The President's Man 2

by Alex Ander

  “There might be a shooter on the premises. Do you have your gun?”

  She threw back the bedcovers, “Of course,” and swung her bare legs over the side of the mattress.

  “Get it and protect Abs. I’ll be back when everything is safe.” He spun and ran for the door. He heard Cruz retract the slide on her weapon before letting it go back into battery. “Lock the door when I’m gone.” Closing the door, he heard her direct Abby to get to the far side of the room.

  The next door was Natasha’s room, so he bypassed it and headed for the Premier’s room, the last one on the left. The door was open a quarter of the way, but only darkness lay beyond. Standing at the entrance, Hardy was preparing to go in when he saw something on the floor outside his room.

  Chapter 9: Red

  Hardy saw a red streak on the carpet, starting two feet from his room and disappearing under the closed door; he opened it and slid his hand up the wall. A wash of light illuminated the room and the bodies of the Premier’s security agents, lying on the floor. Blood-soaked stains on the carpet surrounded them. Hardy checked, but the men were dead.

  He dug out his Pelican 1920 flashlight from his pocket. Before entering the room, he quickly pressed and released the button on the flashlight, getting a glimpse of what was inside. If there were a shooter, the flashlight’s beam would provide a perfect target. He flashed the room one more time before entering and darting to the right.

  Flashing the left side of the room, he noticed a lump on the floor. Flashing again, he saw a black dress and knee boots. Natasha. He hurried to her side and knelt, his head pivoting, his eyes watching the room. She was lying on her right side. Her weapon was on the floor near her stomach. Hardy rolled her toward him and brushed the hair away from her face. Her eyelids fluttered. Shining his light on her body, he did not see any bullet wounds. Starting at the top of her head, he ran his hands along the sides before cupping the back. His fingers found a small bump. She had been hit on the head. He whispered. “Natasha, it’s me, Hardy. Are you all right?”

  She opened her eyes and moaned. “Go,” her speech was slurred, “I’m okay,” as she lifted a limp arm toward the door to the inner bedchamber, “Go.”

  Hardy made sure she had her pistol before creeping toward the door; light was coming from the crack beneath it. A shadow broke up the light pattern. Stowing his flashlight, he slowly opened the door with his left hand, pushing it to the left. I hope somebody’s oiled these hinges, lately. Light streamed out. A man dressed in a black suit—his back to Hardy—was pointing a weapon at the Premier and his wife, who were in bed on the far side. The woman was sobbing and holding the bedcovers to her chin. Her husband was shielding her with his body. It was a futile act, but everyone assumed the position when a loved one was in danger. Unable to get a clear shot without risking the lives of the innocent, Hardy eased his weapon into his holster and crept closer to the man—speaking in Russian; final words he wanted the Premier to know before killing him. Within arm’s reach, Hardy sprung forward.

  Aiming for the weapon, Hardy miscalculated and clasped the man’s hands. He jerked upward and the gun discharged once. A grappling match for control of the weapon ensued. The gun fired two more times, sending one bullet into the floor and a second one into the ceiling. The empty shell casing of the last round lodged sideways between the weapon’s slide and barrel, rendering the gun inoperable. Above the noise, he heard the Premier’s wife cry out. Hardy drove the man into the wall, smashing the gun hand against the wallboard several times. The weapon dropped to the floor with a thud.

  Hardy kneed the side of the man’s midsection. The air left the assailant’s lungs and he grunted, recovering enough to push Hardy away. Hardy threw a punch, but the man blocked the strike before walloping Hardy several times in the gut. Hardy gasped for air, while the man landed punches to the side of his head. Seeing stars, Hardy raised his hands to block the incoming fists. In between blocks, he jabbed, connecting a few times, until the attacker ducked and tackled Hardy at the foot of the bed. With the Russian agent sitting on his chest, Hardy was being pummeled. He redirected many of the blows, and he could see his adversary was tiring from the exertion of energy. Biding his time, he waited for the opportunity to go on the offensive. That opportunity never came, however.

  Two shots rang out to Hardy’s left and the man clutched his throat, blood oozing between his fingers and streaming toward Hardy’s chest. Using the doorframe for a crutch, Natasha was pointing her pistol in his direction. He delivered three rapid strikes, and the man’s head rocked backward. Grabbing the man by the lapels of his suit coat, Hardy rolled, until he was on his knees, straddling the bleeding man. “Who sent you?”

  The man tightened his grasp on his throat. He opened and closed his mouth; blood ran from the corners.

  “Who do you work for?” Hardy wrenched, raising the man’s head off the floor. “Answer me. Was it Popovich?” He shoved. The man’s head thumped against the floor. “Who do you work for?” He continued asking questions, but never received any answers. The gurgling noises eventually stopped, and the only sound that was heard was Hardy’s heavy breathing. Letting go of the dead man, he sat on his haunches.

  Natasha held the back of her head. “It’s over. He’s dead.”

  He faced her. “What did you do that for?”

  “Do what—save your life? He was going to beat you to death. If I hadn’t been here, he would’ve cracked your skull open.”

  Hardy stood and gestured toward the corpse, a pool of blood flowing outward from the neck. “I had him right where I wanted him. He was getting tired.”

  Standing straight, she cocked her head and raised her eyebrows. “Seriously, that’s what you’re going with—I had him right where I wanted him?” She shook her head and half laughed.

  “Now, we’ll never know who sent him.” Hardy was not upset with her. If he had been in the same position, he would have pulled the trigger, too. He was angry the situation had gotten this far. He saw her holding the back of her head, her pistol in hand, her arm hanging at her side. “Are you okay?”

  Natasha checked her fingers for blood. “I will be.” She pointed her chin at him. “How are you doing? Are you—” A deep voice from behind cut her off in mid-sentence.

  “Gun!”

  Chapter 10: Gun

  Hardy heard ‘Gun’ and saw a man storm into the room. The whole incident only took a second; however, it seemed to go in slow motion. Natasha’s head jerked backward, while her body was driven forward. Her pistol slid toward him. He heard the sound of a hard part of her anatomy striking the hardwood flooring, followed by a muffled scream. Her arms and legs landed in a twisted mess inside the doorway. Lying on her stomach, Natasha was pinned down by a large black man in a black suit. Her face contorted, she looked up at Hardy. A single teardrop streaked from the corner of her eye to the bridge of her nose before dropping. In Moscow, Natasha taken a beating, survived an explosion and never shed a tear. She was in serious pain.

  Unable to bear the agony, Natasha yelled. Her shrieks filled the room. Her right hand and forearm were twisted and trapped under her stomach. Searing pain radiated up and down her arm. She kicked her legs and tried to roll to the left. Half of the man’s bodyweight came through his left hand, pressing on the right side of her head, immobilizing it. The other half—through his right knee—was bearing down on the small of her back. Her head and the right side of her body were on fire. She saw a blurry figure approach before a black pistol flashed in front of her face. Her voice hoarse, she screamed, while her mind prayed for the pain to stop. Oh, God, end this…please end this.

  Hardy pressed the muzzle of his Walther PPQ against the man’s forehead. “You’ve got three seconds,” his voice had dropped several octaves, “to get off her, Agent Fuller.”

  Fuller froze. All he could see was the hair on Hardy’s fingers; however, he felt the cold steel above his right eye.

  “We both know what happens when I get to three.”

 
Appearing in the doorway and wearing a blue satin robe, the President saw a bad situation about to get worse. “Agent Hardy,” he ordered, “holster that weapon. Agent Fuller, release Agent Volkov.”

  Hardy: “One.”

  “I said,” the President’s voice boomed, “lower your weapon, Agent Hardy.”

  Hardy’s attention was focused on his prey. “Two.”

  Natasha’s cries had become whimpers. She let her legs fall, ceasing the struggle to free herself. Her eyes straining, she saw the gun and knew it was pointed at her captor. Don’t do it, Hardy. She tried to give voice to her thought, but the pressure on her head was too great. Don’t do it. Don’t kill him, Hardy.

  Hardy squeezed the Walther and applied more pressure to the trigger. His lips separated. “Thr—”

  Approaching from behind, the Premier placed his hand on Hardy’s wrist. “Don’t do it, son.”

  Hardy flinched, his finger nearly completing the stroke.

  Slowly and gently, the Russian leader pushed, until the weapon was pointing at the floor.

  The President lunged forward, grabbed Fuller by the collar and yanked him off Natasha.

  She lifted her hips, dragged the limp arm out and flipped it out in front of her. Using the arm, she tried to roll over. Her eyes slammed shut and she wailed.

  Holstering his weapon, Hardy dropped to his knees and helped her roll onto her back. He started to take off his jacket, but stopped when he spotted a throw pillow on a nearby chair. He slipped the pillow under her head. She took short, shallow breaths, before finishing with a long, deep breath and slowly releasing the air. “That’s it, Natasha. Just keep breathing.” He glanced left. In the struggle to free herself, her short dress had gotten shorter, exposing her underwear. He took off his jacket and threw it over her before pointing, “Give me that blanket.” He pivoted back to her. “Where does it hurt?”

  “Every,” Natasha gulped for air, “where.”

  The Premier covered her with a bedspread.

  “Thank you.” Hardy drew the comforter closer to her chin. Above him, the President chided his agent.

  “What were you thinking?”

  Fuller motioned toward Natasha. “She had a gun, Mr. President.”

  “Fuller, she’s part of the Premier’s—”

  “Of course, she had a gun.” Hardy cranked his head back. “I have a gun. You have a gun.” Jumping to his feet, Hardy charged and shoved the big man backwards, until he was flat against the wall. Their noses were inches apart. “We all have guns, you idiot!”

  Fuller wrestled, trying to break free. Even though he was three inches taller and twenty-five pounds heavier than Hardy, he was no match for Hardy’s rage and adrenaline-induced power.

  Hardy got a hold of Fuller’s throat and squeezed, forcing the man’s head to the left. Through clenched teeth, he growled, “I’m going to break your neck for what you did to her.”

  The President took one look into Hardy’s eyes and knew he needed to act before Hardy made good on the threat. He fought his way between the two men, dodging flailing arms. He got in Hardy’s face. “Agent Hardy, I’m the President of the United States, your commander-in-chief—” he blocked an errant hand, “and I’m ordering you to stand down…stand down, I said.”

  When the President appeared in his line of sight, Hardy stopped fighting, but kept his fingers clasped around Fuller’s throat, watching his adversary choke.

  “Damn it—” the President pushed, and Hardy let go. He maintained eye contact with Hardy, both hands on his agent’s chest. “Take a walk, Fuller.”

  Cupping his throat, Fuller coughed. “Sir,” his voice was gravelly, “I was—” he coughed several times.

  “I know. I know. You were protecting me. I get it.” The President was doing everything he could to keep the men separated. The fire still raged in Hardy’s eyes. “Right now…I’m doing the same thing…for you…Now, get the hell out of here, Bill.”

  Massaging his neck, Agent Fuller moved around his boss.

  “Close the door on your way out.” The President took a step back, but kept his hands extended.

  When the door closed, the commander in chief knelt beside Natasha. “Agent Volkov, I’m very sorry for the actions of my agent. I can assure you he will be severely disciplined. Are you all right? Is there anything I can get you?”

  She lifted her upper body, but back spasms forced her to the floor.

  At her side, Hardy put a hand on her chest and held her head. “Take it easy and just lie still. We need to get you some medical attention.”

  Natasha shook her head, wrapped her right arm around the President’s shoulders and pulled, while grabbing Hardy’s shirt and yanking him closer. “No…I need to…stand.” Her voice broke on the last word.

  “No, no, you need to stay put, until we can get you—”

  “No.” She twisted his shirt—positive she had a handful of chest hair—and got in his face, her upper lip curled into a snarl. “Lift.”

  The two men helped her to her feet and stayed by her side, while she gained her balance. The President glanced at Hardy before looking at Natasha, trying to gauge her condition. “How are you now, Ms. Volkov?”

  Natasha took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds and released it. Now that she was standing, the back pain was subsiding. She retracted her right arm and flexed the fingers, rotated the wrist and bent the elbow. The pain in those places was diminishing, too. “Thank you, Mr. President.” Her tone was respectful. “I’m better now.”

  She snapped her head toward Hardy; eyes narrow, nostrils flaring, lips thin. “And, you…” Her arm around Hardy’s neck, she flexed the bicep and put him in a slight headlock, closing the distance between them, their foreheads an inch apart.

  His hands on her torso, he gently pushed, while craning his head backward. Her grip never loosened.

  “When I tell you to do something, you damn well better do it. I know what I need. I’m not a child, so don’t you treat me like one...”

  Hardy remembered their mission in Russia. He and Natasha had stopped along the roadside, where she proceeded to rip him ‘up one side and down the other,’ just as she was doing now. He respected strong-willed and spirited women, who were not afraid to be assertive when the situation demanded it. He did not mind the reproach. That meant she was feeling better. He listened to the tirade, She’s definitely a ‘spirited’ woman, and smiled.

  She stopped scolding him and relaxed her grip. “Why the hell are you smiling?”

  He shook his head. “I’m just glad to see you’re feeling better.”

  She studied his face for a split-second before letting out puff of air and tearing into him again. “And, what were you thinking, putting a gun to that man’s head? If you had pulled the trigger and killed him, your career would’ve been over. You’d have been locked up. Hell, your life would have been over.”

  Hardy regarded her. She’s right. All of those things would have happened. He would have been charged with murder, lost his job and his freedom. His mind’s eye saw her writhing in pain under a man who outweighed her by more than a hundred pounds. And, I’d do it again. A friend was in need and he was going to help. No further thought was required.

  Natasha let go of his neck, but grabbed a handful of hair from the back of his head. “Don’t ever pull a stupid stunt like that again.” She glanced at the President before leaning closer to Hardy and putting her lips to his ear. “But…” her voice was a whisper, “unofficially…thank you.” The pain she had felt under the weight of Agent Fuller had been unbearable. She released Hardy after an innocent peck on the cheek.

  “You’re welcome.”

  The President heard what she had whispered to Hardy. He grinned. “Agent Volkov, if you ever want to defect to the United States, there will be a position waiting for you somewhere in my administration—no questions asked.” He was joking, but a part of him really did want her on his team, where she could direct her fire and intensity toward the enemy.


  “Thank you, sir, but I’m happy serving my country.” She paused. “There is one thing you can do for me, however.”

  “Name it.”

  “Please call me, Natasha.”

  The President smiled. “I can do that.”

  Hardy whipped his head toward the President. “Cruz and Abby, I need to—”

  The President clamped onto Hardy’s shoulder. “I checked on them before coming here. Three of my most trusted agents are with them. They’re fine.” He paused. “However, that’s more than I can say for the first agent who entered their room.”

  Hardy brought his eyebrows together.

  “From what I’m told, Special Agent Cruz pointed her service weapon at the man’s head and threatened to shoot him between the eyes, if he did not identify himself and…” the President’s voice trailed off, as shook his head and chuckled, “get this...lower his weapon.”

  That’s my girl.

  “She and Abby were in the far corner of the bedroom when he entered. Cruz intentionally put herself between my daughter and a man who’s been trained to kill to protect me and my family.” The President eyed Hardy. “That woman has my deepest respect.” Thinking aloud, he added, “Why she doesn’t have a more important role in this war on terror is beyond me. I think I need to have a chat with my FBI director.” He faced Hardy. “You’re a lucky man.” He wagged his finger. “If you ever lose her…I will hunt you down and kick your—” The President stopped short when he remembered Natasha and the Premier’s wife were present. “You get my point.”

  Hardy nodded. “Yes sir…loud and clear.”

  “Now,” the President spied the dead man, “What happened here? Why do I have a dead Russian agent in my house?”

  “More precisely, sir,” said Hardy, holding up three fingers, “you have three dead Russian agents in your house.”