by Alex Ander
The man to Hardy’s left removed his pistol from Hardy’s side and rolled down the window, preparing to join the fight. Hardy saw his opportunity. He drove his right elbow into the bridge of the man’s nose to his right. Blood spurted out and his head rolled backward. Hardy put one hand on top of the man’s head and the other under his chin and violently twisted. The man’s head slumped forward against his chest.
The man to Hardy’s left brought his weapon back toward Hardy. With both hands, Hardy grabbed the man’s gun hand and rammed it against the partially open window. The gun discharged, sending a bullet into the driver’s headrest. Particles of foam and debris floated back toward them. Hardy swung his left elbow into the man’s groin, rolled the gun’s muzzle under the man’s chin and pressed the trigger. The report was deafening, made even worse by the weapon’s close proximity to Hardy’s ear. The bullet exited out the top of the man’s head. Brain matter mixed with blood sprayed the left side of the SUV’s storage area.
Taking control of the pistol, Hardy saw an empty brass case caught between the slide and the rear of the barrel. The weapon had malfunctioned. He dropped the magazine into his lap, moved the slide back and forth a few times, re-inserted the magazine and operated the slide again to chamber a live round. He looked toward the front of the SUV. Both the driver and the passenger were motionless, their heads lying on their chest. Neither FBI agent was in sight.
Hardy opened the left-rear door, pushed the dead man out of the vehicle and climbed over him. Shutting the door, he saw one FBI agent lying in the street, blood coming from a wound in his right thigh. Moving forward, Hardy paused to look inside the SUV. The driver had been struck in the back of the head. The passenger had two bullet wounds in his chest. Both men were dead. He peeked over the hood and saw Cruz lying on the ground. She was not moving.
Hardy approached the male FBI agent and knelt in front of him. The agent lifted his weapon, but Hardy disarmed him and tossed the gun under the Charger. He removed the hospital gown and ripped the drawstring from it. Using the gown as a bandage and the drawstring as a tourniquet, he stopped the flow of blood coming from the leg wound. “Keep pressure on that. Help will be here soon.”
Moving toward Cruz, Hardy was buck naked, except for the hospital socks on his feet. Squatting in front of Cruz, he checked her body for bullet wounds—there were none. He felt her neck. She had a strong pulse. He ran his fingers along the back of her head and came across a small knot. She must have hit her head. He pulled out her mobile and dialed 9-1-1. “Officer down, officer down…Franklin and…” He read a street sign to his right. “Franklin and Fourth—I repeat—officer down on Franklin and Fourth. Send an ambulance.” He left the phone on and placed it on Cruz’s stomach. Hardy bolted back to the SUV. Dragging the driver from the vehicle, he hopped inside and eased the Tahoe between the Charger and Cruz. Once he was clear, he pressed down on the gas pedal and sped east on Franklin.
Chapter 11: Re-Group
Hardy had heard sirens before he left the scene. The police would be there soon, and witnesses were sure to describe the vehicle he used to get away. He needed to get out of sight and re-group. Houses lined both sides of Franklin. Most were too close to the house next door for his entrance to go unnoticed. He spotted an open garage door attached to a secluded house set back from the road. No cars were parked in the garage or the driveway. The owner must have forgotten to close the door after leaving for work. Someone could still be home, but he had to take the chance. Trying not to draw any attention, he made a textbook left turn, steered the Tahoe into the driveway and drove into the garage.
Hardy slid out of the vehicle and found the button to shut the overhead door. As the door closed, he made sure no one had seen him enter the garage. A naked man peeking out from a garage was guaranteed to warrant a 9-1-1 call. He opened the right-rear passenger door and stripped the dead man, who was close to Hardy’s size, of his suit. Plus, the clothes were not as bloody as the clothes of the other man. Fully clothed, Hardy relieved the man of his weapon, a Sig Sauer P229, a paddle holster, magazine pouch and spare magazines.
Conducting a thorough search of both men, Hardy found nothing on them that explained who they were, or who their employer might be. They were clean, except for their hardware and a roll of cash wrapped with a thick rubber band. He estimated each man had a thousand dollars, which Hardy pocketed.
Moving around to the rear of the SUV, he lifted the rear door and saw four black duffle bags and four MP5 rifles, complete with two-point slings, red dot lasers and Surefire flashlights. Hardy dragged one of the duffle bags closer and unzipped it, revealing its contents. Judging from what he saw, these men could have been a tactical assault team. Hardy and his team had used much of the same equipment on their missions. He picked up one of the MP5’s along with the several magazines from the other rifles and stuffed everything inside the open bag. Before zipping it shut, he found a sound suppressor for the Sig Sauer and attached it to the pistol.
Hardy moved past the driver’s side of the SUV and opened the door leading to the house. He scanned for any signs that the homeowner may have a dog, and crept inside. Directly in front of him was the dining room, the kitchen was to the left. He advanced to where the dining room joined a large living room. From here, he could see into the back yard through a set of sliding glass doors. No one was on the first floor or in the back yard. He crossed the living room and ascended the stairs leading to the second level, his eyes darting back and forth, searching for homeowners. At the top of the stairs, he turned and moved down the hall. Two open doors were on each side. He cleared each room, ending with the master bedroom. He was all alone in the house. After detaching his pistol’s sound suppressor, he holstered the weapon and stowed the sound suppressor. Leaving the bedroom, he saw his reflection in the mirror attached to a beautiful antique armoire. The shirt was bloodied. He rummaged through the dresser drawers and closets, finding a red Washington Redskins t-shirt with the team’s logo emblazoned on the chest and a pair of blue jeans. The jeans were a little big, but he found a belt in the back of the closet. After adding a pair of white socks and some basketball shoes, he grabbed a light jacket nearby and went downstairs.
In the living room, Hardy picked up the television remote and hit the power button. He channel surfed, until he found the news stations. He wanted to see if the media had reported on the story of the shooting. He scooped a laptop computer from a coffee table, but put it down when he noticed a smaller tablet with attached keyboard on the couch. Hurrying to the dining room table, he powered-up the tablet before plugging the charging cord into a nearby electrical outlet.
While the boot-up process commenced, Hardy felt his stomach growl. He had not eaten anything in over twelve hours. Grabbing a frying pan from the dish drainer next to the sink, he put it on the stove and turned on the burner. Opening the refrigerator, he retrieved a carton of eggs, a tub of butter and a plastic container of milk. Dropping a mound of butter into the frying pan, he spotted a loaf of bread.
Ten minutes later, Hardy was shoveling the eggs and toast into his mouth, while studying the information on the tablet’s screen. He had done a simple Google search for Special Agent Cruz. The query provided quite a bit of information about her. He was amazed at what one could learn about people through the Internet, especially a Miss America Pageant runner-up. Her full name was Raychel Elisa DelaCruz, born in 1986 in Dalhart, Texas, a small city of less than ten-thousand people, located at the Northwest tip of the state. At age eighteen, she had won the beauty pageant for her home state before placing second at the Miss America Pageant. Reading her bio, he came across a statement she had made during the Miss America Pageant. She was quoted as saying, ‘I feel a special calling to serve my country, possibly something in the military.’ He read the quote again, tapping his finger on the table.
Hardy stood and used the telephone hanging on the wall to place a call to a friend who worked for the Central Intelligence Agency—Kevin Hernandez. Hardy had not spoken to H
ernandez in more than three years. The two men had served together in Iraq for more than a year before Hernandez left the military and started working for the CIA. The two of them remained close for several years, until Hardy’s career took a different path. Halfway through the third ring, Hernandez picked up the phone.
“Kevin, its Hardy…Aaron Hardy.”
“Aaron Hardy, as I live and breathe,” said Hernandez. “What the hell have you been up to, you son-of-a-”
Hardy interrupted him. “I’ve been good, Kevin, but I need your help and I don’t have much time. Do you still have access to personnel files for military members?”
“I don’t hear from you in three years and the first thing you say is ‘I need your help.’ That’s not very polite, you know. But, then again you always were more of a hammer than a glass of fine wine.” Hernandez chuckled.
Hardy played along. “Hi Kevin, it’s good to talk to you. How’s the wife and kids? Is the job going well?”
“Smart ass,” said Hernandez. “All right, what can I do for you?”
Hardy spelled out a name. “Raychel Elisa DelaCruz…I need whatever you can get on her and I need it yesterday.”
“What’s the rush?”
“I’m really short on time and I can’t get into it. I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t important, Kevin. I owe you one for this.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m still waiting for you to make good on those other I-O-U’s. I should have something for you in fifteen minutes.”
“Thanks, Kevin. Call me back on this number.” Hardy returned the phone to the cradle and went back to the tablet.
For the next fifteen minutes, Hardy recalled the events of the past twelve hours. He should contact Ludlum, but he remembered what Becker had whispered in his ear, as they left the hospital room—‘Colonel Ludlum wants to see you.’ Was Ludlum part of the operation to abduct me, or were those men using my connection with Ludlum to get me to let my guard down? He was unsure if Ludlum could be trusted, but the man was Hardy’s only lead. Still considering his options, he sprang from the chair when the phone rang. The caller ID showed it was the number he had used to contact Hernandez.
Hardy plucked the handset from the cradle. “Talk to me, Kevin. What’ve you got?”
“Do you still have the same email address from three years ago?”
“Yes.” There were a few moments of silence. Hardy could hear Hernandez typing.
“I just sent you a couple of files. This DelaCruz woman is quite a looker. Are you thinking of dating her and wanted to run a background check on her first?” Before Hardy could answer, Hernandez continued. “If you’re not dating her, you could always give her my number.”
“No, we’re not dating.” Hardy typed in his user name and password. “Besides, you wouldn’t be her type—she likes attractive men.” Hardy grinned, appreciating the light-hearted moment in the midst of chaos and dead bodies.
“Wow! Three years go by and all you have for me are demands and insults. I guess it’s true what they say about not needing enemies when you have friends like—”
“Listen, I appreciate your help on this, and I really do owe you one.”
The humor left Hernandez’s voice. “Don’t worry about that. Are you in some sort of trouble? If there’s anything I can do, just say the word.”
“Thanks, Kevin. I appreciate that. You’ve already helped me a great deal. I have to go.”
“Okay. Take care of yourself, my friend. Next time don’t wait three years to call, you got it?”
“I won’t.” Hardy hung up the phone and focused his attention to the tablet’s screen, reading the information Hernandez was able to provide on the special agent from Texas.
She joined the Army at age twenty-three after earning a Bachelor of Science degree in Criminology from Texas A&M University—San Antonio. She spent two years, serving in a couple of support roles in the areas of intelligence and computer information systems. She never came close to the action overseas. When she was honorably discharged, her rank was that of corporal. Hardy read everything a second time. Not much here…Still, her presence in the hospital and the way she handled herself with the fake DHS agents…tells me there’s more to her than what I’m seeing from her military file.
Hernandez had also attached another file. Hardy clicked on the icon and he had access to her career at the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Skimming the screen, a better outline of her started to form, one that fit the image he had in his mind.
After being discharged from the Army, she started a career as a police officer for her hometown of Dalhart, Texas. Two years into her career, she made a routine traffic stop that resulted in a shootout with a Mexican drug trafficker who was on the FBI’s Most Wanted List. She received minor injuries in the shootout that ended with the capture and the arrest of the fugitive. She received special recognition from the FBI, and she was promoted to the rank of sergeant in the Dalhart P.D.
One year later, at age twenty-seven, she was accepted into the FBI and graduated at the top of her class. At twenty-nine years of age, following a lengthy investigation, she arrested Congresswoman Hayes and received a commendation from FBI Director Phillip Jameson. Six months later, she was directly responsible for exposing another corrupt Washington government official, who resigned his position. He was arrested on charges related to his actions, while serving in the United States Senate. She was promoted to a supervisory special agent position in the Fraud and Public Corruption Division.
At this rate, she’s on the fast track to becoming director. Hardy shut down the tablet and unplugged it from the wall outlet. Staring at the phone on the wall, He had a difficult decision to make. Actually, it was not that difficult. He had no other options, but to contact Colonel Ludlum and find out what he knew. Picking up the phone, he paused before dialing the phone number for his boss.
Chapter 12: The Director
9:19 a.m., Washington Hospital
FBI Director Phillip Jameson advanced in his career by following orders and making sure his superiors got all of the credit. As a rookie agent, he learned that making life difficult for your bosses might help them overlook people for promotions. As a result, he worked hard and never expected anything more than his paycheck at the end of the week. The people above him took note of his work ethic and wanted someone like him on their team; thus, Jameson became FBI Director very early in his career. As the head of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, he demanded the same integrity from those who worked for him.
Fifty-years-old, Jameson was physically fit, regularly lifting weights and jogging. He was one inch short of six feet in height and weighed one hundred and ninety pounds. He was bald and wore rounded, rectangular eyeglasses with thick black frames. His work attire was always the same—black suit, white shirt with a red tie. He changed the shade and print of the tie, but the color was always red. His shoes were black and shined—absolutely no smudges. Although no one knew, he had a separate closet at home for his business attire. His clothing was a projection of what you could expect from him. He was a man who brought to bear rock-steady leadership and decision-making skills and always backed up his agents.
Director Jameson strode down the hallway of the hospital. Two junior agents were one-step behind him, one on either side. His long strides carried him forward at a pace that those walking with him found difficult to maintain. The other agents alternated between walking and jogging to keep up with him. Jameson turned left at the end of the hallway. He made an immediate right turn before entering the hospital room where one of his finest agents was lying in a bed, having been involved in a gunfight two hours ago.
“Cruz, I’m glad to see you’re awake.” Jameson gestured for the two agents to wait outside and closed the door. “How are you feeling?”
“My head feels like Tank has been sitting on it for an hour, but other than that, I feel good to go, sir.”
Tank was the nickname for one of the agents who had accompanied the Director. Tank had received his nickna
me because of his size. The man was six-feet, six-inches tall and tipped the scales at 250 pounds of solid muscle. He had only been with the FBI for a little over a year, but had made a name for himself as someone you definitely wanted on your side if you ever got into a fight.
“Good to hear,” said Jameson, through a thin smile on his lips. He came closer to the bed.
“When can I get out of here…I’ve got a lot of work to do?”
“Soon, but first I’d like to talk to you about what happened out there. What do you remember?” He shook his head and held up his hand. “First, let me say you did one hell of a job patching up Harper. That field dressing saved his life. He’s in surgery now, but the doctors say he’s going to make it. If you hadn’t done that before dialing 9-1-1, the doctors said he would have bled out in a matter of minutes. Nice work.”
Cruz was silent. Her mind was searching for the details of the incident. “Excuse me, sir, but I’m not sure what you’re talking about. I don’t recall applying a field dressing to anyone, let alone calling 9-1-1. The last thing I remember before waking up here is seeing a naked man running toward the SUV.”
“So, if you didn’t do it, then who did? No average person could have done that, unless he or she had military or medical training.” After a few moments of silence, he continued. “Anyway, what do you remember?”
Holding a cup of water in her hand and taking small sips, Cruz filled in the director on the events leading up to the shootout. She grabbed a pitcher and filled her empty cup.
“So, there were four men inside the Tahoe with Hardy?”
Cruz nodded.
“There were only two bodies at the scene. What happened to the other three men?” Jameson let the question hang in the air, while he made a call from his cell phone.
