Foreign Soil

by Alex Ander

  Also by Alex Ander

  Action & Adventure - Special Agent Cruz

  Vengeance is Mine

  Defense of Innocents

  Plea For Justice

  Jacob St. Christopher Action & Adventure

  Protect & Defend

  Word of Honor

  A Vow to the Innocent

  Above & Beyond

  Patriotic Action & Adventure - Aaron Hardy

  The Unsanctioned Patriot

  American Influence

  Deadly Assignment

  Patriot Assassin

  The Nemesis Protocol

  Necessary Means

  Foreign Soil

  Of Patriots and Tyrants

  Act of Justice

  Standalone

  The President's Man

  The President's Man 2

  Special Agent Cruz Crime Series

  Against All Enemies

  Watch for more at Alex Ander’s site.

  Foreign Soil

  (Aaron Hardy Patriotic Action #7)

  By Alex Ander

  .

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  .

  Foreign

  Soil

  Aaron Hardy

  Patriotic Action

  .

  This story proudly

  Made in the U.S.A.

  .

  Copyright ©2018 Jason A. Burley

  All rights reserved. No portion of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be published in a newspaper, magazine or electronically via the Internet.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to real events or locations or actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cast of Characters:

  Protagonist

  Aaron Hardy (Former Special Forces soldier)

  30 years old, 5’11”, 185 lbs., light brown hair (cut short), blue eyes, muscular frame

  … … … … …

  Secondary

  Raychel Elisa DelaCruz (FBI Special Agent)

  30 years old, 5’8”, long dark hair, dark brown eyes, slim and athletic build

  … … … … …

  Dahlia St. James (Former assassin)

  32 years old, 5’8”, long and straight bleached blonde hair, hazel green eyes, athletic body

  … … … … …

  Charity Sinclair (FBI Agent)

  22 years old, 5’6”, 115 lbs., shoulder-length dark hair (tinged red), dark and large eyes, slim figure

  … … … … …

  Supporting

  Phillip Jameson (Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation)

  51 years old, 5’11”, 190 lbs., bald, black eyeglasses, physically fit

  Chapter1: We’re on the List

  January 3rd; 11:47 p.m.

  United Kingdom

  A4117 Road (just east of Clee Hill Village)

  Headlights appeared from behind and grew larger by the second. The woman adjusted the rearview mirror. The sole of her red three-inch spiked sandal pressed down on the gas pedal. She clutched the steering wheel harder, her eyes shifting back and forth—the mirror, the windshield, the mirror, the windshield. When the lights became too bright, she stole glances at the side mirror. The speedometer read 128 kilometers per hour (80 miles per hour). Her foot rocked forward. The dark blue Audi had more to give. “Do you think they just want to pass?”

  The man in the passenger seat pivoted and stared out the back window, which shattered a moment later in a hail of gunfire. Bullets ripped up the rear leather seats, lodged in the dashboard and created spider webs in the windshield. He yanked a pistol from a shoulder holster under his suit coat and spun back around. “I’m going to go out on a limb and say, no.”

  The woman jerked the wheel back and the Audi maintained its course.

  He released the seatbelt, drove a knee into the seat and pointed the weapon at the opening where the back window used to be. “Hold it steady.” More rounds came from the SUV’s passenger window. The Audi swerved and he lost his balance, wrapping an arm around the headrest to keep from falling backward. “I can’t drive and shoot. Keep it between the ditches.”

  “You just aim straight,” she shot back. “I’ve got this.” The woman’s father had taught her how to drive a car before she had learned how to put on lipstick. One big difference, however, was she never had to dodge bullets back in Texas.

  The man got into a stable position and let loose with a volley of his own shots. The SUV’s headlights went dark. Sparks flew off the grille. The behemoth lurched left and right before backing off. He climbed into the back and steadied the weapon on the seat. The SUV’s engine roared before the vehicle lunged forward. With his left eye closed and the other one staring down the gun’s sights at where the driver would be, he drew a breath, let half out and finessed the trigger.

  Tires screeched and the trailing four-by-four began an uncontrollable high-speed turn, flipping over several times before sliding to a stop in the middle of the road. The light show from the metal scraping against the pavement had been spectacular.

  The man holstered the pistol, reclaimed his place in the front and grabbed the seatbelt’s tongue and buckle. He aligned them, grinned at the woman, “Safety first,” and married the two with a satisfying click.

  Shaking her head and frowning at the bad humor, she eased her foot off the accelerator and glanced at the dashboard clock. “We’ll be there in an hour.”

  … … … … …

  An hour later, the Audi travelled down a desolate stretch of roadway. His phone in hand, the man glanced at the navigational app and pointed. “Turn here.” The pavement became a narrow dirt path. On either side, tall grass shot upward through a thin layer of snow. Up ahead, trees waited for them.

  “There’s nothing out here,” said the woman, leaning forward to see the trail.

  “That’s what makes it so perfect. The only people who have any business coming this way are those who know about the place.”

  They drove another ten minutes until a ten-foot steel gate materialized out of nowhere. Dressed in fatigues, two men faced the car, rifles at the ready. Four more men emerged from the woods and surrounded the vehicle, one at each corner. The muzzles of their weapons were closer to pointing at the couple in the Audi.

  The man glanced at his companion. Knuckles white, her hands had a death grip on the steering wheel. “Take it easy and stick to the plan. Keep calm and no sudden moves.”

  The soldier on the driver’s side rapped on the window, and the woman flinched before rolling down the glass. “Get out of the vehicle, ma’am.” His voice deep and gruff, the burly man stepped backward. “And, keep your hands visible.”

  Arms up, both occupants climbed out.

  Burly never took his eyes off the woman. “This is a high-security facility. State your purpose.”

  “We have official business,” said her passenger from across the Audi’s hood, while pointing, “on the other side of that gate. If you check, you’ll find we’re on the list.”

  Motioning toward the two sentries near the gate, who rushed forward and stopped five feet away from the newcomers, Burly withdrew a handheld device; the soldier nearest to the female’s companion did the same thing. Burly grunted at the woman, “Name.”

  She hesitated and glanced away before coming back to him. Her cheeks flushed slightly. “Red Ryder.”

  He gave her a look.

  “I d
idn’t choose it.” She tipped her head to the left. “It was his idea.”

  Burly tapped the device. Periodically shooting glances at the woman, he studied the data on the screen—Age: 22, Height: 5’6”, Weight: 115, Physical Characteristics: Slender build…long, dark hair…eyeglasses. “What’s your authentication code?” She called out ten numbers.

  The woman’s colleague gave his name and code, too, and the soldier facing him stared at the man’s information on a second keypad—Age: 30, Height: 5’11”, Weight: 185, Physical Characteristics: Muscular frame…light brown hair, cut short…blue eyes…

  Glancing at the other soldier, who nodded his head one time, Burly addressed his team members. “Stand down.”

  The six men stood straight. They let their weapons hang from the sling, but kept one hand around the pistol grip.

  Burly—it was now obvious he was in charge—made eye contact with the woman. “Miss Sinclair…” he spied the man, “Mr. Hardy…welcome to Wales. How may we be of assistance?”

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  .

  Chapter 2: Package

  After being escorted through the gate, Sinclair parked the Audi and Aaron Hardy jumped out of the vehicle. He was met by three men in dark suits like his. Two of them were heavily muscled, much like his five-feet, eleven-inch frame. The third man—in his fifties, walking slightly ahead of the others, was short and fat. His expensive suit could not hide the spare tire underneath.

  “Mr. Hardy,” the man extended his hand, “I’m with British Intelligence. Call me,” there was a noticeable pause, “Smith…Richard Smith.”

  Hardy shook the hand. “And, I suppose,” he waved a finger, “their names are Jones and Johnson?”

  Smith chuckled, “Something like that,” before turning toward the woman coming around the rear corner of the vehicle. His eyes skirted up and down her figure, his mind snapping a picture—thigh-length red dress, tan nylons and matching red sandals. When she came into the light, he noticed the touch of red in her dark hair. The red eyeglasses, resting on a slender and short nose, gave her a studious appearance, while her dark and large eyes coupled with full red lips added sex appeal. He smiled broadly, revealing straight, coffee-stained teeth. “And, you must be Charity Sinclair.”

  She shook hands and nodded. “Mr. Smith.”

  Hardy stood by the car and eyed the intelligence officer, who had not stopped gawking at Charity. The man’s handshake lasted much too long. It was clear he was taken aback by the woman in red. Even the men accompanying Smith had exchanged glances. Hardy pressed the key fob and the trunk lid popped up. “Richard,” Hardy shook his head, “Excuse me. Mr. Smith, would you care to have a look at the package?”

  Smith pulled away from Charity and stared into the Audi’s trunk. A man lay hogtied and gagged in the compartment. He motioned and the two men with him removed the bound man and led him away.

  Hardy slammed the trunk lid. “I assume everything we need is waiting.”

  Smith pointed at the car to the right of the Audi. “You’ll find all your requests have been met.”

  “Thank you.”

  Hardy and Charity shook Smith’s hand again before the pudgy man left them, stealing one last look at her as he walked away, moving swiftly for a man with quite a few extra pounds around the midsection. They climbed inside the new Audi, a black one, Hardy behind the wheel.

  Once they were back on the dirt road, he looked at her, a wide grin on his face. “I think someone had a crush on you.”

  She met his gaze with a stoic face. “You think?” She shuddered. “I can still feel his creepy eyes all over me.”

  Hardy laughed. “Hey, you were superb tonight. The mission didn’t go as we had planned, but you came through, Cherry.” Cherry was a childhood nickname given to her by her late father. Only family and close friends used the name. “I couldn’t have secured our target without you.”

  “Thanks, but I think I prefer to stay behind the comfort of my keyboard.” Charity was an information specialist, highly skilled in the field of information technology. Her responsibility was to provide the necessary technical details of each mission and assist Hardy with gathering intelligence. This mission, however, had required her to take a more active part. Dressed to the nines, she had played her role well, serving as a beautiful distraction and separating the objective from his bodyguards, so Hardy could subdue the man and stuff him into the Audi’s trunk.

  A few minutes later, Hardy steered the Audi onto the paved road. “All right, settle in for a long drive.”

  She whipped her head toward him. “By the way,” her eyebrows were pressed together, “why do you get a cool call sign like Shepherd, and I get Red Ryder?” She held out her hands, palms up. “Where in the world did that come from?”

  Hardy squirmed in the seat. “I’m afraid an all-day marathon of A Christmas Story might have been to blame.”

  She squinted. “What?”

  He looked at her. “A Christmas Story…you know, the movie about the BB g—”

  “I know the movie.” She waved a hand, “I’ve watched it a hundred times,” and glanced away. “So, my call sign comes from a kid’s toy? When we get back, I want a new one…a cool one.”

  They drove in silence for a few miles, until Hardy chuckled.

  “What’s so funny?”

  He stared at her, a smile slowly spreading over his face. “How about Ralphie?”

  She shook her head and turned away. “If those are my two choices, I think I’ll stick with Red Ryder.” A moment passed. “I see I’m going to have to come up with something on my own.”

  Hardy sniggered again. “Copy that…Red Ryder.”

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  .

  Chapter 3: Hesitation Kills

  January 19th; 5:53 p.m.

  Arlington, Virginia

  FBI Special Agent Raychel DelaCruz and Dahlia St. James stood on either side of a closed door, backs to the wall. Dressed in black tactical gear from head to toe and their long hair tucked under black stocking hats, they locked eyes, pistols at the ready. Dahlia grabbed the doorknob. DelaCruz raised her gun and nodded. A split-second later, the door flew inward and DelaCruz rushed inside and went right, sweeping the room with her sidearm. Dahlia went left, doing the same thing. The first woman in saw him.

  “Freeze,” shouted DelaCruz. “Show me your hands.”

  Dahlia’s weapon came on target, but the black-clad man was a hair faster, whirling around and diving to the floor. The muzzle of his firearm spewed flashes of light. Projectiles slammed into Dahlia. She clutched her chest, “I’m hit,” and fell against the wall. “Ow! Damn it, that hurts.”

  Sliding left to cover her partner, DelaCruz discharged her Glock 23. Her shots found their target and the man lay motionless. She spun around and went to both knees in front of Dahlia, who stared at the marks on her body.

  Catching her breath, Dahlia eyed DelaCruz. “It’s a lethal hit. I’m already dead.”

  Exchanging a knowing look with her partner, DelaCruz slumped forward and let out a long sigh. “I’m sorry.” She lowered her head. “I let you down again.”

  Standing halfway between six-feet and seven-feet tall and wearing combat boots, black pants and a black t-shirt, a man burst into the room and towered over the women. He sported a goatee around a square jaw and dark caterpillars for eyebrows. Ribbed stomach muscles forced their way through the tight t-shirt. “What the hell was that, DelaCruz?” His voice boomed off the hard surfaces of the room. “The scenario was clear.” He pointed at the man Cruz had shot, who was standing and dusting off his pants. “All contacts were hostile.”

  DelaCruz helped Dahlia get to her feet. They holstered their training pistols and stood facing the man in charge of the exercise.

  “You were the first one through the door. You had a shoot-on-sight order. You hesitated. And, your hesitation,” he threw a finger at Dahlia, “just got your teammate killed.”

  Charity Sinclair slipped th
rough the door and joined the other women.

  For the past fourteen days, the three agents had been taking part in a special course designed to improve their proficiency in a variety of real-life situations they could face on missions. For eighteen hours a day, they worked on many skillsets, including operating weapons, breaching rooms, communicating with hand signals, rappelling off buildings and operating specialized surveillance equipment. The other six hours were spent sharing small living quarters, where they ate, showered and slept. Since they had become acquainted only recently, this regimen was designed to bring them closer together. In the field, they would have to rely on each other, know how the other would react in a situation; know what the other was thinking.

  After two weeks of demanding training and physical discipline, DelaCruz, Dahlia and Charity were worn out. Their nerves were frazzled. All they wanted was a night off, a chance to blow off some steam and get a good night’s sleep. Failing to breach and take out a terrorist, losing a teammate in the process, was not how they wanted the final day of the course to end.

  The drill instructor planted hands on hips and glared at DelaCruz. “What’s so difficult to understand, cream puff? You see someone and you shoot him.” He got in her face. “If your pretty little head can’t remember that, then the instructions are right there in the damn name. Shoot. On. Sight.” His mouth was so close that spittle hit her cheeks.

  … … … … …

  Aaron Hardy sat in a room. Several monitors lined the wall in front of him. Speakers blasted from four corners. “If your pretty little head can’t remember that, then the instructions are right there in the damn name. Shoot. On. Sight.” Clenching his fists, he started to stand, but caught himself. This is all part of the experience, the training. He hasn’t laid a finger on her.

  The man in the chair next to Hardy spied his friend. “Take it easy, Hardy. Nothing’s going to happen to your girlfriend.” He winced. “Sorry. That was unprofessional. Nothing’s going to happen to Cruz.” —Cruz was the shortened version of DelaCruz’s name, given to her when she was in the military— “You know as well as I do the DI,” —Drill Instructor— “can’t baby them.”