The President's Man Read online

  Reading only a couple of pages, her eyelids drooped and she found herself re-reading the same sentence two and three times. She placed the book on the nightstand on the other side of her badge and holstered Glock 23 handgun. She pulled the chain on the bedside lamp and the whole room was dark, except for a faint light coming through the window from a full moon outside. Cruz slid her body further under the covers and plopped her head onto the pillow. After a few minutes of watching the moon cast shadows of swaying tree branches on her bedroom wall, she fell asleep.

  …………………………

  Two hours later, Cruz’s eyes fluttered. In the distance, she heard an intermittent buzzing sound, but could not place the source. She had been in a deep sleep and was not sure if she was dreaming. The buzzing sound stopped. She closed her eyes. Seconds later, the sound returned. Rotating her head to the right, she located the origin of the noise. She dropped a lazy left arm over her body and fumbled for the phone. Her hand came to rest on the holstered Glock. She slid her hand off the weapon, picked up the phone and swiped a finger across the screen. “This is Cruz.” Her voice was barely audible and slightly raspy.

  “Cruz, its Harper. Where are you?” Agent Christopher Harper was five-feet, ten inches tall with an average build and rugged facial features, sporting a nicely trimmed goatee mustache. He was a recent graduate of the FBI Academy at Quantico. The director assigned him to be Cruz’s partner. He was five years younger than she was, but he brought a level of maturity to the partnership that made up for the age difference. They had only been working together for a couple of months, but they had formed a good working relationship. Their skills complemented each other well.

  Looking at the clock on her nightstand—11:23—Cruz was going to tell her partner how stupid his question was, but she bit her tongue. Before she could answer, Harper continued.

  “There’s been an explosion. Preliminary evidence says it may be terrorism. The director wants all hands on deck on this one.”

  Hearing the words ‘explosion’ and ‘terrorism’, Cruz propped herself onto her elbow. “Where was the explosion?” She leaned to her right and rubbed her eyes with her thumb and forefinger.

  “A restaurant in the Downtown District…Everyone in the place was killed, except for one person. He’s been taken to the hospital. The director wants us there when he wakes up to have him answer some questions.”

  “Which hospital,” asked Cruz, throwing the covers off and swinging her legs over the side of the bed?

  “Washington…I’m almost to your place. Are you ready?”

  Standing, she lifted the hem of her teddy with her free hand. “I’ll be out in five minutes.”

  Chapter 7: Captivated

  11:51 p.m.

  “How…are…injuries?”

  “…nasty bump on his head, but…fine.”

  “How soon will he…answer questions?”

  “As soon as he feels…overnight for observation…”

  Hardy’s eyes were heavy. He struggled to open them. Voices faded in and out of recognition. He did not know where he was or what was happening to him. Am I dead? Is this heaven…or is this— He did not want to consider the alternative. Pressure built on his right arm. To his right, he heard a familiar ‘whirring’ sound followed by a series of beeps. When the beeping stopped, the pressure on his arm ceased and he heard a whoosh of air. Putting the pieces together in his mind, he had a good idea of where he was, unless heaven had blood pressure machines, too. His eyes fluttered open ever so slightly and he saw the fuzzy images of two people standing to the right. One appeared to be a man, while the other was definitely a woman.

  The man: “It looks like he’s starting to open his eyes. I’ll give you five minutes. He really does need to rest.”

  After opening and closing his eyes several times, images came into focus. The first thing he saw was the overhead light. His eyes moved left. He saw a reclining chair in the corner next to a bank of windows. The shades were drawn and no light escaped from around the edges. Rolling his head to the right, he saw a woman standing at the side of his bed. When he looked at her, Heaven came to his mind again. She was so beautiful she could have been an angel. As soon as the thought came to his mind, he felt his face getting warm. What am I saying? He had no idea what an angel would have looked like if he had seen one. I must be on some good drugs.

  The woman leaned over him. Her long dark hair, tied in a ponytail, fell forward over her left shoulder. The tips of the shiny strands almost touched Hardy’s bicep. Staring into her dark brown eyes, he was captivated by her appearance—she was both attractive and all business at the same time. He did not know why she was standing over him, or whom she was; however, his pounding heart and the tingling sensations in his stomach were clear signs he wanted that to change. Wow, these must be top-shelf drugs.

  Hardy blinked his eyes, hoping to clear his mind. A man in his line of work did not let people get too close. Doing so could cost him his life. This woman, however, had disarmed him without even saying a word. Hardy pushed his feelings deeper inside and willed his mind to remember how he had gotten here. My teammates—are they alive?

  Special Agent Cruz smiled. “How are you feeling, Mr. Hardy? The doctor says you have a bad bump on your head, but you should be fine.”

  Hardy did not respond. He was still scolding himself for being taken off-guard by this woman.

  “Are you feeling up to answering a few questions?” She checked the screen on her vibrating phone before silencing the device.

  “Who…who are you?” Hardy coughed and felt a sharp pain in his back.

  “I’m sorry. Forgive me for not introducing myself. My name is Special Agent Cruz of the FBI.” She held her credentials for him to see. “I’m here to ask you a few questions about what happened at the restaurant. Do you remember what happened, Mr. Hardy?”

  Hardy’s mind recalled the blast and he had a good idea what had happened. He was more concerned about the welfare of his teammates, however. “What about the other people in the tavern?” Images of the burning building rushed to greet him, and he knew the answer to the question.

  Cruz lowered her head before lifting her eyes toward him. “As far as we know, you’re the only one to survive the explosion. Did you have family or friends in there?”

  Hardy shut his eyes so tight he saw spots. He saw the faces of each team member. They were good men and now they were dead. The thought was almost too much to bear. He had lost good friends in combat, but not to this extent.

  Seeing his twisted face, Cruz frowned and touched his arm. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Hardy glimpsed her and noticed the tone of her voice. She truly was sorry for his loss, not only saying what everyone was expected to say in such a situation. “Thank you.” He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Has anyone claimed responsibility yet?”

  Cruz tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

  Hardy rolled his head toward her. His eyebrows shot upward. “I think you know what I mean, Special Agent Cruz. If the explosion were caused by…oh, I don’t know…a gas leak, the FBI would not have sent over an agent to interrogate me. There must be more to it. The FBI must have reason to believe this incident is related to terrorism. So…has anyone claimed responsibility?”

  Dodging his question, Cruz opened her note pad and flipped pages. “What is it exactly that you do for a living, Mr. Hardy?” Most people in his current condition did not ask such questions, unless they had experience with explosions, bombings, violence, terrorism or a background in the military or police.

  Hardy was not going to get answers. She was in charge of the investigation and accustomed to asking, not answering, questions. He decided to drop the inquiry.

  The doctor came into the room. He was a black man in his mid-thirties, dressed in a white lab coat. Under the coat, he wore a light blue dress shirt and a muted red striped tie. With Hardy’s chart in his hand, he walked around
to the left of the bed. His black eyeglasses rested further toward the end of his narrow nose. He was reading the chart through the eyeglasses, until he shifted his eyes upward, toward his patient. “How do you feel, Mr. Hardy?”

  “Tired,” Hardy said flatly, staring at the ceiling. “I’d like to get some sleep.” He hoped the response would put an end to the questions from Cruz. He could not answer her questions without compromising his position in the military. He needed time to think about what had happened and what he was going to do next.

  “That sounds like a good idea.” The doctor scribbled on the top piece of paper. “We’re going to keep you overnight, while we run some tests; however, unless something bad comes back, you should be released in the morning.” He clicked his pen and tucked it into the pocket of his lab coat before getting Cruz’s attention and motioning toward the door. “Special Agent Cruz, if you don’t mind…”

  Cruz fixed her eyes on Hardy. Multiple questions were lined up in her brain. Her instincts were telling her there was more to Aaron Hardy than a simple man who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Realizing her interview was finished, she politely smiled. “We can talk more in the morning, Mr. Hardy. Get some rest.”

  The doctor walked to the door and held it open for Cruz. As she left the room, her mind was still mulling over her last query. Over her shoulder, she said, “I’m guessing, military—possibly Special Forces.”

  Once they had left the room, Hardy’s lips formed a slight smile and he said under his breath, “Attractive, professional and smart.”

  Chapter 8: Terror-Related

  July 2nd, 7:01 a.m.

  Hardy was awakened by loud voices outside his room. His last dream had been a nightmare. He saw the faces of his teammates gathered around the table at the tavern. Everyone was laughing, drinking and having a good time. Their faces became distorted, while they tried to tell him something. He could not hear anything. Their mouths were moving, but no sounds could be heard. He felt the back door to the tavern hit him, throwing him to the pavement. Everything went black.

  Hardy sat up in bed, leaning on his elbows. The bed sheets were damp and his skin was perspiring. He saw the clock on the wall—seven o’clock. The light coming from around the window curtains told him it was morning. Ruffling the bed covers, he found the call button for the nurse’s station and activated the device. As soon as his head hit the pillow again, the door swung open. Three men in varying shades of dark suits rushed in and surrounded Hardy. A fourth man pushed a wheel chair. The first one to reach his bedside flashed a badge—Department of Homeland Security. The man was of average height, but wide and heavily muscled. His suit coat was too small for his frame. He had no discernible neck. His head looked as if it was setting on his shoulders. His hair was styled in a military crew cut. When he spoke, his voice was deep and coarse. It was easy to see he was in charge of this crew.

  “Hardy, I’m Becker with DHS. We’re here to get you to a more secure location.” Becker undid the blood pressure cuff from Hardy’s arm and threw back the bed covers. He offered his hand, while positioning the wheel chair.

  Not fully awake, Hardy struggled to catch up with the action. “I don’t understand. I thought the FBI was in charge of—”

  Becker interrupted. “Not anymore. We have reason to believe the attack on the tavern is terror-related. We have orders from the Deputy Secretary to get you out of here…immediately. Now, please, Mr. Hardy, we need to move.” Becker grabbed Hardy’s arm and shoulder, helped him up and eased him into the wheel chair.

  Hardy craned his head over Becker’s shoulder and saw the FBI agent, who was with Special Agent Cruz, talking on a mobile phone. He was waving his free hand in all directions, stealing glances at the men from DHS. Hardy recognized the makings of a peeing match between the FBI and DHS.

  Spinning the wheel chair around, Becker leaned into Hardy and whispered, “Colonel Ludlum wants to see you.”

  Colonel Franklin Ludlum was Hardy’s commanding officer. He planned and coordinated every mission carried out by Hardy and his team. Upon hearing those words from Becker, Hardy relaxed. Ludlum must have found out he was alive and arranged to have him picked up and brought back to the base.

  Being wheeled out of the room, Hardy nodded and smiled at the FBI agent, who was pacing back and forth, visibly upset. Unsympathetic, and with a touch of sarcasm in his voice, Hardy addressed the man over his shoulder. “Have a nice day.” He was glad to be getting out of the hospital and back to the base, where he and Ludlum would figure out who killed his men. From there, Hardy would take over and do what he did best.

  Chapter 9: The Chase

  7:09 a.m.

  Special Agent Cruz took a sip from her coffee mug before guiding it back into the cup holder on the console of her black Dodge Charger. She nearly spilled the coffee when a black Chevy Tahoe barreled onto First Street. Thinking the SUV was going to sideswipe her car, she swerved to the right to avoid a collision. “Jerk.” She navigated her way up First Street toward Washington Hospital, watching the Tahoe in her side view mirror. She pressed a button on the dashboard, placing a call from her cell phone through her vehicle’s onboard computer.

  Agent Harper answered after the first ring. He had remained at the hospital, so Cruz could get a few hours of sleep. “Cruz, I just left you a message. Four guys from DHS were here and they took Hardy.”

  “What?” Cruz turned left onto Hospital Circle NW and accelerated toward the front doors to Washington Hospital. Her voice grew louder. “And you just let them?”

  “They said it was a matter of national security, and that they had orders from the Deputy Secretary of DHS to transfer Hardy.”

  “When did they take him?” Cruz jammed her foot on the brake pedal and brought her vehicle to a stop, tires skidding and screeching.

  “They just left. Where are you now?”

  “I’m out front.” She rolled out of the vehicle. “I’ll be right in.”

  “Stay there. I’m on my way out.” A few moments later, he rushed out the front door.

  Cruz stuffed her phone into her pocket. “What did they look like?”

  “Four men in dark suits—Hardy was in a wheel chair.”

  There were a couple parked vehicles nearby, but neither one contained Hardy. They were about to search the building when Cruz stopped and stared at the sidewalk.

  Harper whirled around. “What is it?”

  She moved her open hand an inch above her head as if she was rubbing it. “Did one of them have a crew cut and a thick neck?”

  “Yeah, he appeared to be the one in charge.”

  “Come on, let’s go.” She darted toward the Charger. “I think I saw them.”

  Harper barely got his second foot inside the vehicle before the Charger squealed its tires, fishtailed around the circle and headed toward First Street. The rapid forward movement shut the door for him.

  Cruz’s vehicle accelerated down First Street, heading south. She pointed at the windshield. “Look for a four-door black Chevy Tahoe. It was moving in this direction.”

  Driving along First Street, Harper scanned the area to the right, while Cruz took turns watching the road ahead and the area to the left. When they came to Michigan Avenue, she saw a black SUV on Michigan, veering to the right onto Franklin Street. She cranked the steering wheel to the left and sped toward Franklin, passing slower vehicles. Once on Franklin, she noticed the SUV stopped at a red light on Franklin and Fourth Street. “This is our chance to catch them.” Cruz rocked her right foot forward and steered the Charger into oncoming traffic.

  Harper’s eyes moved in all directions, trying to find anything solid to grab, while his partner sped past Glenwood Cemetery. They almost crashed with an oncoming car that had turned onto Franklin. He clutched the console and gritted his teeth. “Hey, Cruz, how about we try not to die today?”

  The muscle car raced toward the intersection of Franklin and Fourth. Cruz glanced at the traffic light. “Stay red, stay red.” A white truck tu
rned left from Fourth Street and headed straight for them. Stepping on the brake pedal, she spun the steering wheel to the left to avoid another head-on crash. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Harper’s dress shoe planted on the glove box, his leg pushing his torso deeper into the seat. The Charger went over the curb. She yanked the steering wheel back to the right and punched the gas pedal. Cruz brought her Charger to a halt on an angle, directly in front of the SUV. Harper disengaged his seat belt and was on his feet before the tires stopped rolling. Relieved to be upright and in one piece, he approached the driver’s side of the Tahoe with his right hand on the butt of his service weapon. Cruz hurried around the front bumper and closed the distance between her and the SUV. She had thrown back the right half of her blazer, the fingers of her hand tickling the weapon on her belt.

  Chapter 10: Franklin & Fourth

  “What…the…hell…is going on?” The driver of the black Chevy Tahoe, watching through his side view mirror, saw a Dodge Charger leave the road, go over the curb and come to a stop in front of his SUV. The door nearest to him swung open. A man jumped out and approached his side of the vehicle. The man’s hand was on his weapon. “That’s the FBI agent from the hospital.”

  Sitting in the passenger seat, Becker noticed his driver had slipped his hand inside his sport coat. Becker’s voice was calm and steady. “Take it easy. Remember, we’re agents from the Department of Homeland Security. We have authorization to move Hardy. Just play it cool.” Becker cranked his head around and gave his fellow agent, seated to Hardy’s left, a slight nod.

  Special Agent Cruz held out her badge. “I’m Special Agent Cruz of the FBI. Under what authority do you think you have the right to take my witness?”