by Alex Ander
Cruz stood and held out her hand. “Come on, let’s get going.”
He took her hand and pushed himself away from the ground. Getting to his feet, he felt a rush of blood to his head and his legs wobbled. He staggered and took a giant step toward Cruz. She clutched his waist to stabilize him. Hardy wrapped his right arm around her shoulder.
“Easy now,” she said.
“I’m okay. I just need a minute.”
For a few moments, they stood there, not saying anything. Hardy was trying to regain his balance, enjoying the touch of Cruz’s body. Secretly, he wanted it to last a little longer.
“Listen, Hardy,” Cruz tilted her head back, her right hand on his chest, “I know this isn’t exactly how you wanted this to go down, but we got them. Hastings is going to jail and The Tucker Group will be dismantled. I promise you that everyone involved in the deaths of your team members will be brought to justice. You have my word.”
In that moment, Hardy knew he wanted to see more of this woman. Moving up the path, he stopped and looked at her. “What time is it, Cruz?”
She checked her watch. “It’s almost Midnight—11:43 to be exact.” Thinking that was an odd question to ask at a time like this, she said, “Why? You got a hot date or something?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know…maybe.” They picked up their pace again. “Since it’s still my birthday for the next…seventeen minutes…would you like to have a drink with me?”
Her head down, arm in arm with him, Cruz smiled. “I’d love to. The first round’s on me.” They took a few more steps and she looked at him. “Happy Birthday, Hardy.”
Chapter 28: St. Matthew’s Cathedral
July 8th, 11:49 a.m.
It was a beautiful and sunny day. The temperature was seventy-five degrees. A light breeze blew, while fluffy, white clouds hung low in the sky. The day would have been perfect, if not for the somber occasion taking place in downtown Washington D.C. inside St. Matthew’s Cathedral.
Constructed in a Roman style with Byzantine accents and built with red brick and sandstone trim, St. Matthew’s Cathedral was the location for the memorial service, remembering those who had died in the blast at the tavern the previous week. It was decided that since they had perished together, they would be remembered together. Large pictures of each victim were placed on stands on the altar. Hundreds of potted plants and flowers surrounded the pictures. Among the pictures were those of the twelve members of Hardy’s team. Hardy had learned the President had made sure that every one of them had been re-instated as members of the military. They had their service records changed to reflect their service up to the point where they were killed, and were given a full military funeral. Hardy sat on the end, a few rows back from the front, listening as the priest prayed a final blessing.
“O Loving Father, we pray that you would welcome your departed children into the realms of everlasting life. We ask that their tears be wiped away and their sufferings cease to exist. May the joy and splendor that is Heaven, be theirs for all of eternity.”
“Finally, we ask you to look after the family and loved ones they have left behind. Comfort them when they grieve. Rejoice with them when they remember the good times shared. And, above all, never let the fire of the love within them burn out. In Jesus’ name we pray.”
And, all the people said, “Amen.”
Special Agent Cruz, sitting next to Hardy, made the sign of the cross and said, “Amen.”
Hardy saw her out of the corner of his eye. He had never been a man who really believed in God. It was not that he did not think there was a God, but rather he did not know for sure. In his line of work, he dealt with facts, not beliefs; however, he liked and respected Cruz, so he respected her beliefs. They had spent quite a bit of time together over the past week. They went out for drinks a couple of times. They went for short walks during her lunch breaks. And, last night, they had dinner at a nice restaurant. Hardy was grateful she had come into his life, especially during this difficult time. He was still having the nightmares about his team members, but the nightmares were less intense and getting further apart. He credited the time he had spent with Cruz for helping him find some closure. Despite the difficulties ahead of him, she had given him hope that brighter days would follow.
Chapter 29: We Must Act Now
July 9th, 7:57 a.m.
“Please show him in, Courtney.” President James Conklin hung up the phone and continued his conversation with his White House Chief of Staff, Peter Whittaker.
Peter Whittaker was a short, lean man in his late forties. His black hair was parted on the left side. A thin mustache lay beneath his long, narrow nose. His eyes were small and close together. When he spoke, he had a very distinct Ivy League accent, having grown up in Massachusetts. His words were always carefully chosen. The President had tapped Whittaker to be his chief of staff, because of his attention to detail. Nothing made it to the President without Whittaker’s knowledge. The President respected and trusted Whittaker and allowed him a great deal of latitude in all things related to the Presidency.
“Are you absolutely sure about this, Mr. President.” Whittaker sat in a chair across from the President’s desk in the Oval Office, his legs crossed. “We know nothing about him.”
“The events of this past week have made it perfectly clear to me that we need a man with his talents.” The President spun his chair a quarter-turn and stared into the distance. “This war on terror has been no war at all. The terrorists attack and we go on the defensive. In the military, if you’re not advancing, then you’re retreating. We must go on the offensive. We must act swiftly and we must act now!” The President pounded his fist on the desk.
The door to Oval Office opened. A young woman appeared and held the door open. A moment later, Aaron Hardy walked into the Oval Office, wearing a gray suit, white shirt and a red tie. A handkerchief in his left breast pocket matched the color of his tie, which was held in place by a gold clip. A collar bar under the knot of the tie drew the points of his shirt collar closer together. Striding across the room, his black shoes were without blemish.
The President stood and met Hardy halfway. The two men shook hands in front of the couch, standing on the rug, emblazoned with the seal of the President of the United States. Whittaker stood behind the President.
“It’s a pleasure to you meet you, Aaron. May I call you Aaron?”
“Of course, Mr. President,” replied Hardy. “The pleasure is mine, sir.”
The President extended his arm toward Whittaker. “This is my Chief of Staff, Peter Whittaker. I’ve asked him to join us for this meeting.”
Whittaker stepped forward and shook Hardy’s hand. “It’s good to meet you, Mr. Hardy.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Whittaker.”
“Please, sit down.” The President motioned Hardy toward the couch, while Whittaker sat on the opposite end of the couch. Across from Hardy, the President sat in a wooden straight back chair with leather trim, and crossed his legs.
The commander in chief clasped his hands together and rested them on his lap. “First of all, let me say how truly sorry I am for your loss. I want you to know I personally read the file of every member of your team. Those were fine American patriots. I wish I could have attended the memorial service, but I didn’t want my presence to disrupt the service and take away from the grieving family members.”
Hardy nodded his head. “I understand, sir. Thank you for everything you did to clear their service records.”
The President waved his hand. “It was the least I could do.”
Hardy was waiting for the President to get to the reason for the meeting. As busy as the President was, a face-to-face meeting to extend condolences was a little odd. Ever since Hardy had gotten the call from his secretary, Courtney, arranging the meeting, Hardy questioned what was going to take place. He did not have to wait long to find out.
“I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve asked to meet with you. So, I’m going to ge
t right to the point. The war on terror isn’t going exactly as I had planned. During the first two years of my presidency, I have been bogged down in bureaucratic bullsh—” the President stopped. “Pardon me—bureaucratic red tape.”
Hardy smiled. That’s getting to the point, all right.
“Members of Congress are afraid of offending…well…everyone these days, but especially the Muslim population. It’s precisely because of this political correctness that I haven’t been able to gain any traction in this war. I campaigned on a tough-on-crime/national security platform and I plan to keep the promise I made to those who elected me.” The President uncrossed his legs and leaned forward in his chair.
Without realizing it, Hardy leaned forward and mirrored the President’s posture.
The President pointed at Hardy. “That is where you come in, Aaron. I’ve read your service record and I’ve seen what you’re capable of, both abroad and on American soil. Your actions last week, helping bring Senator Hastings and The Tucker Group to justice were icing on the cake, if you will.” The President paused. “I need a man like you. This country needs a man like you. A man who’s not afraid to take action and do whatever is necessary to get the job done…to take the fight to the terrorists.” The President leaned back in his chair. “So, what do you say? I’m offering you a job, putting your special skills and talents to work, keeping the American people safe from terrorists around the world.”
Hardy’s eyes widened. He felt his lower jaw hanging open slightly. He quickly shut it and glanced at Whittaker. In one week, Hardy had gone from Special Forces operator, to unsanctioned patriot, to being offered a job by the President of the United States. Before he could say anything, the President leaned forward and continued.
“This would have to be kept top-secret.” He held up his index finger. “You would have one boss,” he pointed his thumb at his chest, “who would report directly to me. At your disposal, you would have all the resources necessary to get the job done…”
Hardy listened to the details of the job. After the President had finished, he fielded questions from Hardy before standing, his body language indicating the meeting was done. “I’m sure you’d like some time to think it over, so take the weekend and contact Courtney on Monday. She’ll put you through to me.” The President held out his hand.
Standing, Hardy did not take the hand. He stared at the Presidential Seal on the rug, his mind replaying everything the President had said. Hardy had been reconciling the things he had done over the past three years, while believing he was doing those things in the service of his country. Was this his chance at redemption, his chance to honor his men? Or, would it be a constant reminder of his deeds? He wanted to put the past behind him and start fresh. He thought of Special Agent Cruz. The time they spent together had been fantastic. He wanted a relationship with her. How would this job offer affect that relationship? While he was mulling over the President’s words, the final blessing the priest gave at the memorial service resounded in his mind—‘Above all, never let the fire of the love within them burn out.’
Hardy raised his head. “With all due respect, sir, I don’t need the weekend to think it over.”
The President’s hand dropped a bit. He had learned that whenever anyone started a sentence with ‘with all due respect’ bad news usually followed.
Hardy grasped the President’s hand and said, “I accept. When do I start?”
…………………………
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).
The
London
Operation
(Preview)
Aaron Hardy
Patriotic Action
Alex Ander
.
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?”
