Pence?” Cruz stepped back and looked at the man from head to toe. “What are you doing here? I would’ve thought for sure you were going to die a drill sergeant.”

  Pence made a face and cocked his head. “I’ve gone on to bigger and better things.” He pointed his forehead at her. “I see you’ve gone on to better things as well. What are you doing here, and why does Isaac want you dead?”

  Hardy cleared his throat. When the two noticed him, he lifted eyebrows.

  Cruz put a hand on Hardy’s shoulder. “Sergeant Pence, I want you to meet Aaron Hardy. We’re,” she paused, “partners…teammates, working for the FBI. We’re on a mission.” She pivoted her head toward the elder man. “Hardy, this is my drill sergeant from when I was in the Army, Sergeant Thomas Pence.”

  Pence clasped Hardy’s hand. “Something tells me you two are a heck of a lot more than partners, teammates, but I’ll let that go for now.” He nodded. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hardy.”

  “Likewise.”

  “How are you mixed up in all this—” Cruz hesitated. “I’m not sure what to call you. Anything but ‘sir’ or ‘sergeant’ makes me feel a little uneasy.”

  Pence laughed. “Relax DelaCruz. Those days are over. Pence will do just fine.”

  “Please call me Cruz.”

  He wagged his finger. “That’s right. I forgot about the others giving you that nickname.” He nodded. “All right, Cruz it is.” He waited a beat. “To answer your question, after you left basic training, I spent the next few years as an Army Ranger.” He studied the floor. “Those were some good times.” He paused. “Anyway, from there I floated around a bit before settling with a private security company doing gigs overseas. For the last six months, I’ve been moonlighting for the CIA, trying to bring down Isaac from the inside. He’s been running drugs and weapons to cartels in Cuba, the Turks and Caicos and some neighboring islands.”

  Hardy walked to a corner and inspected several rifles leaning against the wall. “So Isaac’s into drugs and guns.”

  Pence motioned toward Cruz. “I spotted you at dinner last night. I was standing in the corner behind you. I have to tell you I was a little nervous you’d recognize me.” He chuckled. “But I guess I didn’t have to worry about that after all.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t—”

  He waved a hand. “I’m glad you didn’t.” He waited a second. “So what’s this mission you’re on, and how does it involve Isaac?”

  Cruz brought him up to speed, while Hardy became familiar with his new living quarters.

  Pence spied his watch. “I need to be getting back up top. Those bodies will have been discovered by now, and Isaac will be spitting mad.”

  Hardy joined the two. “Where are we, exactly, and what’s your plan to get us out of here?”

  “You’re on a private island about fifty miles northeast of New Providence. Isaac bought it five, six or seven years ago. I’m not sure on the timeline. Since purchasing it, he’s sealed off all comings and goings. If you don’t have a helicopter, then the only other way off is to swim…and hope you’re shark proof.”

  Pence tapped his lips with a forefinger, while squinting at the floor. “There is one way, but it’s risky.”

  Hardy shot out a puff of air. “That’s our business. What is it?”

  “There are a couple of speed boats on the east end of the island. The problem is they’re heavily guarded, since they’re right next to a barrier Isaac constructed to keep people in…and out. I’ve often thought I’d go that route if I was made and had to escape. As I said, it’s risky, but it’s also possible, especially if we go after dark when the patrols are a little lighter.”

  Pence glimpsed his watch again, “I really have to get going.” He eyed Hardy and Cruz. “Stay here. We have several hours before it gets dark. That’ll give me some time to work out the logistics of getting you home. In the meantime,” he pointed, “there are two go bags over there—water, power bars,” he eyed the bruises and blood on his guests, “medical supplies. Take whatever you need.” He tipped his head toward the rifles and spied Hardy. “You’ve already seen the firepower available if necessary.”

  Hardy nodded. “How’d you get all that in here?”

  Pence smiled. “It was already on the island.” He shrugged. “A rifle or two, a box or two of five-five-six here and there,” he paused, “nobody’s the wiser.”

  Hardy held out a hand. “Thanks Pence. We appreciate this.”

  “You’re welcome.” His gaze went to Cruz. “I couldn’t leave this one to flap in the wind.”

  Cruz smiled, while shifting her weight back and forth, trying to get warm.

  Pence went to the door and faced her. “I always thought you’d be a good soldier one day.” He swiped fingers across his throat. “Kill the light. I’m opening the door.”

  Seconds later, the door closed and the cavernous space was pitch black and quiet.

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  .

  Chapter 16: Calm Before the Storm

  2:03 p.m.

  Hands clasped behind his back, Isaac stared at a chair, the chair that had held the woman. Both of them were tied tightly. He brought a hand around and ogled the white bandage on his finger. The doctor had done his best, but he was no surgeon. If Isaac were lucky, he would be able to keep the end intact; however, he would most likely never be able to bend the first joint again. They couldn’t have freed themselves. They must have had help. He squinted at the throbbing digit. That whore—

  “Mr. Wells, what do you want us to do?”

  Isaac returned his hands to their former position and greeted his lieutenant. After a long and steely glare, Isaac went to the window. The sun was shining. The waves farther offshore were rough. A storm’s coming. He was not a weatherman. No trick knee provided advance warning. He had simply watched a news report earlier in the day. Gulls flew across a blue sky, punctuated with puffy clouds that would soon turn dark. The calm before the storm.

  “Sir?”

  Staring out one of the many small panes in the window’s glass, Isaac turned his head, glimpsing the man out of his peripheral vision. “I want every inch of this island searched.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Get every man and scour every building, every room, every inlet…”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Leave nothing unturned. I want them found.”

  “I’ll get started right away.”

  “And Captain,” Isaac squared his shoulders with the man, “if you fail me, I will take you out to sea, tie you to a long pole and dangle your head inches above the water,” he paused, “right after I’ve loaded the waters with chum. Do you understand how badly I want these people?”

  “I do.” He hesitated. “Is there anything else?”

  Facing the window, Isaac dismissed the
man with a wave of his hand. A moment passed, and he regarded his wounded finger. Where are you, Miss DelaCruz? A crooked smile washed over his lips as he recalled what he had planned to do to her. We have unfinished business, you and I. He put his hands behind his back, rocked backward on his heels and watched the gulls swoop to the water’s surface. Pleasurable for me…you, not so much.

  … … … … …

  2:15 p.m.

  Special Agent Cruz opened her eyes. The darkness played tricks on her mind. The faint light from the lantern showed blackened walls of stone, and she remembered her situation. Shadows danced on the other side of the light source, and she jumped.

  “It’s okay, Cruz. It’s me.” Hardy held out his hands. “It’s just me.”

  “Where’d you go?”

  He slipped under the emergency thermal blanket from one of the go bags, and put his back to the wall. Once Pence had left, Hardy had thrown a second blanket onto the cold floor and, using a first aid kit, cleaned Cruz’s cuts. After downing some water, she had drifted off to sleep halfway through a power bar.

  He cradled her in his arms. “I did some exploring.”

  Lying on her side, her hands wedged into her armpits, Cruz nestled a leg between his legs and buried herself deeper into his body. “He told you,” she mumbled, “not to do that.”

  “I know. I just don’t like the idea of being trapped in here, not knowing a way out.” He rested his chin on her head. “I wasn’t gone long. You were out, and I didn’t want to wake you.” He turned his head back and forth. Even with the lantern, everything was dark. “How are you feeling?”

  She scratched her cheek on his t-shirt. “I’m cold…and my head hurts.” She breathed deeply. “I’m fine.”

  Hardy smiled. Of course you are. You’re one of the most resilient people I know. After fumbling to get a hand under the lapels of his jacket, which was still around her shoulders, he rubbed her arm.

  “How long was I asleep?” Cruz’s body shuddered. “That feels good. Don’t stop.”

  “At least an hour.”

  “How much longer before sunset?” She was waking up, and her voice was more coherent.

  “I would say we have about four more hours.” He held her for several silent minutes, staring at the blackness of the hidden chamber, thinking of their ordeal. “I’m sorry.”

  Cruz retracted a hand from her armpit and, “Sorry for what?” hugged his waist.

  “I’m sor—” air left his lungs when she squeezed, “…ry for everything. I got you into this situation, and I wasn’t there to protect you from that sick bastard. This is all my fault.”

  Cruz tilted her head back to see him. “What are you talking about? How is this your fault? You didn’t do anything.”

  “Exactly. I didn’t do a damn thing to stop any of it.”

  Cruz pulled away and brought the lantern closer. “Where’s this coming from? We were unarmed and outnumbered. We had no—”

  “I should have done something. I could have fought back. I could have tried to fight. Instead, I just let them take us.” He pulled her head back to his chest. “Forget I said anything. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

  “No,” Cruz pushed his hand aside and righted her head, “I want to talk about this.”

  “I’m not in the mood for any of your God talk, okay? Just drop it.”

  Her eyes narrowed and her lips drew tight.

  Hardy’s gut twisted into a thousand tiny knots. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by that. I’m not myself right now.” He waited a beat, the hand on her shoulder balling into a fist. “Damn it, I should have been there for you. I should have been the one lifting you from that chair…not Pence. Your safety is my responsibility. I should have—”

  “Wait a minute,” Cruz lifted a hand, “stop. Is that what’s going on here…you’re jealous of Pence?”

  He glanced at her. “No, I’m not jealous of Pence…or anyone. All I’m saying is that I’m the one who does the saving and the rescuing, especially when it comes to you. That’s my job.”

  Cruz shut her eyes and slowly nodded her head. “I get what’s going on here.” Her mind replayed his words. “You used an awful lot of I’s and me’s and my’s just now.”

  “What? I’s, me’s…” Hardy scrunched his eyebrows, “what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying this really isn’t about me at all. It’s about you being the hero. Or, rather not being the hero.”

  “You’re not making any sense, Cruz. Of course, it’s about you. You were tied to a chair and I didn’t do anything—”

  Cruz raised a finger. “There you go with the capital ‘I’ again.” She tapped his chest. “You don’t like being on the receiving end. You don’t like being the one who has to be saved slash rescued.”

  Hardy looked away. “Who does? It’s humiliating.”

  “And there it is.” She poked him a couple times. “It takes a humble person to accept help from someone else. I’m not saying you’re a bad person, Hardy. You’re just so used to being the savior, the one who helps everyone else, that you can’t take assistance when it’s needed.”

  Hardy rested his head against the wall, staring into the blackness. The absence of light helped him focus on her words. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m a proud s.o.b., who…what…prefers to act instead of sitting around with a finger up my nose, waiting for someone else to act. What’s so wrong with that?

  Cruz put fingertips to his chin and turned his head toward her. “Listen to me. You have nothing to be ashamed of. You’ve done a lot of good, helped a lot of people, since I’ve known you…and that’s only been seven or eight months.” She felt his fist on her shoulder and leaned closer, until their noses touched. “Relax your hand, Mr. Hardy, and let go of the anger. You’re a good man, a strong man,” she paused, “but you’re not a perfect man…nobody is.”

  Something about the feel of skin on skin—even if it was only the tip of their noses—made him do as instructed. He opened the hand, and a small amount of tension left his body. His chest falling, he shot out a short burst of air.

  Cruz straightened the neckline of his t-shirt. “Even though I know this is silly to say…” she placed a hand over his pectoral muscle, “you don’t have to worry about me. I knew what I was signing up for when I took this job.” She bobbed her head. “Well, most of it that is. At any rate, don’t take so much onto your shoulders. We’re a team—all of us—and we look out for each other. We take bullets for each other. That means Dahlia, Cherry and me looking out for you as well.”

  A team…We take bullets for each other. Hardy smiled, thinking of the many times he had said the same thing to her and the others. The ‘each other’ part echoed in his brain a little longer. “Using my words against me, I see.”

  Cruz went in for a quick kiss. “If the shoe fits, baby…”

  Hardy scooted farther down the blanket, pulling her with him, until they were lying flat and holding each other. “Thank you. You seem to know just what to say.” A moment passed. “I’m lucky to have you, Cruz.”

  “Yes you are.” She patted his chest, “Now it’s your turn to get some sleep. I’ll wake you in an hour.”

  He kissed the top of her head. “Yes ma’am.”

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  .

  Chapter 17: Is That Lagavulin?

  3:09 p.m.

  Atlantic Ocean

  110 miles east of Miami, Florida

  The seas grew rough around the USS Minnesota, a Virginia-class, nuclear-powered, fast attack submarine; a CH-47 Chinook helicopter hovered above. Dark skies had opened and rain pelted the crewmembers securing the fast rope from the CH-47. Waves lashed at the Minnesota, threatening to send sailors over the side.

  Wearing a dark-colored raincoat, hood up, a figure exited the aircraft. Hands and feet clamped onto the rope, the person slid down and landed on the ship’s deck. Two sailors’ strong hands made sure the individual did not go overboard. One service member made an exaggerated
wave at the Chinook, while a second escorted the newcomer to a hatch, where a third seaman was waiting to assist.

  A minute later, with everyone onboard, the hatch shut and the helicopter banked and headed toward the mainland.

  … … … … …

  Hands clasped behind his back, Francis Ellerby, captain of the Minnesota, met his guest at the bottom of the ladder. A year either side of fifty, the graying man stood six-feet tall and looked sharp in his uniform. A dark caterpillar mustache lay between slightly pockmarked cheeks and under a puffy nose and deeply set green eyes. The captain’s glare penetrated the person’s protective rain gear.

  “Care to tell me what’s so important about you that I had to surface in the middle of a mission,” he paused less than a beat, “a mission to deliver Seals to a hot spot?”

  The raincoat’s hood fell backward, its owner wiping a hand down her face. “Because I’m to be embedded with those Seals, Captain,” said Dahlia, shrugging off the coat and flinging water from her hands.

  Ellerby stood straighter. “You’re a woman.”

  Dahlia hesitated. A hundred and one comebacks raced into her mind, but she bit her tongue. “Thank you, sir. I’ll take that as a compliment. Do you have a place where we could talk in private?”

  … … … … …

  “I don’t usually offer up the good stuff, Special Agent St. James,” Ellerby held up a bottle, “but you look like you could stand to be warmed…from the inside.”

  Dahlia shook her head, “No thank you, Captain,” before spotting the label. “Wait. Is that Lagavulin?”

  The captain smiled. “Sixteen-year-old single malt whisky.” He brought the bottle to his office desk with one hand; two fingers of the other pinched two glasses.

  Dahlia sat in a chair on the other side of the desk, holding her thumb and forefinger a fraction of an inch apart. “Maybe just a little bit. I am feeling chilled.”

  Ellerby poured a finger of the amber liquid into a glass and looked up. “How do you take it?”

  She put the tumbler to her lips, “Is there any other way?” and took a sip.