Foreign Soil

by Alex Ander

  … … … … …

  .

  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 around 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 w
ith 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.”

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  .

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  Alex@AlexAnderNovelist.com

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  Thank You

  Thank you for reading Foreign Soil. This book was a little different to write, since the four characters were together from the beginning. I had to find a way to introduce them at separate times, so readers would not feel overwhelmed being exposed to four people all at once.

  I was pleased with how the story started. It had a James Bond feel to it. The reader is thrown into an action scene with a “Mr. Hardy, welcome to Wales” ending.

  The insertion of humor into the action was fun to write too. Forgetting what I had written, I laughed at certain points every time I ran through another editing phase.

  I truly hope you enjoyed Foreign Soil, rooting for the main characters and getting to know them better, each in a different way. If you did, please post a review at your favorite bookseller.

  And, if you’re feeling extra generous with your time, rate one or more of the other books in the series. Your comments are much appreciated, and I just love to hear from readers. If you have already reviewed my books, THANK YOU.

  Finally, there’s a sneak peek at the next book in the Aaron Hardy series, Of Patriots and Tyrants, so keep flipping pages.

  Sincerely,

  Alex J. Ander

  Of Patriots and Tyrants

  By

  Alex Ander

  Continue reading for a preview

  of the next book in the Aaron Hardy series…

  .

  Chapter 1: Welcome Home

  The trio stopped. Cruz needed rest. Her feet were numb. Twice she had stumbled coming down the stairs. Hardy helped her lean against the wall before facing their guide. The men exchanged a look; there was no time for breaks. They needed to get out of sight.

  Cruz bent over, “I just need a minute,” and put hands on knees.

  The guide whipped his head back and forth, as if expecting someone to step out from one of the many rooms on either side of the hallway. “All right, I’m going up ahead and scout the area. Be ready to move out when I get back.”

  Hardy watched the man disappear around a corner before he took up the mantle of casting glances up and down the hall. He reached under his coat and put a hand on the firearm at the small of his back. The other hand cupped Cruz’s shoulder. “How are you doing?”

  “I should be good. I hope,” she motioned toward the direction the other man had gone, “wherever he’s taking us is not much—”

  Hardy covered her mouth. “Shh.” He pivoted his head, his ears straining to identify the source of a noise. Footsteps…Heavy ones…Coming this way. He put an index finger to his lips.

  Having heard the same sound, Cruz nodded.

  After looking over his shoulder, he helped her get to an alcove in the hallway. He gently pushed her to the wall and moved in, his mouth grazing her ear. “Stay quiet,” he whispered. “I’ll handle this.”

  Hardy crossed the hall and nestled into an identical alcove, facing away from the sound of the footfalls, which thudded off the carpeted floor. He spied Cruz. She was flat to the wall, standing as tall as she could. As long as this guy stares straight ahead, we’ll be good.

  Hardy looked down. The thuds grew louder. Combat boots. The gun dug into his back. Don’t want to use that, unless I have to. We’ve already made enough noise. Heavy breathing now accompanied the thumping. Hardy’s muscles tensed. Pain in his midsection mixed with the hammering in his head; aftereffects from the beating he took. Wincing, he clenched his fists. Push it aside. Push it aside. He coiled his body, ready to spring forward.

  An abrupt silence overtook the atmosphere. No pounding boots, no labored breaths, nothing but the ‘tick, tick, tick’ of the old grandfather clock the threesome had passed. Tick…Tick…Tick. Hardy frowned. He knows we’re here. His right hand moved a fraction of an inch toward the gun. Stay still. Don’t move. Let him come to you.

  Tick…Tick…Tick. Hardy smelled cologne, aftershave, spices; whatever the scent, the man had to be no more than ten feet away. Click…click, click…click. A new sound filled the immediate area, followed by the faint odor of cigarette smoke.

  Someone inhaled and blew out the air. A cloud of smoke between the alcoves preceded a bushy-bearded man, who plodded forward. Two fingers held a cigarette, while the cancer stick’s tip glowed red.

  Hardy sidestepped into the hallway, crouched and fell in step with the camo-clad arrival. He picked up his pace and drove a foot into the back of the man’s knee. The man stumbled sideways, grabbed an antique table and dropped to his knees. The table toppled, and a white vase fell to the floor, breaking into several pieces.

  Hardy pounced, straddling his prey’s torso and wrapping both arms around the man’s neck. A violent twist and a loud crack later, a lifeless corpse face planted into the carpeting. After stomping on the cigarette, Hardy grabbed Cruz’s elbow. “Come on. We can’t stay here any longer.” The two rounded the next corner and ran into the third person of their group.

  Their guide spotted the body and the upset furniture. “I was gone less than a minute.” He eyed Hardy and pointed at the deceased. “I take it that’s your handiwork?”

  “Sooner or later, the cigarettes would have killed him.” Hardy ushered Cruz around the man’s outstretched finger. “Sooner worked better for me.”

  … … … … …

  The two men and Cruz made their way to a back corner of a basement. Empty wooden crates were stacked against the walls. Broken down cardboard boxes and trash littered the area in front. A musty smell permeated the dark and damp space.

  The guide squeezed behind one crate and shouldered another two feet farther into the room. “Back here.” He shined a flashlight on the narrow pathway, while Cruz inched closer. “Try not to touch the stone. There’s mold all over.”

  When Cruz had sidestepped into the corner, the escort handed her the light. “Hold this and keep it pointed in this direction.” He felt along the old rectangular squares. “A little more to the right…” he slid his hands up and down, “that’s it.” He pushed a brick further into the wall and a large section of stones rotated inward a few inches.

  Cruz’s hair fluttered. A whoosh of foul, moist air hit her in the face. She put her free hand to her nose and mouth, closed her eyes and turned away. “Whoa.”

  “Sorry. I should have warned you.” The man retrieved the flashlight, pushed the hidden door open and shined a beam all around the secret room’s interior. “Your new place is a little,” he paused while stepping inside, “stinky…and damp...and cold…and—”

  “We get the point.” Cruz ducked and entered. Her head pivoted in all directions, while she scanned for spiders, centipedes, whatever creepy, crawly things lived here. “What is this?”

  The man smiled at Cruz and Hardy. “This is your new home…at least until I can figure out what to do with you.” He waited a beat and swung an arm. “Welcome home.”

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  .

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  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.

  About the Author

  Living in the middle of Michigan, Alex Ander writes Action & Adventure/Thriller novels. He has three series in production, focusing on the exploits of the protagonists Aaron Hardy, Jacob St. Christopher and FBI Special Agent Raychel DelaCruz (Cruz to those who know her).

  His writing style mixes fast-paced action scenes with suspense, humor and sharp dialogue. Each book is wrapped up at the end with NO cliffhangers. Characters and relationships do develop and evolve over the course of the series, so it is best to read the books in order.

  Mission Statement:

  Write clean, fast-paced action that draws readers into the story, making them feel they are part of the adventure.

  From the Author:

  My goal is to craft stories that entertain and leave a positive, lasting impression on you. I seek to create protagonists with good character, and surround them with allies you’ll want to read about as much as you do the main character.

  You won’t find any vulgarity in my work (F-bombs and the like). Yes, an occasional mild, cuss word is used; however, even those are kept to a bare minimum.

  And what about graphic sex scenes that leave nothing to the imagination? Nope. Not in my books.