Act of Justice Read online

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  Act of Justice

  (Aaron Hardy Patriotic Action - Book #9)

  By Alex Ander

  .

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  .

  Act of

  Justice

  Aaron Hardy

  Patriotic Action

  .

  This story proudly

  Made in the U.S.A.

  Copyright ©2019 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.

  “When justice is done, it is a joy for the just,

  downfall for evildoers.”

  — Proverbs, Chapter 21: Verse 15

  .

  Chapter 1: Bonafides

  Five and a half months ago…

  October 15th

  Brussels, Belgium (three and a half months

  after Hardy accepts the President’s job offer)

  “Je serai à Bruxelles un autre jour avant de rentrer chez moi — I'll be in Brussels for another day before flying home.” Wearing black pantyhose and a black bra, holding a cell phone to her right ear, Margaux slipped her free arm into a white blouse. She grabbed the phone with her other hand and reached behind her for the second sleeve. After hunching into the silky garment, she tapped the ‘speakerphone’ button and laid the cell on the hotel room’s bed.

  “Ton père et moi ne t'avons pas vu depuis des mois, chérie. Il est en train de tout obtenir pour votre repas préféré — Your father and I haven't seen you in months, dear. He's out right now getting everything for your favorite meal.”

  Envisioning her dad meticulously selecting each ingredient for the beef bourguignon, the twenty-something woman smiled and buttoned her shirt. “J'ai hâte de vous voir tous les deux — I can't wait to see you two.” She stepped into a black miniskirt, hoisted the skimpy clothing to her waist and spied the time on the mobile. “Je dois y aller, maman. Je te verrai prochainement — I have to go, Mom. I'll see you soon.”

  “Je t'aime chérie — Love you, dear.”

  “Je t'aime aussi, maman. Au revoir — I love you, too, Mom. Bye.” Margaux disconnected the call, stepped into a spike-heeled black boot, put her foot on a chair and ran the side zipper to her knee.

  After repeating the process with the other boot, she twirled a red, knee-length overcoat around her shoulders, shoved her arms into the woolen sleeves and retrieved a 9mm Heckler & Koch USP Compact from the bed. Raising the black gun to eye level, she stared at the weapon for a few seconds before pulling back on the slide a hair. She glimpsed shiny brass in the chamber and let the firearm go back into battery.

  Margaux dropped the magazine into her left palm, spied a full mag, rammed the ammunition carrier into the gun and slid the HK into a black clutch purse. Slinging the tiny handbag’s thin strap over her shoulder, she examined her outfit in a full-length mirror. Red coat…black boots. She replayed her assignment in her mind for the hundredth time today, expanded her lungs and exhaled. Images of her parents sneaked into the replay. My last one and I’ll be home for a while. She half smiled. I really can’t wait to see you guys.

  A second later, her face went deadpan. Lowering her chin, she squinted at her reflection. Stay focused, Margaux. Just a quick meet and greet, and you’re out of there and home tomorrow.

  … … … … …

  Dressed in a black leather jacket, dark t-shirt, blue jeans and black five-inch tactical boots from 5.11 Tactical, Aaron Hardy descended the steps to the underground metro station, his cell phone pressed to the side of his face. “I’m heading into the subway now, Charity.”

  “Do you know your bonafides?”

  Hardy squeezed the phone tighter and gritted his teeth. “Yes…I know…the bonafides. Unlike you, this isn’t my first op.” He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, shut his eyes, tipped his head back and pinched the bridge of his nose. Not cool, man. You’re better than that.

  “I’m sorry. Of course you know what you’re doing. I-I was only…”

  Awkward silence passed over the communication line before Hardy strode for the metro platform. “I’ll contact you after the meet. Get me whatever you can on our target. Hopefully my contact will be able to fill in some of the blanks for us.”

  “Will do.”

  After noting her blunt, monotone response, Hardy ended the call, stowed the mobile and made his way to the platform, thinking of the exchange with Charity. She had recently joined the Federal Bureau of Investigation. This was his first mission with her. He knew growing pains were a part of every new relationship; however, at this level, growing pains could lead to mistakes. And those mistakes might lead to real pains.

  At thirty years of age and with a dozen years of military training behind him, Hardy found it difficult to put his life in the hands of a woman, who was eight years younger. And she had no training in Special Forces, the military or any government agency. In fact, a month ago, Hardy had saved her life when a band of armed men stormed an FBI safe house. Today, she was supplying him with intelligence on high-profile terrorists.

  He shook his head. What the hell have I gotten myself into? This was supposed to have been a solo job. The President’s Man…singular. He thought of the good men he had served with over the years, especially those who were killed in the tavern explosion three months ago. Oh, guys…if you could see me now; working with someone barely out of high school. He let out a heavy sigh. What’s next I wonder…leading a team of women? He chuckled to himself. At least I know that’ll never happen.

  Hardy found the spot where he was to meet the foreign operative. After sticking an unlit cigarette between his lips, he flipped up his collar, leaned back against the wall, crossed his arms and put the sole of his boot flat against the hard surface behind him. The men’s room was on the other side of the wall. His contact would be looking for someone in this location, matching his description and posture.

  He checked his watch, Two minutes, and spied the platform. Commuters mulled around, while others made squiggly lines, jockeying to be the first to board the next train. He looked left and right, down each length of the subway station, scanning for his contact. The only details he ha
d to go on were a description of the person’s clothing—red, knee-length coat and black boots.

  Hardy glanced left again and saw at least five red coats; three of them came to the women’s knees, but none of the wearers wore the correct legwear. He eyed his watch again. Ninety seconds. The foreign agent was to initiate an exchange before the train arrived. He surveyed the people to his right one more time. Cutting it close, mademoiselle. He spotted several pairs of black knee boots, but they were paired with blue jeans, leggings or skirts.

  Turning his head back the other way, he saw a faint glow coming from a bend in the tracks. The instructions had been clear. If he had not met the agent before the train came to rest, then the meeting was scrubbed, along with his chances of obtaining information that might stop an impending terror attack. “Come on, lady.” The cancer stick bobbed up and down, as he spoke under his breath. “Where the hell are you?”

  He shot a glance over his right shoulder and around the end of the wall supporting him. He started to turn back, but stopped when he noticed a man at the base of the stairs. The two locked eyes for several moments. Hardy could not avert his gaze. Something about the man set off alarm bells in his head.

  The dark-haired, full-bearded, thirty-something man pivoted and slowly ascended the steps.

  Over Hardy’s shoulder, the train’s headlights became visible and grew bigger by the moment.

  When the man left his sight, Hardy lifted his wrist and glimpsed his watch. Forty-five seconds. He shot looks toward both ends of the track. The lines of travelers had become straight and orderly. His stomach stirred. Waiting for something to happen was not one of his strong suits. He put both feet on the concrete floor and pivoted his head left and right.

  The train’s vibrations underfoot drew his attention. The slowing vehicle made its final approach. Passengers inched closer to the edge of the platform, stowing electronic devices, hugging purses, bags and briefcases, grabbing the hands of their children. Hardy drew in a deep breath, while spying his watch. Halfway through exhaling, he heard a woman’s heavily French-accented voice, speaking English.

  “Do you need a light?”

  Hardy spun around and saw a slender, curvy woman in her late twenties, wearing a red, knee-length wool overcoat; two columns of widely spaced, large and flat, black buttons kept the garment closed. His eyes went lower, toward her black knee boots, before he ogled her narrow face, pointed chin, thin nose and dark eyebrows; short hair—parted on the side and black as her boots—stayed in place, despite the wind that whooshed by her when the trained passed.

  Plucking the cigarette from his mouth and letting it fall to the platform, he squished the ciggy under his boot. “Thanks, but I never smoke them.”

  She took a step toward him. “You’re a smart man.”

  “And you’re a beautiful woman.”

  Even though she was shorter than he was, the woman’s four-inch stiletto heels brought her up to his height. She entered his personal space and kissed him on the cheek.

  The train stopped.

  With their bonafides verified, Hardy’s muscles relaxed. “I’m Agent Hardy.”

  The doors opened.

  “Oui. Margaux. It is a pleasure to meet you, Agent Hardy.”

  People filed out of the cars.

  Hardy jerked a thumb behind him and half turned his upper body. “I passed a coffee shop on the way here.”

  Men, women and children filled the cars.

  “Shall we—”

  “No,” she said in her native French tongue before looking over both of her shoulders and switching back to English. “I prefer to make this quick. We do it here…now.”

  The doors closed.

  Hardy nodded. “Very well then. What can you tell me about—”

  Gunfire preceded screams and the sound of breaking glass. Train riders dropped below the windows, some of them sporting red splotches on their clothing and faces. Bullets ricocheted off metal, skipped across the floor, and slammed into men and women.

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  .

  Chapter 2: ‘New Boss’

  Four days ago…

  March 28th; 1:05 a.m.

  Brazil

  With the lights dimmed in the small office of the deserted clinic, Doctor Rossi—standing to the side of his seated patient—undid the white bandages. Making wide loops around the client’s head, a face slowly materialized.

  A tall, slender man, standing near the door, stepped to his left and leaned in the same direction to get a better view.

  Rossi caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. His muscles tensed and he stopped unwrapping to glance at the suited man, who stood with hands clasped in front of his body.

  His eyes closed, the man in the chair tipped his head back. “Is there a problem, doctor?”

  Rossi lifted an elbow and wiped sweat from his brow with a forearm. “No…” he shot another look at the stoic guard, “n-no, everything is fine,” before peeling away the last length of gauze.

  “So how do I look?”

  The early-forties medical man with short black hair, balding on top, tossed the balled fabric onto his desk and repositioned the desk lamp to see his work. He held the man’s head in his hands. He pivoted the man’s cupped chin right and left before tipping the patient’s head backward slightly and examining the man’s nose through the bifocals of his spectacles.

  “Your silence is not instilling confidence in me, doctor. May I open my eyes and see for myself?”

  “Of course,” blurted the plastic surgeon. “I’m so sorry.” He directed the light source toward the ceiling to diffuse the intensity. “Please…you may open your eyes slowly. Give them time to adjust.”

  The patient did as advised. Thirty seconds later, he took the handheld mirror the doctor offered and studied his new face. Twisting his head back and forth before lifting his chin, the thirty-something blonde-haired, dark-eyed man opened and closed his mouth a couple times. After moving his jaw to each side, he lightly touched the top of his nose. The act sent a dull ache to his brain. He winced.

  Pivoting, “You’ll feel some tenderness for a few days,” Rossi went to a cabinet and withdrew a plastic bottle. He verified the label during his return trip and held out the medication. “These will give you relief from the pain.”

  The man in the chair rose to his six-one height and accepted the pain pills. He read the bottle and slipped the container into the pocket of his black suit coat. “Thank you, doctor.” After inspecting himself again, Six-One forfeited the mirror and pointed at his face. “And thank you for this. You do good work.”

  “No,” Rossi bowed slightly, “thank you for your patience.”

  Adjusting the lapels of the jacket that covered his two hundred pound, lean and muscular frame, Six-One smiled and turned around.

  “Sir,” Rossi took a breath and exhaled, “as we talked about…my family?”

  The taller, younger man stopped and cranked his head around to spy the doctor out of one eye. “I am a man of my word, Doctor Rossi. Your wife and daughters are well. You needn’t worry about their safety.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Kosolov. Thank you.” A beat. “When,” he cleared his throat, “when may I see them?”

  Kosolov marched toward the door his associate had opened. “Very soon, doctor. You’ll be seeing them very soon.” He left the office.

  The bodyguard closed the door and caught up with his employer.

  “Roman,” Kosolov tugged on his shirt cuffs, “after you’re done, make sure you sterilize everything.”

  “Yes sir.”

  The twosome rounded a corner and crossed the main lobby. Kosolov adjusted his tie. “I don’t want any traces of me ever being here. You understand me?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Destroy the security system and bring me the footage.”

  Roman nodded his head. “Consider it done, sir.” He spun on his heels and strode back the way the two had come.

  Kosolov exited the build
ing via the back stairs, crossed the street and slid into the backseat of a black sedan.

  The driver pivoted and eyed his ‘new’ boss. “It looks good, sir.”

  Kosolov slammed the door.

  “Where shall I take you, sir?”

  The sole passenger pressed a button on the door; the side window came down a few inches. He found the window of the doctor’s darkened office and squinted at the blackness. A moment later, a flash of light from the office mixed with what sounded like a distant champagne bottle being opened. His lip curled upward, as he pulled back on the rocker switch and the window closed.

  Kosolov produced his cell phone and tapped the screen several times. He put the device to his ear, while unbuttoning his coat. “Give me an update on our timetable.” He listened. “And our operatives are in place?” Seconds passed. “Very good.” He checked his watch. “I’ll be in Canada soon. We’ll talk then.” He disconnected the call, tucked the mobile into an inside jacket pocket and nodded at the driver. “Take me back to the hotel.”

  “Yes sir.”

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  .

  Chapter 3: Rotate the Hips

  Present time…

  April 1st; 9:02 a.m.

  Washington, D.C.

  J. Edgar Hoover Building

  The elevator to the fourth underground floor of the building slowed before stopping. The doors opened. Aaron Hardy took a step, stood erect and leaned against the metal frame, keeping the door from closing. Crossing arms over his chest, he watched two women square off on a wrestling mat.

  The large room in front of him had once housed cubicles. Now, the left half had been converted into a training center; the other half was empty, void of all office furniture. Weight-lifting equipment, treadmills, stationary bikes and racks with dumbbells surrounded the mat. The weighted torso of a punching dummy sat on the left edge of the black mat.