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  Hardy admired her sexy and slim five-feet, eight-inch athletic figure. “Can I join you?”

  Stepping into the bathroom, Cruz smiled. As a practicing Catholic, she believed in waiting until she was married to have sex. In theory, her mind was right with her beliefs. In reality, however, her body did not always want to be on board with the plan. A bible verse popped into her head: ‘The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.’ She sighed. You hit the nail on the head there, Jesus.

  Before the door closed, Cruz heard Hardy: “I’ll take that as a ‘no’ then.” Her back to the door, she let out another, longer sigh. Oh, if you only knew how much I want it to be a ‘yes.’

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  .

  Chapter 3: Care to Share?

  7:58 a.m.

  Washington, D.C.

  J. Edgar Hoover FBI Building

  Fourth floor (underground)

  Charity fell back onto the bed. The dark-haired man followed her, their embrace never faltering. She pushed on his smooth bronze chest, and their bodies separated. The flickering candle flame danced in his dark eyes. She ran her fingers over his cheek before closing her eyes and pulling him closer, her body shaking…“Cherry”…as their lips drew nearer…“Cherry”…and they—

  “Time to wake up, Cherry.”

  Charity’s eyelids fluttered before opening; a woman hovered above her, shaking her arm. She propped herself on elbows, “What…how?” before getting to a sitting position on the black leather couch, her mind caught between two worlds. She placed flat hands against her face, middle fingers massaging her eyes.

  Special Agent Cruz set a Detroit Lions travel mug and a smaller white foam cup on the office desk. “We brought coffee and juice.”

  Hardy held up a foil-covered plate. “And breakfast…made by yours truly.” After placing the plate next to the drinks, he leaned against the desk and smiled. He crossed his arms and stared at the dazed woman. “That must’ve been quite a dream you were having, Cherry.”

  Charity Sinclair, Cherry to family and close friends, was an FBI information specialist and a talented member of Hardy’s anti-terror team. Her responsibilities revolved around all things related to technology; providing technical details of missions, gathering intelligence, creating fake credentials to name a few.

  Hardy crossed his legs at the ankle. “Care to share?”

  Charity glimpsed him before observing Cruz, who had a wry grin on her face. The women exchanged a knowing look. Her cheeks flushing, Charity found her red eyeglasses, resting atop her head, and rotated them into place. She ruffled her dark hair, tinged red; I need to start dating again, before rising to her five-feet, six-inch height. “It was just one of those crazy ones that make no sense.”

  Hardy gave her attire the onceover; wrinkled white blouse and faded blue jeans. Brown sandal clogs lie on the floor next to the couch. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like crap.” Cruz scowled, and he held out his hands. “What?” He motioned. “She’s always dressed so nicely. Seeing her like this makes me think she slept here overnight.”

  “Hardy,” Cruz snapped, “let it go.”

  Charity giggled. “It’s all right.” She undid the aluminum foil on the plate. “I think there’s a compliment hidden somewhere in all that.” She sniffed the rising steam and looked at him. “Didn’t you read my text? I said a bagel and coffee would be fine.”

  He shrugged. “I was making breakfast anyway. No trouble to add a couple eggs and bacon to the pan.”

  Charity took a big bite of toast, while sitting behind her desk. A minute later, in between forkfuls of scrambled eggs, she tipped back the mug of coffee.

  “Seriously, Cherry,” he regarded her, “is everything okay? I’ve never seen you dressed this way,” he hesitated, watching her shovel eggs into her mouth, “or eat like that.”

  Cruz smacked his arm. “Leave her alone. She’s hungry. We all get hungry.”

  Charity grabbed several tissues and wiped her mouth. “No,” she swallowed, “he’s right. I’ve been here all night. We have a situation.”

  Hardy stood straight and fished his cell from a jean pocket. “I didn’t get a text from Jameson.” He glanced at Cruz, who shook her head.

  “He decided to,” Charity aimed the fork at them, “let you two have the weekend off. You’ve been burning quite a bit of the candle the last few weeks. He wanted your batteries charged for what’s to come.”

  “The weekend?” Hardy planted fists on the desk and leaned closer to the tech guru. “Just how long have you been here, and how long have you known about,” he paused, “this situation?”

  “I was brought in late Friday night.” Charity saw his ears turning red, and she pumped a hand. “There was nothing,” she glimpsed Cruz, “either of you could have done. It was all stuff in my wheelhouse.” She paused. “But trust me. Both of you will be involved soon enough.” She spied the clock on her desk, 8:05, and stood. “I need to get ready for the briefing.”

  Hardy blew out air through pursed lips. “What’s going on, Cherry?”

  She got halfway to the door before coming back and grabbing the food and juice. “Just wait for Jameson. I don’t want to get ahead of him.” She walked across the hall, heading for the Operations Room—OR for short. “He’ll be here shortly.”

  Hardy showed Cruz his palms and frowned. “What the hell? Are we on a need-to-know basis or what?”

  She led him toward the OR. “You know Jameson. He has his reasons. We just have to wait to find out what they are.”

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  .

  Chapter 4: OR

  Entering the OR, Cruz stopped inside the door, forcing Hardy to sidestep her. “Whoa,” he said, spying the unfamiliar décor.

  A shorter conference table—seating capacity for six people—replaced the former, longer one. Monitors still adorned three of the four walls; however, the displays were state-of-the-art and bigger. The secure hardwired phones to Hardy’s right were gone. The extra space created from removing the phones and getting a shorter conference table was filled with a large island-style bank of interconnected interactive tabletop computer screens.

  Charity stood in front of the waist-high island, her fingers tapping and sliding over the glass screens. Both hands worked in unison, while she glanced back and forth from the touchpad to the wall-mounted monitors.

  Hardy pivoted right, walked alongside the table and stopped next to the computer expert. “I see we’ve made some improvements.” He turned his head left and right, watching the screens display different images, information, the time in various countries; one even showed a news channel. He rolled his head toward Cruz. “I guess we have been gone awhile.”

  “Two missions and five countries in the last ten days,” said Jameson, striding into the room and taking his chair at the head of the table. He wiped the lenses of his black rounded, rectangular eyeglasses with a white handkerchief. He wore a black suit, white shirt and red tie, his usual attire. Folding the handkerchief, he ran the cloth over his baldhead and shoved it into a pants pocket.

  FBI Director Phillip Jameson was dedicated and tough, building a reputation within the agency on hard work and discipline, expecting the same level of commitment from his agents. He was also fair, knowing his people needed time away from the frontlines of a never-ending war on terror.

  “Which is why,” Jameson faced the trio, “I wanted you to take the weekend off.”

  “Sir,” Hardy protested, “why—”

  Jameson held up a hand. “Save it, Hardy. I’m in charge. Don’t forget that.” He motioned. “Now take a seat. We need to get started.”

  Hardy and Cruz sat, while Charity continued working.

  “Besides,” said Jameson, opening a file folder, “if I had called, I know both of you would have dropped everything to get here…even though,” he peeled away a few sheets of paper, “you would’ve had nothing to do, but look over Cherry’s shoulder.”

  Charity tu
rned her attention away from the island. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate that.”

  Jameson studied the documents in front of him. “I just got off the phone with the President. He’s had all the agencies working on this, since Friday.”

  Hardy leaned forward. “On what, sir?”

  Jameson looked up. “My apologies.” He rocked backward in the chair and drove an elbow onto an armrest. “Early last Friday, the NSA picked up intel on a new sophisticated algorithm that’s capable of breaching the most secure networks on the planet. No one thought anything of it. The agency gets threats of that nature all the time. Without further proof, there was no need to divert resources for a follow-up.”

  Jameson sat upright and referred to his notes. “That proof came late Friday night when the Defense Department was hacked at exactly ten o’clock. The attack lasted thirty seconds and no sensitive data was downloaded. DoD officials were immediately aware of the intrusion, but were powerless to stop it. It seems all the hackers did was look around the servers and leave.”

  Hardy turned up his hands on the table. “Why? That makes no sense. Why would they break in and not take something?”

  Lifting a finger, Jameson eyed Charity, who was holding a piece of bacon in one hand and tapping the screen with the other. “This is where Cherry takes over.”

  After a few seconds of silence, the twenty-two-year-old woman turned her head to see everyone staring at her. A hand shot to her mouth, while she finished the bacon. “I’m sorry, sir.” She wiped her mouth and swallowed.

  “No need to apologize. You’ve been here all weekend. I’m just glad you’ve found the time to eat something.” He nodded. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  Charity’s fingers tapped, and the monitors facing her, Hardy and Cruz showed a few lines of enlarged text that resembled an advertisement. “I came across this on the dark web Saturday morning.” She picked up another slice of bacon. “Normally this is where I like to educate everyone on what the dark web is.” She bit into the bacon. “However,” she stared at Hardy, “some people have become visibly annoyed when I have done so in the past, claiming I drone on about irrelevant details. So with that in mind—”

  “Cherry, you do realize don’t you,” Hardy nodded at the bacon, “you’re biting the hand that made the food you’re…literally eating right now?”

  She spied the half-eaten slice and came back to him with a sheepish grin. “Touché…everything was delicious. Thank you.” Charity wiped her hands on her jeans and tipped her forehead at the monitor. “This ad popped up on Saturday on the dark web, on which I have algorithms constantly running, searching for anything remotely related to terrorist activity.” She eyed her boss. “Not sure you wanted to hear that, sir, since you’re now implicated in whatever I discover.”

  Jameson controlled his amusement with his young agent. “It’s fine. I have other things on my plate I’m more concerned with.” He rolled a hand. “Please continue.”

  “Yes, sir. While innocuous to the casual observer, this ad is code for an upcoming auction.”

  “An auction for what?” said Hardy.

  “I replied to the ad, using a pseudonym, and after several go-arounds, establishing digital bonafides, verifying I wasn’t—” she spied Hardy and waved a hand, “moving on…the auction is for an algorithm that the author says is capable of hacking the most secure data systems on the earth.”

  Hardy faced Jameson and gestured toward the monitor. “That hack at the DoD could have been a test run to prove this software works.”

  The FBI Director nodded. “That’s what I think too.”

  “So if we knew this on Saturday, then why haven’t the intelligence agencies mounted a strike to get the software?”

  Jameson put forearms on the table. “No other agency knows about,” he pointed, “what Cherry just briefed us on. She obtained this information through back channels. I’ve relayed everything to the President, and he’s given,” Jameson twirled a finger in the air, “us first crack at locating and securing the algorithm, seventy-two hours to be precise. Our deadline expires noon Tuesday.” He flicked a wrist and stared at his watch. “We have twenty-seven hours and twenty-nine minutes before the President loops in the other agencies.”

  “When is the auction? Where is it? How—” Hardy stopped talking when the director motioned toward Charity.

  “It’s going down tonight at six o’clock in Miami.”

  Hardy went back to Jameson. “So are we taking a team and storming the place?”

  “No. Cherry made a good point.” He nodded at her.

  Charity picked up two manila folders. “We have to make sure the software is on-site. Hackers are paranoid. I wouldn’t be surprised if they waited until the wire transfer was complete before delivering the package.” She placed the files on the table, one each in front of Hardy and Cruz. “You two will be attending the auction, posing as buyers.” She pointed at the folders. “I’ve created extensive backgrounds for you.”

  “You’ll have,” interjected Jameson, “a bank account number with unlimited funds.”

  Hardy skimmed the contents of his manila folder. “So we’ve skipped past the ‘no negotiation with terrorists’ policy, and we’re just paying them off now?”

  “I’ll be monitoring the bank account,” said Charity, “and once I know you’re in possession of the software, I’ll intercept the transfer. No money will change hands.”

  “Then,” said Jameson, “our teams will move in, and grab these guys.”

  “One question,” said Cruz, raising a hand. “I’m not exactly a ‘nobody’ when it comes to my face, what I did a decade ago or what I do now for a living. What happens if somebody at the auction recognizes me? At that point, isn’t the mission blown?”

  “Good point,” said Charity. “I knew this day would come, so in my spare time I’ve been scrubbing your digital footprint. Fortunately, you lost the Miss America Pageant ten years ago.”

  Cruz arched her brows and cocked her head.

  “Sorry, but no one ever remembers who came in second. That made it a little easier for me to erase your image and background from the Internet, as well as all sources leading back to you. Of course, there’s always a slim possibility someone, somewhere will make the connection, but that’s a one-in-a-million chance.”

  “Your service record,” said Jameson, “along with your time at the FBI, has been locked down too. You’re as covert as you’re ever going to get.”

  Cruz perused the papers in front of her. “I’m not sure I like this whole ‘I never existed’ thing. It feels creepy if you ask me.”

  Hardy chuckled. “I think you’ve officially arrived as a covert operative.” He faced her, sporting a grin. “Welcome to the spook world, Cruz.”

  Jameson arranged the papers in his file folder. “Is there anything else, Cherry?”

  Charity stared at a distant corner of the room for a few moments. “I think that’s it, sir.”

  “Good.” He looked at Hardy and Cruz. “You two have your work cut out for you.” He gestured. “Study your profiles, until you become one with them. A commercial flight is leaving Dulles at two this afternoon. It’ll take you to Miami International. An appropriate vehicle,” he pointed at Hardy’s file, “for a man of your status will be waiting for you when you land.”

  Hardy faced his supervisor. “Sir, what about Dahlia?” Dahlia St. James was the fourth member of his team. “Shouldn’t she be read in on this?”

  “She had the weekend off, too, so I briefed her over the phone. Dahlia’s already in Miami with a couple SWAT teams from the Miramar office, scouting the location of the auction. She’ll be heading up your support team.”

  Hardy nodded. “Good to know we have one of our own backing us up.” He rotated his head toward Charity. “And you?”

  “I’ll be overseeing everything,” she waved a hand over the island, “from here. I’m going to need all this power to keep an eye on you guys and intercept the payment.”

  Jame
son: “I’ll be present as well when everything goes down. Are there any questions?”

  Hardy, Cruz: “No sir.”

  Charity: “One last thing…you won’t be able to take any electronic equipment with you. It’s part of the ‘paranoid hacker’ thing. They’re probably going to wand you.”

  Jameson stood. “All right, people. You have your assignments. Let’s get to it.”

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  .

  Chapter 5: Diamond in the Rough

  4:55 p.m.

  Miami, Florida

  Miami International Airport (parking lot)

  The red, late model convertible Porsche 911 Carrera sat in a parking spot. With the top down and sporting dual exhaust and shiny custom rims, the import oozed power and wealth. Behind the leather steering wheel, Dahlia ran her hands over the burgundy leather interior before adjusting the rear view mirror to see her reflection.

  Her long, straight bleached blonde hair in a high ponytail, black sunglasses setting on her head, she studied her round face in the mirror and dropped the glasses over hazel green eyes. She puckered lips that were naturally pursed. Oh yeah, I could see myself in a ride like this. One hand on the wheel and the other on the stick shift, Dahlia envisioned herself on the open road. She shut her eyes and spun her head back and forth, feeling the wind blowing through her hair. Hardy, you lucky S.O.B.

  “Hey, get your own sports car.”

  Coming back to reality, Dahlia spotted Hardy in the side view mirror. Pivoting in the seat, she placed the three-inch chunky heel of a brown knee boot on the pavement and exited the vehicle. Seeing Hardy, she raised her hands and turned away. “I think I’m blinded. Somebody turn off the spotlight.”

  Walking alongside the Porsche and dressed in a white Armani suit, black t-shirt and white canvas shoes, Hardy held his hands out to the side and looked down. “What, you don’t like the billionaire’s playboy son look?” He peeled off black sunglasses and did a three-sixty turn before referencing the main character from a hit television show. “I’m a new and improved Corcoran,” he pulled up a pant leg, “black socks and all.”