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  Deadly Assignment

  (Aaron Hardy Patriotic Action #3)

  By Alex Ander

  .

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  .

  Deadly

  Assignment

  Aaron Hardy

  Patriotic Action

  .

  This story proudly

  Made in the U.S.A.

  .

  Copyright ©2016 Jason A. Burley

  All rights reserved. No portion of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be published in a newspaper, magazine or electronically via the Internet.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to actual persons, living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  This book was previously published under the title Covert Incursion.

  Chapter 1: Charity

  Monday, September 16th, 4:37 p.m.; south of Dallas, Texas

  Charity Sinclair sat in the backseat of a four-door black sedan, staring at her reflection in the rear-view mirror. Her shoulder-length dark hair, tinged red, was tousled; individual locks and strands stuck out on either side of her head. Her left eye was covered by a large lock; she pushed it away from her face, letting the hair slide between her fingers.

  Charity was five-feet, six inches tall and weighed one hundred and fifteen pounds, but her slim figure gave her the appearance of a taller woman with longer legs. The lines of her bust, waist and hips flowed gracefully down her body, creating the outline of an hourglass. Her eyes were dark and large, set beneath dark eyebrows that followed the curvature of her round eyes. Eyeglasses with red plastic frames rested on her short, slender nose. Despite her attractive features, the one characteristic most people saw first was her smile. Her mouth was wide and paired with a full set of lips that Charity loved to color with red lipstick. A broad smile revealed large white teeth, her lips stopping short of showing her gum line. When she smiled, no one could resist the urge to return the gesture. It was her greatest physical quality. Men were enchanted by it. Women were jealous of it. Children were drawn to it.

  Charity’s eyes shifted to the man in the driver’s seat. His chin rested on his chest and his head was cocked slightly to the right. One hand rested on his leg, palm up. The palm was bright red—the result of his efforts to stop the flow of blood from a bullet wound in his chest. She could not avert her eyes from the man. “What have I gotten myself into?” Several moments passed, but the body in the front seat still held her gaze. A nearby crow cawed and she blinked her eyes a couple of times before shutting them. Removing her eyeglasses, she set them on her lap and rubbed her eyes with the heels of her palms. I’ve got to do something. Sitting in the backseat of the sedan was not going to save her life.

  Charity slid the bows of her eyeglasses past her ears, placed a hand on the back of the front seat and twisted her upper body. Peering through the back window, she saw no other cars in sight. She opened the back door on the driver’s side and stepped out. Her fingers curled over the top of the doorframe and her right foot still inside the vehicle, she whipped her head left and right; her hair flew over one shoulder, and then the other. The road was deserted. Squinting, she gaped through a stand of trees on the other side of the road, her eyes straining to make out a few far away buildings and another road. With no other signs of civilization in the area, the storefronts were her best chance for help. She could not stay here much longer. If those men came, they would kill her for sure this time. They had found her once. They could find her again.

  Charity slammed the door and ran across the road. Her thong shower sandals flopped against the heels of her feet. Roused from a late afternoon nap, she only had time to grab the sandals before she was rushed out of the house and pushed into the vehicle. A pair of light blue shorts and a white tank-top shirt accompanied the footwear.

  Snaking between two large trees, she went deeper into the woods and disappeared from sight. Stepping over fallen limbs and zigzagging around low-hanging branches, sharp twigs scratched Charity’s arms and legs. She felt the waistband of her shorts stretch to the rear, halting her forward progress. She reached around and grabbed her shorts before they were torn from her body. She stepped backwards and released the branch. Her eyes caught sight of the scratches on her arms. She sighed. “This is going to be fun.”

  For twenty minutes, Charity methodically made her way through the woods, until she emerged on the other side. Waving her hand in front of her face to clear away bothersome bugs, she got on her tiptoes to get a better view of the building she had seen from the road. The structure appeared to be a restaurant, but the sign was obscured. She lifted her right foot off the ground and slapped the back of her calf. A mosquito had enjoyed its last meal. Clearing the air in front of her once more, she entered the field, the only thing standing between her and the restaurant.

  Tall blades of grass tickled her bare legs. Charity thought back to the moment that had started her current journey. She shook her head, wishing she had never opened her laptop computer that day. Being the inquisitive type, however, she was compelled to take a closer look at what had been displayed on her computer screen. If she had known then that her life would forever change, she would have closed the laptop and gone to the hotel pool. Without breaking her stride, she picked a red-colored wildflower and brought the blossom to her nose, breathing the aroma. She half laughed. No, I wouldn’t have. That’s not me.

  Minutes later, Charity’s sandals slapped the concrete parking lot behind the restaurant. In the open, she felt exposed and quickened her pace, her sandals making a ‘flop-flop-flop’ sound. She tossed the flower aside and ran to the front door.

  Chapter 2: Jameson

  6:05 p.m.; Washington, D.C.

  "Slow down, Charity, and tell me what happened." FBI Director Phillip Jameson leaned forward in his chair. Charity was scared and talking fast, taking deep breaths of air in mid-sentence. Even though he had heard enough, he let her continue. Her voice told him she was getting tired. That would calm her nerves.

  "Where are you, Charity?" He picked up a pen and slid a pad of paper across his desk. He scribbled. "Listen to me and do exactly what I tell you." He paused, waiting for an acknowledgment. "Stay where you are. Do not leave the restaurant. Don’t even go to the bathroom. Stay where you can be seen at all times. Do you understand me? Good. I’m sending an agent to pick you up. You will be out of there and safe within the hour. Remember to stay visible, Charity. You’re going to be all right." Onc
e Jameson had confirmed she knew what to do, he set the phone's handset back in the cradle. Removing his eyeglasses, he tossed them onto the desk. With his elbows on the desk, he closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead with his fingers. His eight-hour workday had just gotten longer.

  Jameson had always worked hard. When he was ten, working as a newspaper carrier, he made a decision to give more to his employer than he received. That work ethic carried over to every job he worked, including his current position. He never expected more than his paycheck at the end of the week. As a result, his superiors had taken special notice and promoted him as soon as the opportunity had arisen. Two years ago, when James Conklin became the President of the United States, he had a short list of names, actually one name, for the position of FBI Director—Phillip Jameson.

  During his career with the FBI, Jameson had cultivated a no-nonsense attitude. He was a man who brought to bear rock-steady leadership and decision-making skills and always backed up his agents. The fifty-year-old was physically fit, regularly lifting weights and jogging. He was five-feet, eleven inches tall and weighed one hundred and ninety pounds. He was bald and wore rounded, rectangular eyeglasses with thick black frames.

  Jameson sat straight, reached into the pocket of his suit coat and plucked his cell phone. In the upper-right corner of the screen, the time was displayed—6:09. He typed a short text message, pressed the ‘send’ button and put down the phone. Picking up his desk phone, he dialed the cell number of one of his best agents, Special Agent Raychel DelaCruz.

  Chapter 3: Ritz

  5:09 p.m.; Dallas, Texas

  Aaron Hardy reclined in a lounge chair near the outdoor pool at the Ritz-Carlton. The late afternoon sun felt good on his face and bare chest. Contemplating another dip in the pool, he flinched when his satellite phone vibrated on the glass-top table to the right. After swiping a forefinger across the screen, he typed in his password. A new text message appeared from a contact named ‘Boss.’ Hardy’s eyebrows furled downward after he read the short message from Phillip Jameson—‘GO WITH CRUZ.’ Go where?

  Still holding the sat phone, he turned his head to the left and observed the woman lying on her stomach in the chair next to him, her arms resting at her sides. She wore a white two-piece bathing suit, the strings of the bikini-style bottom tied at the hips. Her hair was dark and long, matching the skin tone and length of her legs. She was beautiful.

  FBI Special Agent Raychel DelaCruz rolled onto her back and got comfortable. Her dark sunglasses blocked the sun, while it made its descent to her left. She closed her eyes and let the sun darken her body. She was Caucasian, but her mixed heritage made the color of her skin darker. She was glad she and Hardy had been able to get away for a few days. After driving from Washington D.C. to Dallas, they had taken Saturday to rest. After a late breakfast on Sunday, they spent the afternoon at a Dallas Cowboys football game. It was mid-September and the Cowboys were hosting the Detroit Lions. Having grown up in Dalhart, a couple of hours north, she had been a lifelong Cowboy's fan. Unfortunately, since she lived and worked in Washington, D.C., finding time to attend a game had become a challenge.

  Today, following some light shopping, she and Hardy had spent most of the afternoon by the pool, alternating between sunbathing and swimming. In an hour, they would be travelling to Dalhart to visit her mother. Right now, however, all she wanted was to relax and spend time with Hardy.

  A moment later, she heard a familiar song playing—‘Holy Spirit’ by Francesca Battistelli. I thought I silenced that. Removing her sunglasses, she scooped the phone off the table. Since she was going to be on vacation for the next week, it seemed appropriate to change the ringtone on the device to a song by one of her favorite artists.

  She tapped the screen and brought the mobile to her ear. “Special Agent Cruz.” Even though her real name was DelaCruz, everyone close to her called her Cruz. She had received the name during her time in the military. Her fellow soldiers had joked with her and said that pronouncing her full name was too difficult. They shortened it to Cruz.

  "Cruz, it’s Director Jameson. I'm sorry to bother you while you're on vacation, but I need you for a 'pick-up and delivery' mission."

  Cruz sat up and scooted further back in the lounge chair.

  "One of the FBI's safe houses in Texas was breached. To my knowledge, all of the agents were killed."

  She closed her eyes and put her free hand against her forehead.

  "They were protecting a witness in a murder case. One agent was able to get the witness out in time, but he died a short time later."

  "Where’s the witness?"

  "She's at an Overland Steakhouse near DeSoto. Where are you now?”

  "I know the place. I’m close, maybe thirty minutes away." Cruz paused. "With all due respect, why didn't you send some agents from the Dallas field office? They could be on-scene within minutes."

  "I have no idea how the safe house was breached. Only a handful of people knew the witness’s whereabouts. That means we may have a leak in Dallas. I need someone I can trust to pick her up."

  "I understand, sir. I'll leave right away."

  "I'll send you the GPS coordinates for the new safe house. As we speak, I'm putting together a team of handpicked men to meet you there. They will take control of the situation."

  “Yes, sir.”

  "Oh, and take Hardy with you, Cruz."

  Her body stiffened. How does he know I’m with Hardy? She and Hardy had been dating for two months, but she had never mentioned that fact to anyone at work. "Sir, I don't think I should take a civilian into a potentially hostile situation. What if something happens and—"

  "I understand your concerns, Cruz, but Hardy has proven he can handle himself." Jameson was referring to the incident two months ago that had brought Hardy and her together. Their actions had been instrumental in bringing a corrupt Senator to justice and finding the men responsible for killing Hardy's Special Operations teammates in an explosion in Washington D.C. "Besides, you need backup, in case anything does happen."

  She protested, "Sir—"

  "Cruz, take Hardy. That's an order. If there’s any fallout, I’ll take the heat. Call me when you get to the safe house." Jameson ended the call without giving her a chance to respond.

  Hardy watched Cruz. She stared at her phone for a few seconds before her dark brown eyes settled on him; the long black eyelashes curled toward the sky, fluttering down and up when she blinked. She wanted to say something, but she was distracted. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever met. She had a long face with high cheekbones and a flawless complexion. Her hair fell below her shoulders. Looking at him with her head tilted to her left, the left half of her hair cascaded over her shoulder, covering half of the upper part of her bathing suit, stopping below her breast.

  “How would you like to take a little road trip?” She swung her leg over the chair and rose to her full height—five feet, eight inches.

  Hardy tipped his head backward, following her as she stood. The afternoon sun, directly behind her, silhouetted her figure. Her legs were well toned and her narrow waist complemented the gentle curves of her hips. He smiled and gestured toward the pool. “I thought we were already on a road trip.”

  Cruz reached to the right to grab the black cover-up, hanging over the back of her chair. She twirled the garment around her shoulders and slid her arms into the sleeves. The short-sleeved cover-up hid her bathing suit, but the hem stopped halfway down her thighs. After wrapping the attached sash around her waist and tying a loose knot, she motioned toward her phone. “That was my boss, Director Jameson. A witness in a murder case was almost killed in an attack on a safe house near here. I need to pick her up and get her to a new location.”

  Hardy glimpsed his cell. The text message from Jameson became clear. Though he could not tell her, Jameson wanted Hardy to assist Cruz on the assignment.

  For the past two months, Hardy held a top-secret position, created by the President of the United States. He re
ported directly to FBI Director Jameson. His official job title was Special Agent Consultant to the Director. The President had offered the job to Hardy after becoming aware of his involvement in the incident in July that Director Jameson had alluded to, earlier, during the phone conversation with Cruz. Only a few people knew what Hardy’s job entailed and she was not one of those people. She was unaware that both of them worked for the same man.

  The first two months of Hardy and Cruz’s relationship had been somewhat stressful. He would be gone for several days, conducting missions around the world. When he returned, he and Cruz would have a great time together, until he got a call from Jameson and the process started all over again. Hardy was given a direct order not to divulge the details of his job to anyone.

  She picked up her mobile. “It shouldn’t take too long, but I need to leave, immediately. Are you in?”

  Hardy swung his legs to the left and stood. “I’m in. Let’s go.”

  Chapter 4: Hotel Room

  Back in her hotel room, Special Agent Cruz did not bother to take off her bathing suit. She removed her cover-up, tossed it into her travel bag and quickly dressed—tan casual pants, light blue V-neck shirt and blue leather shoes. After attaching her Glock 23 pistol and holster to her belt, she flung her shirt over the weapon, grabbed her travel bag and suitcase. Walking to the room’s adjoining door, she wrapped on it with her knuckles. Hearing Hardy’s voice, she entered his room.

  He was standing by the bed, dressed in blue jeans, a t-shirt and black tennis shoes, holding his suitcase. She afforded herself a moment to admire his features. He was five-feet, eleven inches tall and had a muscular physique. His upper arms filled out the sleeves of the t-shirt. His light brown hair was cut short. His jaw was square and he had a chin that came to a slight point; a small dimple was centered on it. The quality that had first attracted her, however, was his eyes. They were deep blue. Peering into them, she felt as if she could see the ocean. She snapped out of the trance. “Are you ready?”