by Alex Ander
The tirade on the monitor played out for another two minutes, until Dahlia stepped in front of Cruz and got nose-to-nose with the DI. Or, nose-to-chest, since he was ten inches taller. “That’s enough,” she yelled back.
Turning his rage on her, the DI jammed a thumb into his chest. “I say when it’s enough, Blondie. Now back the hell up before I forget you’re a woman,” he shot glances at the others, “or in this case a little girl.”
Hardy squinted at the screen; Dahlia’s fingers had curled into fists. “Oh, crap!” He leapt off the chair.
“Don’t worry,” said the man, reaching for a cup of coffee. “They all back down. No one’s ever had the guts to throw a punch at someone who stands so close to God.”
Hardy ripped open the door. “You don’t know Dahlia.”
The man sipped his coffee and watched the video feed. A moment later, he coughed and slammed the cup onto the counter, spilling the brew. “Oh, crap.” Wiping coffee from his chin, he bolted toward the closing door.
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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Chapter 4: A Real Team
Hardy charged into the room. Charity was backpedaling toward him. He caught her from falling and spun her to the side. “Stay out of this.” He headed for Dahlia, who, judging from the red welt on the DI’s cheek had already landed at least one punch.
Dahlia spun around and lifted her leg, preparing to deliver a roundhouse kick to the DI’s midsection. Before she could thrust her foot forward, an arm curled around her waist and she felt her body floating backward.
Hardy pushed her against the wall and laid a forearm over her chest. His free hand covered his groin, in case she retaliated in the heat of the moment. He whipped his head left; Charity was advancing. “Back it up, Cherry.” He looked over his right shoulder. Cruz was examining the DI’s red and swollen cheek. He felt resistance and came back to Dahlia.
She grabbed his wrist, cupped his elbow, “Let go of me,” and twisted free. “I’m fine.” She glanced down after Hardy stepped back. “You can let go of your package too.” She smoothed her shirt, removed the stocking hat and ruffled her hair. “I’m not going to send your eight ball into the corner pocket.”
Hardy stared at the thirty-two-year-old, five-feet, eight-inch former assassin turned covert agent. Long and straight bleached blonde hair fell to the middle of her back; the bangs stopped less than an inch above her well-manicured dark eyebrows, which curved slightly toward the bridge of her petite nose and the outer corner of her eye. She had a round face with hazel green eyes, narrowly spaced. No matter her mood, her full lips seemed permanently pursed. He marveled at how such an attractive woman could be such a deadly and efficient killer.
While he had not witnessed the aftermath of her handiwork personally, he had read the reports. Bodies and more bodies; some filled with bullet holes, some with broken necks. Others too disfigured to be identified without employing modern technology. And, despite her penchant for taking lives, she possessed a fierce loyalty to her friends and a soft spot for kids. She also had quick wit and a lively sense of humor.
Hardy looked down at his hand, still covering his private parts, and whirled around before his lips could turn upward and reward her bad behavior. He stuck out his chin toward the DI. “You all right, Darling?” Everyone, but Hardy, addressed the man by his first name, John. Whenever Hardy spoke to Darling in public, other people bristled and waited for the punch that never came. The two men had known each other since their early days in the Marine Corps. They could get away with saying almost anything to one another.
Darling held a handkerchief to his bleeding cheek and nodded. He stared at Charity, “Congratulations, ladies,” before glimpsing Cruz. “You have just taken a big step toward becoming a real team…coming to the aid of one of your own, no matter the consequences,” he removed the white cloth and examined his blood, “or the casualties.” The big man shook the cobwebs from his brain and regarded Dahlia. “Ms. St. James,” the training complete, the man’s tone was dripping with deference, “don’t ever let anyone tell you, you hit like a girl.”
“Not since fifth grade when Tommy—” Dahlia rolled her eyes toward the ceiling, “whatever his last name was…said it to me, and I decided not to hold back on the second punch.”
The DI suppressed his amusement. “It’s been a pleasure, ma’am.” He eyed Cruz, who had retrieved Hardy’s handkerchief and was dabbing the cut on Darling’s face. “Special Agent DelaCruz,” he faced Charity, “Agent Sinclair…the same goes for both of you.” He took both pieces of fabric, smacked Hardy on the shoulder and left. “They’re all yours, Hardy.” The man who was in the observation room with Hardy followed Darling out the door, shaking his head.
Dahlia took a couple steps, stood next to Hardy and stared at the empty doorway. “And, all this time I thought the big lug just didn’t like us.”
Rotating his arm, Hardy arched his back and squinted at her.
Eyeing his contorted face and nodding at the shoulder Darling had hit, she grinned. “That hurt, didn’t it?”
Hardy ignored her and studied his watch. “Everyone go home and get cleaned up. We’re going out for dinner tonight to celebrate…my treat.”
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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Chapter 5: Assessment
6:44 p.m.
Washington, D.C.
Hardy called home the Flats at Dupont Circle Apartments. His apartment was small, less than one thousand square feet, and consisted of a bedroom, a bathroom and a main living area that joined with an open kitchen—a simple layout for an ordinary man, who led a not-so-ordinary life.
His mobile in hand, Hardy leaned against the kitchen counter, legs crossed at the ankles, thumbing through Darling’s preliminary report. He zipped over Dahlia’s results; nothing he did not expect to see. She had excelled in every part of the training, especially marksmanship and close quarters battle, or CQB.
Charity had done well for a computer person, standing out from the others in the areas relating to surveillance and specialized technical equipment. She had even managed to improve her weapons’ handling skills, something Hardy was most concerned with after her unintended involvement in the mission to find the President’s daughter. If there were the slightest chance of Charity operating as a field agent, then she would learn how to defend herself.
Hardy read Cruz’s evaluation. He uncrossed his legs and stood straighter. Frowning, he pressed his lips together and reread Darling’s words two more times:
FBI Special Agent Raychel DelaCruz shows exemplary talent in the aforementioned areas. Her skillsets are without question some of the best I’ve witnessed in my time training the nation’s best soldiers; however, she displays a tendency to hesitate at times when action is paramount over thinking. During the final exercise, she had a shoot on sight order, but chose to engage the assailant, verbally, resulting in one of her teammates being killed. It is this trainer’s assessment that DelaCruz must make a fundamental shift in her thinking when it comes to identifying and engaging the enemy; therefore, regarding DelaCruz’s operational status, it is my final recommendation that she be—
“You look like you just got a ‘Dear John’ letter.” Cruz had come out of the bedroom and crossed the main living area, head turned to one side, attaching the back to an earring.
Hardy looked up at her and jammed the phone into the front pocket of his blue jeans.
Instead of driving to her home in Potomac, Maryland after leaving the training facility, Cruz had followed him to his apartment, where she kept spare clothing and personal items for times like these.
He smiled and surveyed his thirty-year-old girlfriend from head to toe. She wore the black leather miniskirt and black knee boots Dahlia had given to her for Christmas. A black short-length leather jacket covered a red blouse. He studied her face the longest—dark brown eyes, high cheekbones. Her skin, thanks to the mixed heritage of her parents, looked tan all year long. Seeing her hair in a high ponytail—s
he usually wore a midrise one—made his heart thump harder. Blood raced throughout his body, a little extra went to the lower regions of his torso.
“Is everything all right?” Standing in front of him, she fiddled with the jacket’s lapels.
His eyes flicked right and came back to her. “Everything’s fine.” He cupped her shoulders and kissed her. “You look,” he glimpsed her again, “all I can say is…wow.”
Any other woman would have smiled, blushed, accepted the compliment and moved on. Cruz, however, was not wired the same as other women. Her deduction skills had kicked in the moment Hardy stowed the phone. It was not the act itself, but the speed of the act, coupled with him standing taller, more rigid. Turning away before answering her question was also a dead giveaway. Over the years, she had seen the same behavior from criminals wanting to hide the truth from her. The human body gave off an infinite number of communication signals. One only needed to know how to speak the language.
Cruz smiled. Her cheeks blushed. “Thank you.” All she could fulfill were three of the four common female responses to a flattering comment. “You forget who you’re dating.” She closed her eyes and shook her head before eyeing him again. “Excuse me, who you’re going steady with.” Hardy had given her a ring at Christmas. He only wanted them to see each other. “I know you’re a tough and macho, special forces-trained, super covert agent and all, but,” she tapped her chest, “I’m an FBI agent, and I have talents too. One of them is in high gear right now.” She smiled. “Care to guess which one it is?” Cruz pressed her body to his. Her hand found his jean pocket and touched the hard object inside. “You put this away a little too quick, Mr. Hardy. What’s going on?”
Hardy drew in a breath, turned his head and sighed. “Let it go, Cruz. It’s nothing…at this point. Let’s just go out and have a good time with our friends.”
She stepped back and glanced at the rectangular shape imprinting on his pants. “Now I have to know. What were you reading? Does it have something to do with me?” Hardy looked down and crossed his arms, and Cruz read the signs. “It does, doesn’t it?” She crossed her arms over her chest and shifted her weight to one high-heeled boot.
Feeling more like twenty minutes, twenty seconds of silence passed, both of them squared off, waiting for the other to either back down or give up the goods. Hardy blinked first and forfeited his cell.
Cruz did the same thing he had done. She read her report three times before relinquishing the device, spinning around and interlacing her fingers on top of her head.
Hardy eyed the screen and slipped the phone into a pocket. “Listen, Cruz, it’s just a preliminary assessment. I know Darling. He’s going to consider all factors before he makes his final report.”
She spun back around and held out an open hand toward his jeans. “Were you reading the same thing I was? His last line was pretty clear…regarding DelaCruz’s operational status, it is my final recommendation that she—” Cruz crammed her fingers inside Hardy’s jeans and came up with the cell phone, “that she be removed from active duty, until such time as when her cognitive processes better align with her tactical actions.” She pressed the device to his chest, and Hardy caught it before it fell to the floor. “In layman’s terms that means ‘get your head out of your—’
Hardy clutched her upper arms and got in her line of sight. “Knock it off. You’re a top-notch FBI agent with superior skills.”
She held his gaze. “That’s just it…I’m an FBI agent. I have no business operating in the world of terrorists and espionage and covert agents.” She poked his chest. “You know as well as I do, I’m not going to be able to flash my shield at a man wearing a robe in some Middle Eastern country and yell ‘FBI.’ You only have to look as far as that last training exercise to know how a situation like that would turn out.” She pivoted, folded her arms and expelled a long breath of air.
Hardy rubbed his neck. She was right, and so was Darling’s report. Hardy knew from experience that operating in other countries, where the United States Government had no authority, sometimes meant taking action—killing—before you or one of your teammates were killed. Off American soil, the Bill of Rights, the U.S. Constitution, American law was useless. The only rule of law was to see that everyone on your side made it back home alive.
Hardy did the only thing he could think to do. Walking up from behind, he curled his arms around her, kissed the side of her neck and held her. “I love you. You know that. We’ll find a way to work this out.”
Cruz twisted her head to see him. “You’re sweet,” she wiggled an arm free and touched his cheek, “but not everything can be solved with a hug and a kiss.” Her gaze dropped to his lips. But, I wouldn’t mind trying. She craned her neck, and their lips met. Cruz’s butt felt a small part of him move and she pulled back. “Oops,” her fingertips toyed with his chin, “did I do that?” Her cell phone vibrated, too, and they separated and read their text messages.
Hardy got her attention. “Jameson?” She nodded. “Well, I guess tonight’s a wash.” He plucked his leather jacket from the back of a chair. His cell pulsed two more times, one text each from Dahlia and Charity.
“We both knew dinner wasn’t going to go well anyways.” Cruz grabbed her car keys. “I’ll drive.”
Hardy spun the jacket around his shoulders and followed her out the door.
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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Chapter 6: Just Shut Up
7:15 p.m.
Washington, D.C.
J. Edgar Hoover FBI Building (underground garage)
A navy blue four-door Jeep Renegade was parked in Charity’s reserved spot. Cruz’s black Dodge Charger rolled to a stop in Hardy’s parking place, to the right of the Renegade. Doors opened and shut, and the two vehicles disgorged four people.
Dahlia came around the left-rear corner of her Renegade and met Hardy and Cruz at the back bumper. She had picked up Charity, and the two were on their way to the restaurant when they got the text message from Jameson. While Charity was dressed conservatively—navy blue flats, blue jeans, white blouse and blue blazer—her driver was not.
Dahlia wore a long-sleeved, form-fitting burgundy sweater dress that barely covered her butt. Black fishnet stockings and over-the-knee red boots with sky-high heels rounded out the ensemble.
Cruz stared at the woman’s curves. “Where do you carry your gun in that outfit?”
Dahlia flashed a smile. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” She paused, and the smile disappeared. “That comeback doesn’t work as well on another woman. You probably do want to know.” She bent over and pulled out the butt of a pistol from her right boot. “Modified thigh holster…you just have to make sure the boot’s leg opening flares out enough to get your fingers inside.” She tapped the left boot. “Spare magazines are in here.”
Hardy headed for the elevator. “Come on. Jameson’s probably waiting for us.” When everyone was inside, he punched in a special security code and the car dropped. Seconds later, the doors opened into a large room, filled with small cubicles, a walkway in the middle separated them.
Being new to the team, Dahlia’s head swiveled in all directions, as she exited the elevator. “All the time I spent in this building, and I never knew it had a fourth underground floor.” Before she became an assassin, she had been an FBI agent, until a hostage situation went bad and she was wrongfully blamed, effectively ending her career.
Charity glimpsed the space. “Apparently, it was designed to be an underground bunker for the director, in case anything happened on the surface and his safety was compromised.”
Hardy pivoted and walked backwards. “It’s never been used, so now it’s our base of operations.” He came to a ‘T’ and turned right, everyone else’s left, before stopping in the short hallway and pointing left. “That’s Cherry’s office.” He poked a finger to the right. “That’s the Operation’s Room. We call it the OR.” He extended an arm. “Down there on the right is Director Jameson’s second office
. The last room on the left is still open.”
Dahlia glanced down the hall before peering through Charity’s office window. “Boy, you’re a neat nick, aren’t you, Cherry?”
“You’ll thank me when you want something,” Charity entered the office and came back out with a laptop, “and I know exactly where it is.” She crossed the hall and went into the OR.
“That concludes the two-dollar tour.” Hardy swung an arm toward the room. “Now if you’ll take your seats, the show will begin shortly…souvenirs are available at the door on your way out.”
“Actually,” Dahlia caught his arm and pulled, “I need to talk to you.” They stepped a few paces down the hall. “All kidding aside, I never got a chance to properly thank you for getting me on this team.”
Hardy shook his head. “It was noth—”
She put a hand on his chest. “Just shut up and listen.”
He nodded.
“I don’t know the strings you had to pull, or the risks you took, but from the bottom of my heart…thank you. I realize it must’ve been difficult for you, standing up for a trained killer and all, but—” Her voice cracked. She drew in a sharp breath and steadied herself. “After what happened with the agency before, I never thought I’d be part of something like this again. I won’t let you down, Hardy.”
She turned her head and paused before shifting her eyes toward him. “I’m not sure if you believe in God.” She snorted, “Hell, I’m not sure I believe,” and faced him. “Anyway, after I left you and Cruz at Christmas, I—” she closed her eyes, “I’m not sure why—but I thanked Him…for bringing us together at that warehouse. I know that must sound crazy, considering why each of us was there, but…”