Act of Justice Page 2

  Dressed in burgundy, skin-tight knee-length shorts, a white sleeveless t-shirt and white tennis shoes, Charity Sinclair danced on the balls of her feet, her fists—in red boxing gloves—protecting her face.

  “Let’s do it again,” said a female voice, coming from behind the full facemask on a padded helmet.

  Hardy turned his attention toward Dahlia St. James, the woman responsible for setting up the training area. Along with the headgear, she wore a padded body suit.

  “And this time,” Dahlia motioned with her oversized gloves, “come at me and finish strong…hit me like you mean it.”

  Charity bounced on the balls of her feet, strode forward and delivered two, quick right jabs before following up with a left cross.

  Using the protective gloves, Dahlia deflected the three strikes.

  Charity’s left leg came up and caught the other woman square in the chest.

  Dahlia staggered backward.

  Charity squatted, swung her leg and swept the padded woman’s feet out from under her before pouncing and landing several blows to the facemask.

  Hardy hiked his eyebrows. Whoa. She’s been practicing.

  “Stop!” Her back to Hardy, FBI Special Agent Raychel DelaCruz—Cruz to close friends—held up her hands and stepped forward. “Break it up.”

  Charity grabbed her downed adversary’s gloved hand, arched her back and pulled; a second later, the two women were on their feet.

  “That was…great.” Catching her breath, Dahlia assumed a fighting stance and pivoted her hips. “Remember to drive off your back foot and rotate the hips before you throw a punch. As women, we don’t have the upper body strength that our male counterparts have; therefore, we—” her chest heaved and she shot out the air, “we need to generate everything we can from our legs and hips.”

  Dancing back and forth, Charity nodded and wiped sweat from her nose and brow.

  “Keep your wrist straight and,” Dahlia stripped her gloves and pointed, “make contact with these first two knuckles; otherwise, you risk damaging your hand or wrist.”

  Jogging in place, Charity envisioned her knuckles under her own boxing gloves as she threw a couple short jabs and a cross. “Okay…got it.”

  “And don’t be afraid to use your elbows; they’re the sharpest points on your body. That was a good foot sweep, but you had me backtracking after that kick to the chest.” Dahlia threw an elbow behind her. “You could have spun around and caught me in the side of the head. An elbow to the right spot on the temple can knock someone out in a hurry.”

  Hardy pushed away from the elevator door, scooped two white towels off a weight bench and headed for the women. “All right, Cherry,” —Charity’s pet name from her childhood days, given to her by her late father— “go easy on her.” He tossed a towel at the five-six fighter with dark, shoulder-length hair—tinged red and done up in a ponytail—before he approached her sparring partner.

  Dahlia pulled off the helmet, freeing her long, bleached blonde hair, and whipped her head back and forth. She took the towel from him, “Thanks,” and wiped her face and neck.

  Smiling at the attire that made her body look a hundred pounds heavier than the five-eight, athletic figure underneath, he poked the material in front of her belly. “I think you need to lay off the donuts for a while.” He chuckled. “Or I might have to declare you unfit for duty.”

  She dropped the helmet and went back to a fighter’s stance; the towel—clenched in one of her fists—hung down and gently swayed back and forth. “Let’s go a few rounds. I’ll show you how fit I am.” She pinched the suit and tugged twice. “I’ll even let you wear this, so you don’t get hurt.”

  Laughing, he stooped to retrieve the head covering. “No thank you. I’ve seen you in action before. I like it better when we’re on the same side.”

  After taking the helmet from Hardy, Dahlia eyed the third member of the female trio, while tipping her head toward him. “You’ve got a smart man there, Cruz.” She came back to him, a faint smile on her face. “He knows when to quit.”

  Grinning, Hardy twirled a finger in the air. “Turn around. I’ll help you get out of that thing.” He ran the zipper to her lower back and pushed the upper portion over her shoulders. Charity and Cruz each took a handful of fabric and pulled the sleeves off the wearer’s arms.

  Dahlia pinched a white, sleeveless midriff t-shirt and fanned her chest, “Whew,” before pushing down the pants and stomping out of them, revealing glistening legs below a skimpy pair of black shorts. “I think I dropped a few pounds in there.”

  Hardy draped the suit over the punching dummy and followed the women to the other side of the room. “Better hit the showers, ladies. The briefing starts in less than half an hour.” Coming to a ‘T’ in the floor plan, he turned left, while the women went right.

  He stopped at the door to the Operations Room—O.R. for short—and glanced over his shoulder. He spied Cruz, wearing a gray Dallas Cowboys t-shirt, gray shorts, white tennis shoes and white socks, pushed down to her ankles.

  She undid her ponytail and whipped her head back and forth a couple times before sinking fingers into her long, dark brown hair and scratching her scalp.

  Hardy’s eyes zeroed in on her shapely and darkened legs; the five-foot-eight woman’s skin was tan all year long thanks to the mixed heritage of her parents. Lifting his gaze, he took in her curves, finishing at the back of her head. He half smiled. I’m a lucky man.

  Casting a backward glance, Cruz saw him and sent a similar gesture his way. “You two,” she nodded at the other women, “can shower first. I forgot to grab something.” She jogged back toward Hardy. After giving a last look behind her to make sure they were alone, she put flat hands on his chest and went to tiptoes.

  Hardy slipped his fingers inside the short sleeves of her t-shirt. Gripping her upper arms and feeling moist skin, he kissed her.

  She kissed him back for several seconds before the two separated. She beamed. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning.”

  “Did you get my note?”

  Remembering the piece of paper taped to his living room wall—informing him that she was going to the office early to workout with her teammates—he nodded. “I did.” Cruz had spent the night at his apartment, sleeping in his bed, while he took the couch. He slid his hands further into her sleeves and massaged the backs of her shoulders.

  She closed her eyes, “Oh…” and pressed her body to his.

  His fingers sneaked under the straps of her bra and kneaded the soft and slick skin between her shoulder blades.

  “That…” she rotated her head left and right, loosening neck muscles, “feels…so good.”

  Hardy drew her tighter to himself, and their front sides meshed. I couldn’t agree more.

  A few seconds later, feeling the bra band give way, Cruz tipped her head back and half closed an eye at him.

  Arching his brows, a veiled grin on his face, he held a shrug. “I’m just helping you get a head start on your shower.”

  Seeing his expression, she snickered. “Are you sure? Because you look like the little boy who just got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.”

  He bobbed his head, “True,” before curling up one side of his mouth. “But the cookies I’m interested in…” he regarded her t-shirt; specifically, the big blue emblem of the Dallas Cowboys situated over her breasts, “they aren’t,” he slowly shook his head, “found in a jar.”

  She pulled away slightly, her mouth agape.

  Sniggering, Hardy hugged her.

  Cruz pressed the side of her face to his black t-shirt, the metal zipper of his open, black leather jacket touching her nose. Feeling something hard pressing on her upper thigh, she smiled. “You know, I could say the same thing about you.”

  He frowned.

  “What’s that in your pocket, Mr. Hardy?”

  Recalling the object he had shoved into his pants pocket this morning, he grimaced. “That’s,” Hardy gently pushed her away, “
that’s just my pocket knife.”

  She glanced down and came back to him, one eyebrow higher than the other one. “If you say so.”

  Not wanting to be seen in a romantic embrace in the workplace, he dipped his forehead and pecked her lips. “You better go. We’re pushing our luck.”

  Backing away, she held his hand, until her arm was out straight. “That’s what makes it so fun.” Letting go, her fingertips grazing over his, Cruz backpedaled down the hall, beaming at him. Moments later, she ducked into the locker room/shower.

  Hardy put his hand in his pants pocket and clutched the object she had felt. He shook his head and huffed. “That was close.”

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  .

  Chapter 4: In My Hands

  9:32 a.m.

  Charity hurried into the O.R. Straight ahead, her boss, FBI Director Phillip Jameson, sat at the end of a conference table. To his right—their backs to her—were Hardy and Cruz. Dahlia, sitting across from Cruz, looked up from her phone and smiled at the newcomer.

  “I’m sorry, sir.” Charity went behind her superior, to her place on the seating chart—to Jameson’s left—and put her laptop on the table. She fast walked to a large island-style bank of interconnected, interactive tabletop computer screens. “I just had a few last-minute details,” she swiped her fingers over the waist-high island of screens, “to,” periodically glancing at the wall-mounted monitors straight ahead of her, “work through.”

  Looking down the length of the table, Jameson eyed the left half of his information specialist’s face and smiled to himself. Six months ago, she was running for her life from the Mexican Mafia. Now, he chuckled inwardly, she’s a key player in putting away men just like that. Removing his black, rectangular eyeglasses, rounded at the corners, “That’s all right,” Jameson rubbed the indentations on the sides of his nose. “You didn’t miss much…since we couldn’t start without you.”

  Frowning, Hardy faced the man wearing a black suit, white dress shirt and red tie—the director’s usual attire—and barely tipped his head. Was that a joke?

  Cut from a cloth of old-school discipline, Jameson, while a good and decent man, was not known for his levity.

  “This,” Charity tapped the island and all the monitors on three walls—at her nine, twelve and three o’clock positions—showed a black-haired man in his early thirties with dark eyes, tanned skin and a full beard and mustache, “is Alexi Ivanov.”

  With Charity breaking his focus on Jameson’s potential attempt at humor, Hardy blinked a few times and turned away from his boss. I’m going to give him the benefit of the doubt and, he eyed the monitors, call it a joke.

  Spinning around in her high-back leather chair—turning her back on Hardy and Cruz—Dahlia crossed her arms over her chest, and one leg over the other, while spying the digital image. “Wow. He looks scary. I hope that’s not the picture he goes with on the dating websites.”

  Grinning, Hardy and Cruz shot glances at each other.

  Adjusting the red plastic eyeglasses on her face, Charity never missed a beat. “He’s a Russian national with ties to terrorist activity in several countries over the last three years. Intelligence sources have confirmed that this,” she pointed, “is the result of his visits to those countries.”

  The monitors changed to show a bombed out structure with rescue workers atop a pile of rubble, assisting dazed, dirtied and bloodied men, women and children.

  “Two years ago,” continued Charity, “a government building in France…seventy-two dead and three dozen wounded…”

  The monitors displayed a new image, a luxury liner.

  “…A cruise ship off the coast of the Bahamas, where a deadly virus was released, killing fifty-one and sickening another two hundred…”

  Charity turned her head toward Hardy and touched the screen in front of her, bringing up the next picture; numerous bodies sprawled out in different positions on a concrete floor appeared. She kept her gaze on him. “…An underground metro station in Brussels five and a half months ago.”

  Hardy arched his brows and recoiled slightly in his chair. “Damn…I was there for that.”

  After glimpsing Jameson, who was observing the younger man out of one eye, Charity went back to Hardy, but remained silent.

  Hardy squinted at the LED screen directly across from him, his balled fists resting on the table. The muscles in his forearms protruded.

  Dahlia spun her chair back toward the others.

  Ten seconds later, spotting her man out of the corner of her eye, Cruz leaned closer to him. “You okay?”

  He swallowed. “Yeah,” he said through clenched teeth, his mind seeing more death and suffering than what the image could convey. “Forty-five people lost their lives that day.” He blinked several times. “I don’t know how many more were wounded.”

  Charity’s chin went to her chest, as she said under her breath, “Another fifty.”

  “One of them…” Hardy held out his open hands in front of him—palms up—and gently pumped them, “bled out in my arms.” A beat. Hardy glanced at Charity and Jameson—both of whom knew the story—before he gave Cruz and Dahlia a longer look, “This was before either of you joined the team. I was working a mission. I had a meeting with an operative from another country. We had just exchanged bonafides when…” his voice trailed off, as he stared at the wooden conference table, his mind taking him back to the incident, “gunfire erupted all around us. I pulled her to the floor with me and…”

  Five and a half months ago…

  October 15th; Brussels, Belgium

  Hardy pulled Margaux to the floor, “Get down,” while drawing his nine-millimeter Walther PPQM2. The cacophony of noise was deafening. People ran in all directions. Some fell where they stood. Others trampled dead bodies, or passengers who had tripped.

  Margaux yanked a nine-millimeter Heckler & Koch USP Compact from her purse before tossing the small clutch aside.

  Hardy stood and hoisted the woman to her feet. “Come on. We need to move, or else—” a line of rushing commuters crashed into him and he was pushed against the wall; Margaux was sandwiched between his body and the wall. Bullets gouged divots out of the bricks above their heads. The two of them were belly to belly, his right arm and gun wedged behind her back.

  Her face contorting, Margaux yelled into his ear, her body squirming, her private area grinding against his, as she grabbed her left hip.

  Hardy braced himself against the wall and threw a left elbow. His blow connected with someone, and he felt a modicum of separation from the crying woman’s body. Three elbow strikes later, he peeled away and dragged her with him.

  She slipped from his grasp and dropped to her knees.

  He turned back to see a large man barreling toward her hunched over frame. She’ll be crushed. The mob carried him away from the fallen woman. Hardy fought back, shoving two people and slithering between two others. Reaching Margaux, he cocked his right arm and drove his fist into the big man’s mouth. The man’s head rocked backward, blood spurting from a split lip; his wide body, for the moment, acted like a massive, stationary shield.

  Wrapping his arm around Margaux’s midsection, Hardy lifted her to her feet and half carried, half dragged the woman around the end of the wall, getting them out of the flow of the stampede. He looked at the empty stairs; having the high ground, a ski mask over his face, a gunman was firing into the crowd below. Hardy looked left, further down the track; another attacker had flanked the mass of people. The two had everyone in a killing field.

  We need cover. Cranking his head around, he noticed the bathroom door. A projectile shattered the light above. Tiny shards of glass rained down on him. Margaux was dead weight in his arms. He dragged her toward the men’s room door, while switching her to his left arm.

  Steadying himself against the doorjamb, Hardy raised the PPQM2 toward the top of the stairs, closed his left eye and put the pistol’s front sight on the reloading assailant’s head. He squeezed off
a one-handed shot and the murderer collapsed where he stood before rolling down the steps. He glanced at the masses. Two people darted upward, toward the street level. That’ll give them an escape route.

  After holstering his gun, Hardy hugged Margaux from behind, pulled her into the bathroom and eased her limp figure to the floor. “Margaux.” He took a knee beside her, curled his right arm around her shoulders and held her. “Margaux. Where are you hit?”

  She rolled her head toward him, her face twisted, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Ma mère...mon père...leur dire...”

  Hardy shook his head at her. “I don’t know what you’re saying.” He gaped at his free hand; it was stained red. He unbuttoned her coat and spread the lapels. The entire left half of her black miniskirt was soaked. He hiked up the garment’s hem, grimaced, No, no, and mashed his hand over the groin wound, no.

  Her body convulsed.

  As blood oozed between his fingers and from under his palm, Hardy went to both knees and applied more pressure.

  She groaned and half closed her eyes.

  Glimpsing the red slick spreading out on the floor around her hip and thigh, he made a face and shook his head. Damn it.

  He hugged her tighter and put his lips to her ear. “I’m here, Margaux. You’re not alone. I’m right here with you, dear. Just listen to the sound of my voice.”

  The woman mustered the strength to lift her right arm and touch the side of his face. “Je vous,” she murmured, “salue Marie, pleine de grâce…”

  Like holding an infant, Hardy held her in his arms, supporting her head with his left hand. He gazed into her attractive brown eyes, only to receive a vacant stare in return.

  Her dark and curly lashes fluttered.

  “It’s okay. I’m not leaving you, Margaux. You’re not alone, sweetheart.”

  “Le Seigneur est—” her hand plopped onto her chest, leaving a red smear on his cheek. Her eyelids drooped before closing.