The President's Man 2 Read online

  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.

  After some basic training at the FBI Academy, Charity joined the team. She had worked with Hardy on a couple of missions prior to their current assignment. The two had gotten off to a rough start, and she was aware of Hardy’s displeasure with Jameson’s decision to bring her onboard, citing her lack of maturity and experience. She had overheard an argument between the two men. Hardy’s exact words had been, ‘I can’t believe you want me to trust someone who is so young and inexperienced—this is my life we are talking about.’

  Charity heard the elevator chime. Footfalls thumped off the carpet. The Director walked fast and took long strides. She glanced at her clothes, a navy blue suit—the skirt’s hem stopping above her knees—white blouse and blue one-inch high-heeled shoes. As the new person to the team, she was self-conscious of her appearance. She stepped back into her office and glanced at her reflection in the office window to confirm her shoulder-length dark hair, tinged red, was in place. 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 slender, short nose. Her mouth was wide and paired with full lips that Charity loved to color with red lipstick.

  The twenty-two-year-old exited her office and crossed the hall. Standing five-feet, six-inches tall and weighing one hundred and fifteen pounds, she had a slim figure that moved gracefully. She entered the OR and took a seat across from Hardy. Seconds later, her boss appeared in the doorway.

  At age fifty, Phillip Jameson was a man who defied the aging process. He was five-feet, eleven-inches tall and weighed a fit one hundred and ninety pounds. Regularly lifting weights and jogging, he was in excellent physical condition. He was bald and wore rounded, rectangular eyeglasses with thick black frames. His attire had become synonymous with his rock-steady leadership skills. He always wore a black suit with a white shirt and red tie. The shade and print of the tie changed, but the color was always red. Lastly, his black shoes never showed any defects. The smooth polished surface reflected even the tiniest amount of light.

  Before becoming the director of the FBI, Jameson built a career in the agency by following orders, obeying the rules and making sure his superiors received all of the credit. Because of his hard work, others in the agency noticed him and wanted him on their team, quickly promoting him. As the director, he expected the same level of commitment from those who worked for him. He also expected them to obey his orders and the rules. If agents followed his directions, Jameson would stand in front of them and take any disciplinary action that was coming to them. He was tough, but fair.

  Crossing the threshold of the door, Jameson headed for his chair. The spring in his step was almost gone. He had opened the door to his office at seven thirty this morning and had not left the building all day. He was physically tired, but his mind was sharp. Truthfully, he did not mind working long hours. No one was waiting for him at home.

  Jameson’s wife had passed away five years ago, a victim of breast cancer. She was in her mid-forties. She had battled the disease for nearly two years before losing the fight. Before her death, he had taken a six-month leave of absence to be with her. The loss of his wife of more than twenty-five years had crushed him. To make matters worse, he had not spoken to their only child, since before his wife was diagnosed with cancer. With no one to talk to, confide in, he was alone.

  Jameson had stayed home from work for more than two weeks after his wife died. He could not function, mentally. He started consuming more alcohol than usual and some days did not even get out of bed. Halfway through week number three, he closed the door on the medicine cabinet and saw his reflection in the mirror. Having not shaved or attended to his personal grooming for two weeks, he did not recognize the man staring back at him. If his wife had been alive, she would not have recognized him either. The next day, Jameson was back at work, having made a commitment to his deceased wife. He would carry on and become a better man for having known and loved her.

  “Okay, let’s get to it.” Jameson passed Hardy and sat at the head of the table, Hardy to his right, Charity to his left. “I’ve got an early morning meeting with the
President and I need answers.” He leaned back in his chair and interlocked his fingers behind his head. “What happened in New York?” He glanced at Charity before his eyes settled on Hardy.

  For the next fifteen minutes, Hardy and Charity took turns outlining the surveillance incident in New York.

  Jameson leaned forward in his chair, clasped his hands together and set them on the table. “Do you think Sayed was the victim of a mugging?”

  Hardy slowly shook his head back and forth. “I don’t think so, sir. I found a wad of cash in his pocket. It wasn’t much, but a thief would have easily found it.” Hardy paused. “Plus, Sayed didn’t look like a robbery victim. There would have been signs of a struggle. There were no marks on his face, indicating he had been struck by his attacker. And, his hands showed no signs that he fought back, either. He was fully clothed and sitting on the toilet.”

  “So, what do you think happened?”

  “My gut tells me this was a professional hit.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Hardy grabbed a pitcher on the table and filled a glass with water. He took a drink and set the glass on the table. “There were two bullet wounds,” he tapped his chest, “right over the heart and another bullet wound in the head—in the eye. Any one of those shots would have killed Sayed. The fact that the killer took the time to put two more rounds into him tells me he wanted to make sure Sayed was dead. A mugger wants money and only shoots if he is forced to shoot. And, those shots are not going to be that accurate.”

  “Who would want Sayed dead? He’s the one who’s plotting to kill innocent Americans.” Jameson shook his head. “I don’t know, Hardy. I see your point, but without more evidence, I don’t think we can pursue that angle.”

  Charity joined the conversation. “Now that we have Sayed’s phone, I can see if there’s any information on it that would point us to his killer. Plus, I’ve already begun gathering video footage from outside Goodmans. Maybe something there will give us a snapshot of someone coming or going from the bar. It will take some time to pour over the footage and isolate the images, but something may come of it.”

  Hardy reached for the water glass. “If there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know.” He took a sip. “I am not as good as you with computers, but if you show me what to do, I can punch keys, too.”

  Charity nodded before turning toward Jameson. “Sir, I need to know what your priority is. Do you want me to focus on Sayed’s phone or finding his killer? Both of them are going to take a fair amount of time.”

  Jameson glanced at his agents. They appeared exhausted. They had been following Sayed day and night for almost three days. Charity slipped her fingers under her glasses and rubbed her eyes before massaging the bridge of her nose. “You two look worn out. When was the last time either of you got a full night’s sleep?”

  Hardy and Charity glimpsed each other, but said nothing.

  “That’s what I thought.” Jameson stood. “I want both of you to go home and get some sleep. I’ll turn this,” he held up Sayed’s mobile, “over to an agent upstairs. I want you fresh and ready to go when we find something. And, when that happens, I have a feeling things are going to move fast.” He had taken only a couple of steps toward the door when Hardy called to him.

  “Sir, could I have a moment?”

  Jameson nodded his head at Charity. “Would you excuse us, please?”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied. Closing the door on her way out, she crossed the hall, a bad feeling sneaking into her stomach, the feeling that she was the topic of the conversation. Maybe she was a bit too self-conscious, but she was uneasy around Hardy. It took time for people to build good working relationships. She knew that. Is he ever going to see me as a competent co-worker? She sat at her desk, her mind rehashing the numerous conflicts with him. A minute later, she shrugged her shoulders. The best thing I can do is my job. She focused her attention on the computer screen, attempting to drown out the conversation, taking place across the hall.

  Several minutes passed and she found herself rereading the same sentences. The voices coming from the OR were getting louder, and she thought she heard her name. She went to the door. Closing it, she heard Hardy: “I don’t understand why she’s here. Couldn’t you have found someone else with the same expertise?” Charity closed the door and shuffled back to her desk.

  “I’ve told you before, Hardy. She’s amazing when it comes to computers and technology. And, she breezed through all of the FBI’s background checks, earning her an extremely high security clearance. She is well-suited for this job and I have no doubts that, if given enough time, Cherry will become a valuable asset to this team.”

  Cherry was a nickname she had asked to be called, shortly after coming to work for Jameson. She did not elaborate on how she had gotten the nickname, only that her family and close friends used it.

  “That’s just it, sir,” Hardy threw up his hands, “How much time is it going to take for her to learn her job? How many times is my life going to be at risk during her learning curve?” Hardy was tired. He was tired from the mission and tired of having this conversation with Jameson—again. He felt burned out. He was not going to win this battle. He decided to let it go—again.

  Hardy was out of line; however, knowing his agent was exhausted, Jameson ignored it. “Cherry is part of this team. She’s not going anywhere. The sooner you come to grips with that, the better.” He opened the door and looked back. “Go home, Hardy, and get some rest.” As he walked by Charity’s office, he glanced inside. Charity was working at her computer. He was sure she had overheard most of the conversation with Hardy. Hardy was not wrong. She was young and inexperienced, but Jameson was confident he had made the right decision when he hired her.

  A few minutes later, Hardy left the OR and headed for the elevator. He ignored Charity. It was not on purpose. He was worn out, physically. His mind had not stopped thinking about Sayed and the man who had killed him. There was a terrorist cell getting ready to go active in the Northeast and time was short. Hardy was concerned that if the leader of the cell found out about Sayed’s death, the timetable for the attack would be moved up. Sayed’s killer had destroyed Hardy’s only lead in finding the cell leader. Sayed’s phone had to reveal something before it was too late. Hardy stepped into the elevator, punched in his security code and the elevator doors closed.

  Charity heard the elevator doors shut. She was alone. Her physical isolation was tolerable, but her emotional solitude weighed on her. She remembered her days in high school. Having been a kid, who related better to computers than people, her classmates had picked on her. As a result, she withdrew into a world of bits and bytes and internet protocols. After graduating and distancing herself from her immature peers, she blossomed. She stepped away from the computer and entered the real world, interacting with others on a personal level. People she met were drawn to her infectious smile and her positive attitude. They had no clue of the personal internal struggle that had taken place for years.

  Charity felt her stomach churn, while a lump formed in her throat. This was how it had started years ago when kids said cruel things to her face. She had never been one who stood up for herself. No, she pushed the hurt feelings deeper and retreated to her safety net—computers. Removing her eyeglasses and setting them on the desk, she plucked a tissue from a square box before plopping her head onto her crossed forearms. Seconds later, her shoulders moved up and down and muffled sobs filled the office.

  Chapter 3: The Flats

  11:53 p.m.; the Flats at Dupont Circle Apartments

  Before Hardy had closed the apartment door, he heard running water, coming from across the room. He eased the doorknob back to its original position, drew his pistol and laid his jacket on the floor. His apartment was small, less than one thousand square feet. From this vantage point, he could see the kitchen. No one was in it. Looking straight ahead, he confirmed the combined dining area and living room were empty, too. He leaned his head around the co
rner to his left. His bedroom door was open, but he could not see inside the room. The bathroom was across from the bedroom. Hardy lived alone. No one was supposed to be here. Both hands on the pistol, he crept closer to the bathroom. Steam rolled over the partially open door. The water stopped running before the shower curtain slid along the overhead bar. He sidestepped to his right, took a position at the corner of the bedroom. He saw the mirror above the bathroom sink. He raised his pistol higher, the front sight lined up with the mirror; a bare arm flashed across the foggy surface. Moments later, the intruder came into view when a hand swiped across the mirror several times. Hardy stared into the eyes of the intruder, who shrieked and jumped backwards.

  Naked, FBI Special Agent Raychel Elisa DelaCruz scrambled for a bath towel. “You scared me half to death.”

  Hardy holstered his pistol and leaned against the wall before folding his arms across his chest. When the woman appeared, she had the bath towel wrapped around her body. Her fingers fumbled with the towel ends above her right breast.

  “I suppose you got an eyeful, didn’t you?”

  Hardy grinned.

  “It would’ve been nice if you’d announced your presence.” She closed the distance between them. Placing a hand on his chest, she went to her tiptoes and kissed him. Turning her head, she pressed her left cheek against his chest and hugged him. “Even though I’m mad at you right now, it’s good to see you.”

  Hardy wrapped his arms around her, feeling her soft shoulders. “You know, Cruz,”—In the military, her fellow soldiers shortened her name to Cruz, joking that her full name was too difficult to say. To this day, those close to her called her Cruz—“Living alone, I don’t expect to find someone taking a shower when I come home.” He lowered his head and inhaled—strawberries. “So, why are you showering at my place?”