by Alex Ander
“Good.” Jameson rested his elbows on the chair’s armrests and brought his fingertips together. “What I’m about to tell you is highly confidential and must not leave this room. Is that clear?”
She slowly nodded her head. “I understand, sir.” She glimpsed Hardy, who looked as if he was bracing for a car accident. What’s going on here?
“Special Agent Cruz, Mr. Hardy works for me,” Jameson waited a beat, “and for the President of the United States.”
Cruz’s jaw dropped open. “Excuse me, sir?”
Jameson spent fifteen minutes explaining the details of Hardy’s coming to work for the President. She had glanced at Hardy several times. Each time she looked at him, it seemed as if she was on a date, more precisely, a speed date. The bits and pieces about his life, and who he was, were racing toward her. In the end, the information overload was worth the stress. When Jameson finished, she stared at Hardy. The questions and doubts that had plagued her were gone. The truth was out there. She stretched out her hand and he took it.
“Now you know,” Jameson continued, “why I wanted you to take Hardy to pick up Charity, as well as why I couldn’t tell you the reason.” Jameson nodded at Hardy with his forehead. “His employment activities are a matter of national security. As such, only a few individuals have access to that information.”
Hardy maintained her gaze. She smiled. Her face softened. They would be okay. Jameson had divulged Hardy’s secret, freeing him to pursue a normal relationship with her. He chuckled to himself. Normal. Whatever that was going to be, he planned to make it work.
Jameson stood, put on his suit coat and returned the chair back to its original place in the corner. Straightening the lapels of his suit coat and pulling on his shirt cuffs, he eyed his agents, holding hands. “I can see that the two of you have a relationship that goes beyond the professional realm.”
Both of them pivoted toward their boss.
He pointed a finger at them. “What you do in your personal time is none of my business; however, if I suspect that your personal relationship is affecting your work,” he paused to add emphasis, “It will become my business. Am I clear?”
Cruz nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Crystal,” said Hardy.
Jameson adjusted his suit coat. “Take as much time as you need to get better, Cruz. Then, take a couple extra days for yourself. I have already assigned other agents to your cases, so don’t worry about that. Just let me know when I can expect you back at work.”
“I will, sir.”
“If you don’t mind me asking,” Hardy said, standing, “How did you get the President to agree to bring Cruz on board? I thought my job was on a need-to-know basis.”
Wrinkles formed on Jameson’s forehead. Gazing at the end of the mattress, he drew back the lapels of his suit coat and slipped his hands inside his trouser pockets. “The President doesn’t know yet.”
Hardy’s eyes widened.
“I haven’t quite figured out how I’m going to tell him.” Jameson withdrew his left hand and waved it in front of his chest. “But, that’s my problem.” He lifted his eyes and regarded his female agent. “After all you’ve done for your country, Cruz—and me—I thought you deserved to know the truth.” He stood erect and maintained eye contact. “You took a bullet for your country, Cruz, protecting a witness.” The words triggered the phone conversation he had with Hardy and a sliver of a grin passed over his lips. He glanced left. “Or, as Mr. Hardy so eloquently stated it…” Jameson waved a hand and came back to Cruz. “Anyway, I’m sure my suffering the President’s anger won’t be as bad as what you’ve endured.”
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate that.”
Jameson got Hardy’s attention. “That was nice work in Mexico. With Gutierrez and his son out of the picture, Miss Sinclair should be safe now.” The man Hardy had killed with the steak knife was the only son, and blood relative, of Hector Gutierrez. “The Gutierrez Cartel will have a difficult time regaining its power any time soon.” Jameson included Cruz. “If it were not for your efforts, she would not be alive today. Both of you…good work.”
“Thank you, sir,” Cruz said before adding, “Did you ever find out how they were tracking us?”
“Not exactly, but we think it was most likely through my cell phone. Once they gained access to it, they knew everything we were doing. As a result, new security protocols have been implemented throughout the agency, including updating the encryption on every agent’s phone. I’m just relieved there wasn’t a leak in the agency. That would have been worse.” Jameson wished her well again and left the room.
Hardy turned toward Cruz. She was grinning. One eyebrow was slightly higher than the other one. Hardy had seen the look on a few occasions. She had something to say, something cute or funny.
“So,” she began, dragging out the word. “Do I call you Shepherd, now?”
Hardy chuckled and lowered the handrail on her bed.
She scooted over to make room. “Or, do you have some sort of secret agent number I’m supposed to use? Tell me. I’ve never known a secret agent man before.”
Taking care not to bump her, he climbed into the bed. Wow. She’s going all in on this.
Cruz pressed him. “So, what’s the story behind the name?”
Lying next to her, he leaned back and put his left arm around her shoulder. She lowered her head onto his chest. He tucked his right hand behind his head and stared at the ceiling. This is nice.
“Are you going to tell me, or what?” She poked him in the stomach.
“I like German Shepherds. When I was a child, my parents had German Shepherds as pets. During my time in the military, I worked with them, too. They’re intelligent and loyal animals that would defend the ones they love, even if it meant losing their own lives.” He lowered his eyes to look at her and breathed in the scent of her hair. “Most people expect to hear a heroic story of how I saved my team from the enemy or something like that.” He looked up again. “It’s a very boring story, actually.”
Cruz tilted her head back to see him. “I like it.” Thinking of the qualities he had used to describe the German Shepherd breed of dog, she added, “And, I think the name fits you, perfectly.” Touching a forefinger to his cheek, she turned his head toward her and kissed him. A few seconds later, she laid her head on his chest.
Hardy squeezed her shoulder and kissed the top of her head. Yes, this is very nice.
YOUR FREE BOOK…
The London Operation is not for sale. The only way to get a copy is to click the image above. You’ll be taken to Bookfunnel to begin the download process. Or, you can send me an email at [email protected], and I’ll send you the link to Bookfunnel.
NOTE: It is recommended you read at least one Aaron Hardy book (preferably The Unsanctioned Patriot – Book #1) to understand the backstory before starting The London Operation (Book #2.5).
… … … … …
.
The
London
Operation
(Preview)
Aaron Hardy
Patriotic Action
Alex Ander
.
Chapter 1: Self-Preservation
July 30th; 3:55 p.m.
London, England
Three weeks after Hardy accepts the President’s job offer
CROSSING KING’S ARMS Yard, Aaron Hardy walked south on Moorgate. There was nearly five hours of daylight left, but the tall buildings surrounding him blocked the sun and cast a faint shadow over the cityscape. The temperature was in the mid-sixties. The absence of direct sunlight, coupled with a gentle breeze, made Hardy glad he had grabbed his black leather jacket.
Foot traffic on the streets was increasing. Having been trapped in office buildings for the workweek’s last eight hours, people were emerging and scurrying for a destination—home, the bar, a store, anywhere but where their employer had held them captive for five days.
Hardy passed Basildon House and tilted his head to see ar
ound a well-dressed man, a few paces ahead. The man Hardy was most concerned with crossed Moorgate and continued south. The overcoat-clad banker jogged through the intersection at Lothbury, holding out his hand and impeding a car’s forward progress. His arrogance was rewarded with a blaring horn.
Hardy stayed the course. Moorgate turned into Princess St. and the Bank of China passed him on the right. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and stared at the sidewalk, keeping one eye on Mahmoud Taziz, who strolled along the opposite side of Princess St., fifty yards further up the street.
The intelligence on Taziz pointed to regular Monday, Wednesday and Friday afternoon visits (four o’clock to be precise) to a five-star hotel for a rendezvous with his mistress. Impressive for a man of his advanced years, Hardy had thought, while reading the man’s dossier.
Hardy eclipsed two more banks on the right, Isbank and Kookmin before approaching the Bank of London. As expected, on the other side of the street, Taziz turned left at Threadneedle St. Hardy shot a look over his shoulder, waited for a car to drive by and fell in step behind his mark.
... … … … …
Her long, straight and dark hair flowing behind her, the tall woman—easily six-foot in her chunky two-inch high heels—rounded the corner at Princess St. and trailed the man in the black leather jacket and blue jeans. Their worlds had collided a few years ago. He seemed different now; his appearance for sure, but his persona was what grabbed her attention. He had been deadly back when they first met. Now, a stronger vibe resonated from him. Searching for the right word, her mind settled on pure lethality. To anyone else, he would have looked like a tourist, sightseeing in London. She knew better. He had a reason, a purpose for being here. In the past, violence had accompanied that objective. Whatever the motivation for his presence, she would find the answer.
Reaching inside her knee-length overcoat, she wrapped a hand around the weapon dangling under her left armpit. Her strides lengthened and she drew nearer to the danger in front of her. The only way to fight violence is with more violence. Her thumb flicked a snap and she drew the pistol, but kept it concealed under the coat.
Farther ahead, Taziz ducked into a hotel. The woman rotated the gun toward the man in black, her long legs making short work of the sidewalk between them.
... … … … …
Hardy picked up his pace and closed to within twenty-five yards of his prey. Following someone from directly behind was more difficult. If Taziz made a detour, Hardy needed to know. Surprises were unwelcome in his line of work. They usually preceded something bad.
Hardy passed by the beautiful columns of yet another bank, the Bank of England. Bartholomew Lane came and went and slowly London took on a more modern look, tall buildings with lots of glass. The stoic and cold appearance of stone and concrete reappeared once past Old Broad St. Up ahead, Taziz darted across the street and disappeared into one of the monolith structures. Hardy started to step off the sidewalk, but stopped when something hard jabbed him in the ribs and a female voice came from behind.
“Don’t turn around.”
Hardy raised his hands.
“Put your hands down,” she commanded, “but keep them visible.”
He complied.
“Keep walking. And stay close…like two lovers going for a stroll.”
Hardy and the woman ambled down Threadneedle St. He glanced left at a shop’s windows, hoping to get a glimpse of her. The muzzle pressed harder into his back.
“Look straight ahead and keep your mouth shut.” She spoke to Hardy through the thin smile with which she acknowledged a passerby. “Try something and I’ll drop you where you stand.” Thirty steps later, she grabbed his arm and guided him left. “In here.”
Hardy read the neon sign—‘Burger and Lobster.’ “I’m kind of in the middle of something. I really don’t have time for a bite.”
She pushed him into the restaurant. “Two words, Hardy. Shut. Up. What’s so hard to understand?” She stole a quick look around the establishment before holstering her weapon. “You’re losing your touch, letting me get the jump on you like that.”
Hardy turned. “I saw you parked outside the bank, Hamilton,” —she arched her eyebrows— “Black four-door Nissan. Nice rims by the way…Are those custom?”
She steered him toward a table in the corner.
“By the way,” he pointed at the window, “what’s with the gun to my back out there? You know me.”
“That’s right. I do know you. And, you’re not the kind of person I want to sneak up on from behind without some way to defend myself. Call it self-preservation.”
Hardy snickered. “Fair enough.”
She sat, but Hardy remained standing. “Care to tell me why you’re in my country, specifically, why you’re shadowing one of my citizens?”
“I’d love to,” he spied the hotel, “but it’ll have to wait. As I said, I’m in the middle—”
She kicked out a chair from under the table. “Sit down, Hardy. You’re not going anywhere, until you tell me what’s going on.”
His eyes went from the chair to her. You’re not going anywhere, until you tell me what’s going on. Hardy mused. For having lived all her life in England, she only had a hint of the British accent. Maybe it skips a generation.
“I’d rather this meeting be cordial,” she tapped the badge on her belt, “but if I have to...”
Ellen Hamilton was an NCA officer (National Crime Agency—Britain’s closest version of America’s Federal Bureau of Investigation) and held the powers of constable, customs officer and immigration officer. This combination was known in law enforcement circles as “Triple Warranted” or “Tri Powers.”
Thirty-five years old, Hamilton had more than a decade of law enforcement experience. That experience led to her being one of the first officers of the National Crime Agency, created a few years ago. Some say her familial ties to the Director-General of the agency got her the job. Those close to her knew nepotism played no part. Hamilton was tough. She pursued leads and tracked down criminals better than most of her male counterparts.
Rubbing a hand over the stubble on his cheeks, Hardy regarded her. Dark eyebrows, piercing brown eyes with long lashes, and smooth cheeks, she was attractive without much effort. There was no doubt in his mind she would be stunning in a black dress, pumps and makeup.
After a last look at the hotel, Hardy flipped around the chair, straddled the seat and sat. Resting his forearms on the chair’s back, he thrust a finger at her. “You have no idea what’s at stake here, Ellen.”
She leaned back and folded her arms over her chest. “Enlighten me.”
“People’s lives are at risk. The longer we play this game—” He stared at her. She was unmoved. Undoubtedly, she had heard the same song and dance before. Hamilton’s arrival had thrown a monkey wrench into his plans. His window of opportunity to have a private chat with Taziz was closing. If the situation was a football game, there were two minutes to go in the fourth quarter and he was out of timeouts. He expelled a gust of air. “All right, here it is. The clock’s ticking, so no questions…just listen.”
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
.
Click the image above or send me
an email to get your FREE copy.
[email protected]
.
Thank You
Thank you for purchasing and reading this book. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. I wanted to dig deeper into the relationship between Hardy and Cruz. The mission to protect Charity gave Hardy and Cruz an opportunity to work together and begin to establish a bond with each other.
If you liked Deadly Assignment, please take the time to visit your favorite bookseller and leave a review.
I hope you’re looking forward to the next book in the series, Patriot Assassin. Keep reading for a sneak peek.
Sincerely,
Alex J. Ander
Patriot Assassin
By
Al
ex Ander
Continue reading for a preview
of the next book in the Aaron Hardy series…
Chapter 1: Surveillance
October 29th, 9:00 p.m.; New York City
Wearing a long-sleeved dark t-shirt under a black leather jacket, a pair of blue jeans and black five-inch tactical boots from 5.11 Tactical, Aaron Hardy hurried down 11th Street. The night was cool. A biting wind against his face reminded him that fall had come to the Northeast. Nights like these made him reminisce of his childhood, growing up in Northern Lower Michigan. He loved this time of the year. After enduring the hot and humid months of June, July and August, Hardy looked forward to the cold fresh air of autumn. He could match his clothing to the changing temperatures of fall much easier than he could during the stifling heat of summer. You can only take off so many layers of clothing, he thought, moving to his left to pass a meandering couple, who were in love and had no particular place to be this night.
As a young boy, he would have been sighting-in his hunting rifle right about now, eagerly waiting for the first day of deer season. Opening day was considered a holiday in his part of the state. He smiled, picturing his Marlin 336 lever-action rifle, chambered in .30-30 Winchester. The gun had been a gift from his father for his sixteenth birthday. Up to that point, Hardy had used his father’s guns. The Marlin was his, however. Giving Hardy the rifle, his father had said to him, ‘Son, it’s time you had one of your own.’ Hardy still owned that Marlin, vowing he would never sell it.
Hardy’s jacket flared open, as the wind slipped inside it and sent a shiver up his spine. Fiddling with the zipper, he ran the pull-tab on the jacket to his chest, shielding his body from the cold. A voice in his head shattered the happy thoughts.
“He just turned right,” said Charity, “onto 12th Street. It seems like he’s picked up his pace a little.”