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  Patriot Assassin

  (Aaron Hardy Patriotic Action #4)

  By Alex Ander

  .

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  .

  Patriot

  Assassin

  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, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to real events or locations or actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The photo of the woman:

  “Hitter – 1” is by Marcus Ranum. It is used in accordance with his licensing rules (updated August 2012) at Deviantart.com; specifically, rule #5: If you want to do something commercial with my stock, go ahead.

  Chapter 1: Surveillance

  October 29th, 9:00 p.m.; New York City

  Wearing a long-sleeved dark t-shirt under a black leather jacket, a pair of blue jeans and black five-inch tactical boots from 5.11 Tactical, Aaron Hardy hurried down 11th Street. The night was cool. A biting wind against his face reminded him that fall had come to the Northeast. Nights like these made him reminisce of his childhood, growing up in Northern Lower Michigan. He loved this time of the year. After enduring the hot and humid months of June, July and August, Hardy looked forward to the cold fresh air of autumn. He could match his clothing to the changing temperatures of fall much easier than he could during the stifling heat of summer. You can only take off so many layers of clothing, he thought, moving to his left to pass a meandering couple, who were in love and had no particular place to be this night.

  As a young boy, he would have been sighting-in his hunting rifle right about now, eagerly waiting for the first day of deer season. Opening day was considered a holiday in his part of the state. He smiled, picturing his Marlin 336 lever-action rifle, chambered in .30-30 Winchester. The gun had been a gift from his father for his sixteenth birthday. Up to that point, Hardy had used his father’s guns. The Marlin was his, however. Giving Hardy the rifle, his father had said to him, ‘Son, it’s time you had one of your own.’ Hardy still owned that Marlin, vowing he would never sell it.

  Hardy’s jacket flared open, as the wind slipped inside it and sent a shiver up his spine. Fiddling with the zipper, he ran the pull-tab on the jacket to his chest, shielding his body from the cold. A voice in his head shattered the happy thoughts.

  “He just turned right,” said Charity, “onto 12th Street. It seems like he’s picked up his pace a little.”

  “I’m on it.” Hardy trotted to the corner of 11th Street and 5th Avenue. He grabbed the metal handrail and propelled his body forward down 5th Avenue, heading toward 12th Street. Slowing his pace, he waited for an update. Charity and Hardy were communicating through Hardy’s wireless earpiece. She was in Washington D.C., tracking their target via the target’s cell phone. With Charity acting as his eyes, Hardy could maintain a safe distance and not alert the man to Hardy’s presence.

  The target, Abdul Sayed, was a member of a terrorist cell and his skittish behavior this evening made Hardy nervous. Sayed had made several consecutive left turns, doubling-back over his route. Hardy knew the technique. He had used it many times to make sure no one was following him. But, why now? Hardy had been following him all over New York City for three days and not once had he attempted to disguise his routes.

  During the day, Sayed worked at an office supply store, taking his lunch break at 12:30 p.m. every day. He would walk to a coffee shop and pick up food and coffee before proceeding to Washington Square Park, where he would eat his lunch; an hour after he left, he would be back to work. At five o’clock, he walked home to his apartment near Avenue of the Americas and Twenty-Third Street. He had stayed home the first two nights, but last night he went out for the evening, having dinner at a restaurant before spending an hour at a bookstore on Broadway. He left the bookstore and went home. His mannerisms had suggested he did not care who was following him. Tonight, however, was different.

  Anxiety crept into Charity’s voice. “I lost him.”

  “You what,” Hardy shot back?

  “I’m not sure what happened. His signal disappeared from my computer screen halfway down 12th Street.”

  Hardy ran along 5th Avenue. He turned right and came face to face with a group of people at the corner of 5th Avenue and 12th Street. He sidestepped them and dashed down 12th Street, scanning the street for Sayed. “What was his last location?”

  Charity zoomed in on the map. “He was right in front of Goodmans.”

  Hardy slowed to a jog when he approached Goodman’s Bar and Grill. Standing under the blue awning outside the establishment, he peered inside. “Are you sure this is the spot?”

  “I’m positive. The computer doesn’t lie.”

  “Yeah,” he mumbled, “the computer doesn’t lose targets either.”

  “Say again…I couldn’t hear you.”

  “I’m going inside. Let me know if you get his signal back.” He opened the door and walked into the restaurant. He passed through an open door, turned left and ascended a couple of steps, his eyes moving left and right. At the top of the stairs, he went left, analyzing every patron in the establishment. Absorbed in the search for Sayed, he was unaware of the approaching woman. Her head down, she was focused on a cell phone. The two collided and she recoiled, her arms flailing. The mobile device slipped from her hands, clattering as it slid across the floor.

  Hardy took a long step forward and wrapped his arms around her waist. His left hand supported her upper back, while his right hand held the small of her back. Her head bobbing back before coming forward, she threw her hands upward and clutched his shoulders. Those who had not witnessed the accident would have thought the two were dancing, and Hardy had ‘dipped’ his partner.

  The woman felt the power in the stranger’s arms. A moment ago, she had braced for a rough landing. Now, feeling safe and secure in his grasp, she let her body relax. Her fingers maintained their vise-like grip on the muscular shoulders, while her eyes darted left and right, up and down. His hair was short and light brown in color. He had a square jaw that came to a slight point at his chin, which had a small dimple in the center. Settling on his eyes, she felt as if time was s
tanding still. Never before had she seen such deep blue eyes. As the man brought her to a standing position, she found it impossible to turn away.

  “I’m sorry, miss. Are you okay?” Hardy took a small step backward and glanced at her from head to toe. She was a few inches shorter, but the three-inch heels of her black thigh boots brought her even with his height. Under a long overcoat, she wore a black mini-skirt. The hem rose to the upper portion of her thighs. A tight, dark red sweater accentuated her rounded breasts. Long and straight bleached blonde hair fell to the middle of her back; the bangs stopped less than an inch above her well-manicured dark eyebrows, which curved slightly toward the bridge of her petite nose and the outer corner of her eye. She had a round face with hazel green eyes, narrowly spaced. Her full lips, colored to match her sweater, seemed to be permanently pursed.

  The woman blinked her eyes a few times, shaking off the strange feeling. “Yes…I’m fine.” Gazing into the man’s eyes, she remembered why she was in this swanky bar in the first place. Sliding her hands down the strong arms, she cupped the back pockets of his jeans and drew his body closer. Manufacturing a seductive half-smile and tilting her head, she glanced at his lips before batting her eyelids. “I like it rough, anyway.”

  Hardy arched his back. This isn’t exactly what I had in mind tonight. Peeling the smooth fingers from his backside, he picked up her phone and handed it to her. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he flashed a smile, “but I’m looking for someone.”

  She watched him walk away, eyeing his physical qualities from behind. Dragging out her words, she said, “If you don’t find whoever it is you’re looking for, I’d be happy to take her place.”

  Sayed’s picture was back in the forefront of Hardy’s mind, while he scanned the rest of the restaurant.

  “What was that all about?” Charity had heard the exchange between Hardy and the woman. “Did you make a new friend?”

  He ignored the question. “Have you found our man yet?”

  “Still nothing,” she replied.

  Hardy had made it to the other end of the restaurant—no Sayed. He walked down a short flight of stairs. “He’s not in the restaurant area. I’m going to check out the bathroom.”

  Entering men’s room, he saw a man washing his hands. Hardy nodded his head and the man returned the gesture before drying his hands and leaving. Hardy peered under the stalls. They were empty, except for the last one. He unzipped his jacket and wrapped his fingers around his firearm; a Walther PPQ M2, chambered in nine millimeter.

  Hardy pushed open the door to the first stall; it was empty. He repeated the process, until he came to the last one. The stall was occupied, but the door was ajar. His mental synapses were firing. A man doesn’t drop his pants without locking the door. He drew his pistol and put it behind his back. He slowly pushed the door inward. His eyebrows shot upward. Staring back at him was a man sitting on the toilet, fully clothed. The man’s head was down and cocked off to one side. Both of his hands were hanging at his sides. Hardy stretched out a hand and felt for a pulse under the man’s chin. He was dead. Hardy examined the body; two bullet wounds in the chest and the left eye was missing, the result of a third bullet.

  Holstering his pistol, he searched the man and stepped back. What the hell happened here? A few seconds later, Charity’s high-pitched voice broke his concentration.

  “Hardy, I’ve got him. Sayed is on the move again. He’s heading east on 12th Street.”

  Hardy studied what was left of the man’s face. “That’s not possible. I’m looking at Sayed’s corpse right now. Somebody killed him.”

  “I’m telling you his signal just appeared on my screen. He’s getting away.”

  “All right, I’m on my way.” Hardy exited the stall and ran toward the door. “Have Jameson send some agents to clean this mess up.” He did not want this getting to the media, sending Sayed’s friends into hiding.

  On the street, Hardy glanced up and down 12th Street. Realizing Sayed was dead, he did not know whom he was trying to find. “Charity, what am I looking for? Where’s the signal coming from?” Not getting a reply, he repeated the command. “Damn it, Charity, where the hell is it coming from?” His voice startled a couple who were entering the bar. The man hurried his female companion past Hardy and through the doors.

  “It’s not moving. The signal is stationary at the corner of 12th and University—west side of the street.”

  Hardy rushed to the corner of 12th Street and University, hoping his pace would not alert the person, or persons, who had taken Sayed’s phone. Standing at the corner, he searched in all directions. Nothing seemed out of place. A man stood near a trash receptacle, his back to Hardy and his head down, looking at something in his hand. Hardy whispered. “Charity, dial the number to Sayed’s phone. Let it ring once and hang up. Keep doing it until I say otherwise.”

  “Dialing now…”

  Directly in front of Hardy, a muffled ringtone sounded once. The man near the trash container looked around. Hardy rushed forward, hearing the cell phone emit a single ring two more times. The man fished around in the trash before pulling out a cell phone. The mobile rang one time. Closing the distance, Hardy snatched the device from the man’s hand.

  “Hey, what the f—” the man noticed the pistol on Hardy’s belt.

  Hardy’s eyes narrowed and his jaw muscles clenched. “Move along. This has nothing to do with you.”

  The man took several steps backward before turning around and scurrying away.

  The phone rang again. “Charity, you can stop dialing. I’ve got the phone.”

  She had heard the verbal confrontation. “Is everything okay?”

  He examined the phone. How did this get in the trashcan? He scanned the immediate area for anyone taking special interest in him. People were distracted by their cell phones, talking to others or rushing to their destination; nothing was suspicious. The person who had discarded the phone was gone.

  “What happened? Hardy, are you okay?”

  “I’ll tell you when I get there.” He turned the phone over in his hand. “I need a ride. Have Jameson set it up for me.” Hardy took one more look around the area before walking back the way he had come. Had he glanced over his shoulder, he would have seen a figure slowly emerging from the shadows of a doorway, across University Place.

  Chapter 2: Hoover

  11:11 p.m.; J. Edgar Hoover Building in Washington D.C.

  Hardy parked his dark blue Ford F-150 Raptor in his reserved parking space in the underground garage. He shut off the vehicle’s engine and slid his hands over the steering wheel, admiring the truck. A few months ago, he had borrowed a Ford Ranger and loved it. After returning it to the rightful owners, he made the decision to buy one. Visiting a Ford dealership, he discovered the company had stopped making the trucks. He was on his way out when he spotted this blue Raptor. As soon as he sat behind the wheel, he knew he had found his truck. This was only the third time he had driven the vehicle, since buying it. Looking around the interior, his mind went back to the July incident that had started his journey.

  Hardy had lost his entire Special Forces team in an explosion at a tavern in Washington, D.C. He was the only one to survive the blast, later determined to be a criminal act. He set out on a mission to find those responsible and bring them to justice. His actions got the attention of the President of the United States. The President created a top-secret position for Hardy, tracking down and eliminating terrorists around the world. Hardy’s official job title was Special Agent Consultant to the Director and he reported directly to FBI Director Phillip Jameson. Only a small number of people knew the real nature of Hardy’s position within the U.S. Government.

  He slid out of the Raptor and headed toward an elevator door near his parking spot. He punched in a security code on a keypad next to the door and the elevator doors opened. Stepping inside, he entered another security code that would take him to the fourth floor beneath the building. It was common knowledge that the J. Edgar
Hoover Building had three underground floors. Not common knowledge, however, was the fourth underground floor, which had been kept a secret.

  The fourth floor was designed to serve as an underground bunker and command center for the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, in case anything happened on the surface and the director’s safety was compromised. The secret floor had never been used, so the director put it to use as his base of operations when planning Hardy’s missions. The director could conduct official business in his office above ground and take a short elevator ride to meet with Hardy.

  The elevator came to a halt and the doors opened. Hardy slipped past the doors before they had fully opened and moved toward the Operation’s Room, which had been named the OR. The OR was on the other side of the floor. He strode past small cubicles on either side of him. Coming to a ‘T’ in the floor plan, he turned left and walked down a narrow hallway. There were two rooms on the left that served as offices and two rooms on the right; the first one was the OR. The second one was Director Jameson’s office. As Hardy approached the OR, Charity strolled out of her office, directly across from the OR.

  “Jameson wants to meet with us as soon as possible. I heard you coming and sent him a text.”

  Hardy gave her a quick nod and walked into the OR. He took a few steps straight ahead and sat in a chair at the left end of a long conference table. On the walls to his left and right as well as straight ahead, were several large monitors. In the right corner, there were several telephones hardwired and secure for conversations with the outside world. In front of every station, built into the table, were a small monitor, keyboard and computer.

  Feeling the chill from his icy glare, Charity bristled. Is he upset with me or something else? A month ago, she had met Hardy when she was in the witness protection program. His actions had been instrumental in saving her life from armed men intent on killing her. Once the threat to her life had passed, Director Jameson offered her a job working for him, serving as Hardy’s information specialist. Charity was highly skilled in the field of information technology. Her responsibility was to provide the necessary technical details of each mission and assist him with gathering intelligence.