by Alex Ander
Cruz grinned at the back of her teammate’s head. A moment later, her mind went to Hardy’s shorts, and the smile broadened. I guess I should be happy he’s wearing them.
… … … … …
Seated at the small dining table, situated between the kitchen and main living area, the foursome ate from foam containers. Her back to the kitchen, Dahlia scooped a forkful of fried rice and looked across the table. “I never pictured you as the homemaker type, dusting and sweeping.” She emptied the fork and chuckled, while holding the back of her hand to her mouth. “And I never would have pictured you doing it in boxers.”
Hardy glimpsed Cruz to his left and Charity to the right; both were holding back snickers. He pushed pieces of chicken around the white container. “Well, let’s just say,” he stared beyond Dahlia’s shoulder, “when you’ve made as many messes as I’ve made over the years,” his mind went to past missions and the destruction he had caused, “it feels good to clean up a few for a change…” he waited a beat, “…almost therapeutic,” and took a bite of food.
Dahlia stopped chewing and studied a packet of sweet and sour sauce on the table, her own messes coming back to her. She nodded. “I can respect that.”
Dropping the fork and pushing away his food, Hardy put elbows on the table and brought clasped hands to his mouth. “As long as we’re all here,” he folded his arms on the table, “I have some business to discuss.”
Zeroing in on his serious tone, the women ceased eating and faced him.
He touched his chest, “Shepherd,” pointed at Charity, “Red Ryder,” and Dahlia, “Phoenix,” before spying the last member of his team. “I’ve come up with a call sign for you, Cruz, that I think—”
“We’ve been over this.” Cruz rolled her eyes, glanced away and came back to him. “You stink at these names.”
With the other women sniggering, Hardy raised a hand. “I know my attempts haven’t always been the most spot-on…”
Dahlia sat erect. “Spot-on? You wanted to call me boots.”
Hardy leveled a finger at her, “I still feel that was accurate,” before waving a hand. “At any rate…” he squared his shoulders with his woman. “How about,” he strummed forefingers on the table’s edge before pointing finger guns at her, “…Cowboy.” He turned up his palms and cocked his head. “You’re a Cowboys fan. You’re from Texas. And you can handle a six-shooter,” he bobbed his head, “or in today’s terms a semi-auto, better than the best cowboys of yesteryear.”
Cruz glimpsed him out of one eye.
Hardy exchanged glances with Dahlia and Charity. “Huh? What do you think? It’s cool and it fits.”
Dahlia thumbed the rest of her rice onto her fork. “He does make good points, Cruz.” She downed the rice and let go of the utensil. “And it’s certainly a ton better than boots.”
Charity wiped her mouth with a napkin. “I like it. It suits you to a ‘T.’”
Hardy put a hand on Charity’s shoulder. “That’s coming from someone who likes the name I picked out for her. So what do you say, Cruz?” He cleared his throat. “Excuse me. What do you say, Cowboy?”
Cruz flicked her eyes from him to the other women; communication chatter…Copy that, Cowboy. Cowboy, you’re cleared to go hot…running through her brain. She peered at him, a gleam in her eye. “Shepherd…” thinking of the proposed call sign, she lifted a corner of her mouth, “this is Cowboy,” and nodded. “We have a go.”
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YOUR FREE BOOK…
The London Operation is not for sale. The only way to get a copy is to click the image above. You’ll be taken to Bookfunnel to begin the download process. Or, you can send me an email at [email protected], and I’ll send you the link to Bookfunnel.
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 of 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 reading Of Patriots and Tyrants. While I’m at it, thank you for purchasing and reading my other books. I’ve enjoyed a good deal of success thanks to you. God willing, I’ll be able to continue writing clean stories that focus on action & adventure, good and positive characters and the relationships that exist between and among those characters.
One thing I struggled with while writing Of Patriots and Tyrants was making Tom Pence into a bad guy and killing him off. I liked his character. I wrote 75% of the story with an eye toward having him come back in future books. A romance was budding between him and Dahlia, and I wanted to see where that went. In the end, however, I felt sacrificing the character was worth the surprise plot twist that I hope you didn’t see coming.
I really enjoyed Dahlia’s fight scene in the wine cellar, especially the climax; a hardened assassin using her intelligence to best her adversary. She ranks near the top on my list of favorite characters in the series.
I truly hope you enjoyed Of Patriots and Tyrants. If you did, please post a review at your favorite bookseller.
And if you’re feeling extra generous with your time, rate one or more of the other books in the series. I love to hear from readers. If you have already reviewed my books, THANK YOU. I really appreciate it.
If you haven’t started reading the Special Agent Cruz series, turn the page for a sneak peek at Vengeance Is Mine (Book #1), which starts 6 months before Hardy and Cruz meet.
Sincerely,
Alex J. Ander
Vengeance Is Mine
By
Alex Ander
Continue reading for a preview
of the first book in the Special Agent Cruz series…
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Chapter 1: Cabin
January 7th, 5:32 p.m.
18 miles southwest of Tallahassee, Florida
Near the eastern edge of the Apalachicola National Forest
Special Agent Raychel Elisa DelaCruz opened the trunk of her black Dodge Charger, slipped her arms out of her dark blue blazer and tossed the garment into the compartment. She grabbed a bulletproof vest, the letters FBI emblazoned on the front, and handed it to her partner. She donned a similar vest over her pastel blue blouse, cinched the straps and pulled her ponytail from under the protective apparel. She inserted a communication device into her ear, tapped the earpiece and glanced toward her partner. “Check, check…one—two—three.”
Special Agent Curtis Ashford paused from securing the straps on his vest only long enough to give her the ‘thumbs-up’ sign. “I’m reading you loud and clear, Cruz.”
During her time in the military, her fellow soldiers called her Cruz. They had joked that her full name was too difficult to pronounce. To this day, the nickname had stuck and everyone who knew her used the shortened version of her name.
Ashford double-checked the status of his Glock 22 and shoved it into his hip holster before touching the spare magazines on his left hip. He stared over the trunk lid toward the winding dirt road that led to a small shabby cabin, surrounded by dense woods. “We really should call this in and wait for backup.”
Cruz’s reply was sharp and monotone. “We probably should.” She dropped the magazine from her Glock 23 pistol into her hand. Verifying the magazine’s capacity, she rammed it into the butt of her weapon and pulled back on the weapon’s slide. Seeing a shiny brass case in the chamber, she let go of the slide, holstered the Glock and adjusted the black belt supporting the hardware and her dark blue slacks.
Ashford curled up the right side of his mouth. “Something tel
ls me we’re not going to do that though, are we?” Not getting a reply, he studied the woods on either side of the long driveway. Darkness enveloped the vegetation a few feet inside the tree line. “If anyone slips by us,” he lifted his chin toward the forest, “it’s going to be hard to find them in this.”
Cruz tapped the button on the back of her Surefire flashlight and a brief beam of white light appeared inside the trunk. She closed the lid, stowed the flashlight and observed the surrounding area. “Then, I guess we’ll have to make sure no one slips by us.” Ashford’s tone and body language compelled her to offer assurances. “We’ve done this before, Ash…rolled up on scenes and taken down the bad guys without calling in the cavalry.” She motioned toward the direction of the cabin. “Peterson and Lopez are up there and I’m not going to let them get away again.” She gave him the ‘peace’ sign. “Two times is two times too many. One way or another, this ends…tonight.”
“I’m with you on that, Cruz. My concern is…what if there are more people than just Peterson and Lopez up there?”
“Our recon says otherwise.” Hidden among the trees, Cruz and Ashford had watched the cabin for an hour and had only seen two men inside the structure.
Standing at the right-rear corner of the Charger, she squinted at her partner. His black hair, dark eyes and long eyelashes gave him a hardened, attractive appearance. The square jaw and perpetual stubble on his cheeks only added to his ‘bad boy’ good looks. He was not her type, but she was confident he had no trouble getting dates.
Wearing navy blue slacks, a white shirt under his bulletproof vest and black shoes, Curtis Ashford stood six-feet tall and weighed two hundred pounds. He had an athletic frame with wide shoulders, a narrow waist and heavily muscled arms and legs. A football player in college, he made the team as a linebacker. To him, the best part of the game was hitting people. His coaches had determined he was too small to play linebacker and moved him to running back. Disappointed at first, he soon discovered he could fulfill his hitting prerequisite at the new position. He ran over and through defenders on his way to a school rushing record in his first year. A knee injury in the playoffs ended his college career, in addition to his hopes of playing professional football. With his dreams sidelined, he focused on a backup plan—becoming an FBI agent.
