by Alex Ander
Cruz spun around and fired, until her weapon’s slide locked open. More men climbed through the kitchen window. Tapping the magazine release button on her pistol, while slipping her fingers under her shirt, she grabbed a full magazine and elbowed Hardy. She held up the magazine, “Last mag,” before inserting it into the pistol and running the slide forward.
By his count, Hardy had killed four or five attackers. “How many have you shot?”
“I got at least two. There are more inside the house, now.”
Hardy watched the wall at the top of the stairs for shadows. They were low on ammunition and there were still a half-a-dozen armed men nearby. His sat phone’s speaker squelched. A deep and muffled voice bellowed from his pocket. “Shepherd, this is Bigfoot. Do you copy—over?” Shepherd was Hardy’s call sign.
Cruz spun her head around. “What was that?”
Hardy dug out his phone. “Bigfoot, this is Shepherd. I hear you loud and clear—over.”
Cruz stared at Hardy. Shepherd? Bigfoot?
“Shepherd, be advised AR-1 has a fix on your position. We’re two minutes out. What’s your situation—over?” Bigfoot was the call sign for Tom Henderson. He was the leader of AR-1, an assault and rescue team created by Director Jameson to provide support for Hardy when he was on missions. Jameson had dispatched AR-1 soon after getting the call from Charity. The team had been conducting training in Little Rock, Arkansas and he wanted the team close in case they were needed.
Bullets came through the second floor hallway, sending faint beams of light toward the ceiling. Cruz drove her body harder against Hardy, nearly pushing him beyond the cover of the chimney. “They’re firing through the floor.” She leaned out and fired over the railing.
“We’re on the second floor. OpFor,”—opposing force—“is on the main floor, all heavily armed.” More bullet holes appeared in the floor; one a few inches from Cruz’s leg. Hardy yelled above the gunfire. “We’re pinned down and running out of ammo—over.”
“Roger that, Shepherd. We’re coming to you—over.”
Hardy jammed the sat phone back into his pocket, spun out from the chimney and emptied his rifle at the first floor figures. One man ducked into the bathroom, while a second took cover in the main floor bedroom. A third dove to the floor, but Hardy doubted the man had been struck by a bullet. He reeled around and rammed the last magazine into the rifle; a partial—two rounds left. Cruz and he did not have the two minutes AR-1 needed to get there. He spotted Cruz’s duffle bag on the floor. Kneeling, he rummaged through its contents. Grabbing a road flare, he rushed past her. “Get ready to cover me.”
Hardy went into the first bathroom and re-emerged with several folded bath towels. He ignited the road flare and held it up to a towel. “Cover me.” Cruz moved to the corner of the chimney, nearest the stairs. One by one, he lit and tossed the flaming towels over the railing, hoping the fireballs would dissuade the attackers from coming up the stairs. Adding to the blaze, Hardy tossed the road flare over the railing.
Cruz and the first floor gunmen exchanged gunfire, stone chips spitting at her face. Taking cover behind the chimney, she felt a sharp pain on the right side of her stomach. Her back to the chimney, she closed her eyes and crinkled her nose. The pain shot up the right side of her body. Her stomach was on fire. Hardy approached and she held up her empty weapon. “I’m all done.” Her arm fell to her side and the weapon slipped from her grasp.
Moving around her, Hardy relinquished his rifle. “You’ve got two rounds.” He withdrew his Cold Steel Recon 1 tactical knife, locked open the blade and assumed a fighter’s stance at the corner of the chimney. Crouching, he squeezed the knife. Come and get some, you son’s-of—
Chapter 11: Neutralized
Smoke from the smoldering towels rose toward the ceiling. The smoke alarm above the first bathroom door wailed. Blocking the ear closest to the alarm, Hardy heard what sounded like suppressed weapon’s fire. A few moments later, his phone vibrated and the speaker crackled. He retrieved the cell. “This is Shepherd. Say again—over.”
“Shepherd, this is Bigfoot. All targets have been neutralized. Your path is clear. I repeat—all targets neutralized. The structure is clear—over.”
“Copy that.” Hardy hurried to get Charity. The two of them were greeted by the sights, sound and smells of heavy, but dissipating smoke and a blaring alarm. Escorting Charity toward the stairs, he saw Special Agent Cruz. She had slid down the chimney and was sitting on the floor, covering her stomach. He knelt. “What’s wrong?”
She raised her head and peeled back her hand; it was covered in blood. There was a circular stain on her light blue shirt, growing larger. “I thought it was a sharp stone.” Her head dropped and she examined her wound.
Hardy screamed into his phone. “Man down, man down, I need immediate medical attention on the second floor.” He ran back to the bathroom and returned with two bath towels. He pushed aside her hand and pressed a towel against the wound.
Cruz screamed and arched her back. She grabbed Hardy’s forearm, her fingernails digging into his arm. He felt the pain, but never moved. Her body convulsed and her head rocked backwards, bouncing off the chimney. Hardy cradled her head with his free hand. Her breathing was labored and every breath of air sent new waves of agony up her right side. “Damn it. Where’s that medic?” he bellowed. Seconds later, Tom Henderson and Eva Draper appeared.
Draper, the team’s medical specialist, skirted by Henderson and dropped to both knees on Cruz’s left. Draper was short, standing five-feet, three inches tall and weighing a little over one hundred pounds. Her black hair was cut short, stopping at the neck. The bangs of her hair covered her forehead, ending at the top of her eyebrows. She was twenty-seven-years-old, but her facial features made her look as if she was in her late teens. She had grown up and spent her entire life in Michigan, Hardy’s home state. The two of them had connected from their first conversation, talking about all things related to Michigan. Like Hardy, she was a die-hard fan of the Detroit Lions and they had had numerous conversations about the team and its prospects at a winning season this year. Right now, however, the only thing on Draper’s mind was Cruz. “Where is she hit?” Draper bobbed her head back and forth, searching for wounds.
“Stomach, right side,” Hardy replied. “I’ve had pressure on it. There’s a lot of blood.”
Draper shuffled to the left and straddled Cruz’s leg. She reached for the towel Hardy was holding, “Move,” and pushed.
Hardy did not budge.
The medical specialist faced him. He was staring at Cruz. Draper leaned forward and got his attention. Knowing this was difficult, she employed her best soothing voice. “Let go, Hardy. I’ve got it from here.”
Henderson put a hand on Hardy’s shoulder. “Come on, let Drape do her job.” He reached under Hardy’s armpit and pulled him to his feet. Hardy could not have resisted Henderson’s strength even if he had tried.
Tom Henderson stood six-feet, three inches tall and weighed two hundred and thirty-five pounds of solid muscle. He was thirty-six-years-old and had spent half of his life in the service of his country. The hair under his helmet was dark; patches of gray peeked out. His facial features matched his wide frame. His eyes were set far apart and his nose was broad; a full, handlebar mustache lay beneath it. He was proud of the mustache and could be seen stroking it with his fingers at every opportunity.
Draper examined Cruz. “She’s lost a lot of blood. I see an exit wound on her back, so I think the bullet went straight though. I can’t tell if any major organs have been hit. We need to stop the bleeding and get her to a hospital ASAP.”
Henderson brought a radio to his mouth. “This is Bigfoot. We need that bird back here, now! We have an injured soldier that needs immediate medevac. Do you copy—over?”
A voice from the radio: “Copy that. We are coming in now on the south side of the structure—over.”
Hardy faced Charity and pointed. “Go with him.” He spun his head towar
d Henderson. “Where’s Ty?” Hardy was referring to the last member of AR-1, Tyler Pendleton.
“He’s outside, watching our backs.”
“Good. Get everyone ready to go. I want to lift off,” he gestured toward Cruz, “as soon as she’s on board.”
Henderson grabbed Charity’s hand and led her toward the stairs. “Copy that.” Over his shoulder: “The stairs are clear. You have no obstructions to the chopper.”
Hardy knelt next to Cruz. She plopped her hand onto his thigh and he slipped his hand under it, squeezing gently. She lifted her head. Her eyes were barely open, her eyelids fluttering up and down. She mumbled something. He leaned closer and put his ear to her mouth.
“Who…who are…these people? Jameson, why did he…call…you?” Her chest rose and fell. The spent oxygen barely made it to Hardy’s cheek. “I swear…I don’t think…I know you…at…all.”
Hardy closed the distance between them—their cheeks touching—and slammed shut his eyes. A six-inch knife had been thrust into his heart. At that moment, he wanted to tell her everything, everything about himself—his job, his family, his likes and dislikes, his favorite color, his favorite food. He wanted to tell her those things every other couple shared when they were getting to know each other. Putting his lips to her ear, he opened his mouth to speak. Bound by an oath to the President, he shut his mouth. The oath kept him from sharing what he did for a living. The oath was tearing him up inside, threatening to destroy his relationship with possibly the only woman who could understand him.
Cruz’s head slumped forward and Hardy held her face in his hands. “Cruz, talk to me…Cruz.”
Draper put her fingers under the woman’s chin. “It’s okay, Hardy. I have a pulse, but we need to move, now!” She collected her medical supplies and stood. “Hardy, let’s move.”
He snapped to attention, sliding his right arm under Cruz’s knees and his left arm under her back. Lifting her from the floor, he hurried toward the stairs. Her head hung down. He brought his left elbow up and her head came forward, coming to rest on his shoulder. With Draper in the lead, making sure there were no obstacles in his path and providing support in case he lost his footing, Hardy carried Cruz down the stairs.
Once outside, Henderson and Draper took Cruz and put her into the aircraft, while Tyler scanned the area for threats. Hardy climbed inside and got on the floor next to her. When Draper, Henderson and Tyler were aboard, the Bell 412EP helicopter lifted off. Banking right, the aircraft headed for the hospital.
Hardy cradled Cruz in his arms, whispering in her ear. Even though the noise from the aircraft’s rotors and engine drowned out his words, everyone suspected what he was saying. Draper leaned forward and placed a hand on his shoulder.
Chapter 12: Baylor
The helicopter touched down at Baylor University Medical Center in Dallas, Texas. Henderson had contacted Director Jameson, who made a few calls and had a team of doctors and nurses standing by on the roof. They quickly got Special Agent Cruz on a gurney and examined her on the way to the operating room. Doctors determined she needed immediate surgery.
While Cruz was wheeled to the operating room, Doctor Raj stayed behind. He spoke in a thick Indian accent. “The surgery could take up to three hours, depending on what I find when I open her up. As soon as I know more, I’ll let you know.” He turned to leave.
Hardy put a hand on the doctor’s shoulder. “Is she going to be all right, doctor?”
“It’s too early to tell.” He removed the hand. “I need to get prepped. Leave your contact information at the front desk.” He disappeared behind the double-doors before anyone had a chance to ask more questions.
Hardy stood with his hands on his head, fingers interlocked, facing the slowly closing double-doors. He watched the doctors and nurses take the gurney—and Cruz—out of his sight.
Charity and the members of AR-1 had gathered around him. Several moments passed before Draper stood alongside Hardy and put her hand on his lower back. “She’s going to be okay, Hardy.”
Hardy dropped his hands and made eye contact with everyone. When he came to Charity, he stopped and stared. He could nothing for Cruz, but he could fulfill her duty to the witness. “Miss Sinclair, we’re going to move you to a safer location. I’ll contact Director Jameson and get another safe house lined up for you.” He turned his head toward Draper and gestured toward Charity. “Draper, I want you to—”
“The hell you are,” said Charity, raising her voice and interrupting him. All eyes focused on her. She pointed at the doors. “Twice, that woman risked her life to save me. I’m not going anywhere, until I know she’s going to be okay. I owe her at least that much.”
“This isn’t open for debate, Miss Sinclair. Your safety is my responsibility now and I make the decisions. And, I say we’re moving you.”
Charity put her hands on her hips and glimpsed him from head to toe. “I can see you’re a man who’s used to getting his own way—that’s fine with me. In this case, however,” she poked her forefinger into Hardy’s chest, “you will not be getting your way.” She jerked her thumb at her chest. “You will not be ordering me around. And, if you try to remove me from this hospital,” she moved her right foot back, transformed her hands into fists and brought them to her chest, “you may succeed, but I guarantee you I will not go quietly.” Still in a fighting stance, she gestured toward Henderson and his team. “Besides, how much safer can I get with all of you around me.”
Hardy’s mouth fell slightly open and his eyebrows went up. After a few seconds, he lowered his head and his nostrils flared. His fingernails dug into his palms. She was right. He was used to getting what he wanted. He had been in positions of authority for many years and no one had spoken to him that way. If Charity had been a man, she would have been picking her teeth off the floor. Since she was a woman, however, he could not correct her insolence with his fists. He glimpsed Henderson and Tyler.
Raising their hands in surrender, they stared at the floor and shook their heads. Hardy moved on to Draper, who poorly hid a small grin.
“Don’t look at me. I’m on her side.”
Coming back to Charity, Hardy’s eyes narrowed before he unclenched his fists. What am I doing? He was not going to hit a woman.
“She has a point, Hardy.” Draper made a circular motion with a finger. “There’s no safer place for her than with those who’ve already killed to defend her.”
Not feeling up to arguing, he threw up his arms. “Fine,” he grunted, departing from the group. “Have it your way.” Over his shoulder: “For future reference, the next time you plan to hit someone, you might want to make a proper fist.” He disappeared down the hallway.
Charity glanced at her hands. They were in the shape of fists, but she had her thumbs tucked under the rest of her fingers. If she had thrown a punch, she would have most likely dislocated or broken her thumb.
“Come on, slugger.” Draper wrapped an arm around Charity’s shoulder. “Let’s get some coffee. We’ve got a few hours before we know anything.”
Chapter 13: Tick,Tick,Tick
Aaron Hardy found a small waiting room void of people. He sat in a cloth chair in the far corner. Resting his elbows on his knees, he leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. He remained in that position for several minutes. The room was quiet, except for the second-hand on the wall clock above him. Each time the second-hand moved, it made a sound—tick…tick…tick. The noise would have been maddening for most people. Hardy focused on the consistency and matched his breathing to the beat. He was thinking of many people and things—Special Agent Cruz’s health and his relationship with her, Miss Sinclair’s safety, Jameson, his job and Gutierrez, the s.o.b. responsible for all of this. His mind was unable to concentrate on a specific one.
With his fingertips, he rubbed his eyes before transitioning to his temples. He needed to call Jameson. Right now, his nerves were raw and he was concerned about what he might say to him. On some level, Hardy held Jameson re
sponsible for Cruz’s condition; however, on a deeper level, he knew his emotions were getting the better of him. She was a federal agent. She was performing her duty. Gutierrez was ultimately liable. He was the one who started this, forcing Charity to go into protective custody. His men carried out the attack on the safe houses. Yes, Gutierrez was the one on whom Hardy wanted to unleash his anger.
His thoughts went back to Cruz and the look in her eyes before she lost consciousness. She did not trust him anymore. At the very least, she was losing faith in him. That was almost too much to bear. His phone vibrated a few minutes later. He leaned back in the chair and stuck his hand inside his pocket. He knew it was Jameson before he saw the phone’s screen. He gave himself a mental pep talk and finished by saying aloud, “Keep it together, Hardy.” He put the phone to his ear. “Hardy.”
Chapter 14: Justice
“Hardy, this is Jameson. What’s the word on Cruz? How’s she doing?”
“She’s in surgery. The doctors were unsure of her injuries and said it could take up to three hours before the surgery is complete. They’ll let us know as soon as they know more.” Hardy put his hand to his forehead before running his fingers through his hair. He sat straight in the chair and put his hand on the armrest.